The Rawbonds step forward, fanning out to meet their wolves. To stand side-by-side in proud rows, dwarfed by the hulking predators. Many wolves greet their riders, muzzle to hand, reaffirming their bonds through physical contact.
An odd twinge of jealousy hits me. Anassa would never greet me like that.
Wait, whereisAnassa? All the other wolves are here.
The crowd falls silent once more, their eyes on me like a physical weight. I’m the only Rawbond standing alone. For a moment, I start to panic.
What the fuck am I going to do if that damned direwolf doesn’t show?
Then I see it—a final pair of night glow orbs bobbing in the darkness of the doorway.
She appears like a great silver-white ghost, even larger than the rest, trailing into the light with her head lowered in silent aggression. Her upper lip twitches over her teeth, on the edge of a snarl. The light from the lamps above glints gold on her pale fur.
The air grows still. The cheers have died down. The entire arena watches with bated breath as Anassa slowly stalks towards me.
I do not step forward to meet her like the others. Somehow, I know that’s the wrong thing to do. Instead, I just stand there, back straight, jaw set, reading the threat of primal violence in every line of her body.
I reach out to her with my thoughts, though. I don’t mean to. It just happens—like a reflex.
I’m met with a familiar iron wall of rejection. Her glowing yellow eyes meet mine. There’s blatant contempt in them.
Yeah well, fuck you, too,I think, furious.
Is shetryingto make me look bad? I’d quite like to stay alive.
Her gaze flickers then—some emotion I can’t identify. I’m struck again by the ancient intelligence in those eyes. Goosebumps rise along my arms and lift the hair at my nape in primal recognition.
As she nears, the other Rawbond pairs fan out even further to make room for her, their anxiety rippling in the air. Even the other wolves seem to fear her.
At last, Anassa takes her place beside me, standing well out of arm’s reach, radiating icy indifference.
I glance up at the crowd, shifting anxiously on my toes. They must be able to see how much she hates me. This is definitely not going to help my chances with… whatever the fuck this is. Or with the inter-pack rankings that Izabel mentioned.
The sinking dread returns. Looks like I’m on my own once again.
There’s a stirring in the crowd. Excited murmurs, heads turning. I follow their looks to the enormous balcony above the wolves’ entrance.
The rows of seats there are filled with Bonded—our instructors have made their way up there, along with a few other Bonded that I don’t recognize who must be high-ranking. A richly carpeted staircase behind them rises to another set of doors. These are elaborately carved with the royal coat of arms.
A herald appears with a voice amplifier in his hand. “Presenting His Royal Highness Cyril Valtiere, King of Nocturna!”
The crowd hushes.
A procession emerges through the gilded doors, led by gold-armored guards and more liveried servants. Behind them comes a regal figure draped in a sumptuous, fur-lined cloak, gold glittering over his brow.
The king.
I’ve lived my whole life just outside his castle, but I’ve never seen him before.
His face is pale and narrow, his gray hair neatly arranged. He’s trim for a man in his fifties, but he seems small and almost frail amongst the battle-hardened Bonded.
In fact, he’s pretty unremarkable—all the pageantry notwithstanding. Only his eyes indicate there’s more to him than his appearance suggests. Even at such a distance, I can see the keenness and cunning in his pale blue gaze.
Still, just a man, I think, faintly disgusted. I don’t know what I was expecting.
King Cyril mounts a raised platform and crosses to the big jeweled throne at the center of the balcony. He sits and lifts a golden sword across his knee. I can’t see the weapon clearly, but I know the stories.
It’s theDiren Blæd. The fabled weapon that supposedly gives him power over all direwolves, Bonded and unbonded alike. They say the pommel is shaped like a glowering direwolf’s head.
