Staring out at the harsh wilderness, I try to rid myself of my guilt, but cannot. In the warmer months, these fields will be carpeted by purple flowers. Lupine is one of few weaknesses the beasts have, so we sowed the Wilds full of it years ago. Lupine may look beautiful, but it’s toxic. If ingested by berserkir, it can cause labored breathing. Convulsions.Blindness. Death. Even inhaling the flower’s scent directly is enough to cause dizziness and fainting.
So we grind its petals into thick paste to cover our traps, and collect its concentrated extract to turn into a spray. I already know what Father would say:It does not matter how you do it, so long as you best your enemy.To him, there is no greater enemy than the berserkir.
Once the last of the pack disappears, I glance at my father. He waves me forward, and we continue our pursuit of the wolf who escaped our trap. My body aches from riding all night, but there’s no time for rest. Not on a hunt. As we advance, I notice something on a patch of grass. Blood.
Our prey is close.
Sure enough, my horse blows out a nervous snort. The injured wolf limps over the ridge. One of his legs is a bloody stump. He gnawed his own paw off to escape our trap. I know, because his paw is still stuck in its metal jaws outside Skallagrim.
I reach over my shoulder and free my bow.
Arrows rattle in their quiver, betraying our presence.Shit.
The wolf stills.
Its large head swivels as it surveys the Wilds, but it hasn’t detected us. Yet. The leather armor we wear must be working. It not only protects us but also suppresses our scent so we can conceal ourselves from their heightened sense of smell.
Slowly, I reach for an arrow. My fingers find rough fletching. I slip the arrow free and nock it. Blowing out a steadying breath, I line up my shot. Straight toward the unsuspecting wolf, fur illuminated by early morning light—
The injured wolf notices me, and our gazes lock across the vast distance.
I hesitate, staring into his glowing yellow eyes.
My arrow is aimed at a creature who was once human. For aninstant, the questions I never allow myself to ask resurface. Who was this wolf? Did I ever pass him in the halls? Sit across from him in class? Eat beside him in the dining hall?
Whoever the wolf was before doesn’t matter. He’s nothing more than an animal now, all instinct and survival. There is no humanity left in him. My arm strains from drawing the string back for this long.
The wolf remains still, staring at me, despite the arrow aimed at him. He looks as exhausted as I feel. For the briefest moment, I think I understand the animal. He’s tired of running, bloody and injured. Or maybe he realizes that no matter how far he runs, or how fast, his life was always going to end here, at the tip of my arrow.
Father’s gaze is fixed on me as mine is fixed on the animal. I feel him assessing everything I’m doing, his judgment sharper than any snare. If I cannot live up to his expectations, it’s no different from stumbling into a snap trap, but I will lose more than my foot.
“In the hunt, it is us or them,” he warns. But Father is who I fear most, not the beast. The threat in his voice is what finally makes me release the bowstring.
The arrow flies.
I don’t miss.
As a hunter, the kindest thing I can do is give a quick, clean kill. End their suffering before it begins. I sling my bow around my back. It’s done. As we ride toward where the wolf lies crumpled, I look over to Father for his approval.
I find none.
“You hesitated, Amund.”
Like I hesitated to help my brother.Shame burns through me. I grip my reins tight enough to strangle. My mouth closes. Opens. But I know better than to argue with Father. Anything I say is an excuse, and he hates excuses more than failure.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell him.
When we finally reach our prey, I feel a sharp stab of guilt. As I climb off my horse, my limbs feel heavy. I kneel beside the lifeless wolf, running a hand over his fur. Its softness always surprises me.I’m sorry,I silently offer to the animal, even though it’s far too late.
We may call ourselves hunters, but sometimes I feel more like a killer. Like I lose more of my humanity with each hunt. Am I really so different from these beasts? Not for the first time, I wish there was another way to live.
I glance up—and freeze.
A pair of small, bright yellow eyes peeks out from a dirt burrow nearby. Not just one. Many. My guilt multiplies with each pair I see. The wolf I killed must have been their father. Now I’ve torn their family apart.
“What’s taking so long?” Father and his horse loom over us, their shadows covering me and the wolf.
I reach for my arrow, pretending I didn’t see the pups. They’re berserkir, but they’re still young. Unlike their parents, they haven’t lived as wild animals for long. They were likely born in wolf form, and I don’t know if they evencouldbecome human. I’m not sure that would be enough to stop Father from killing them anyway.
