The crowd hushes as the Bonded emerge from one of the streets leading into the square. The streets are narrow here, not quite big enough for the direwolves they ride, which only serves to make them look larger.
People idolize the Bonded as much as they revile them. Technically, anyone can become Bonded, and during Bonding Trials, when the direwolves have enough young to bond en masse, all of Nocturna’s army recruits have the chance.
But everyone knows that the direwolves almost exclusively choose people who come from Bonded families. Privilege begets more privilege, a never-ending cycle.
There’s nothing magical about the riders themselves, but because of generations of natural selection, they justlookdifferent from the rest of us.
Tall. Beautiful. Honed fighting machines.
Today, there are four of them, all wearing black riding leathers. A stern-faced woman with dark skin on a silver direwolf leads the way, followed by a pale man with a shock of blond hair on a tawny wolf, an older woman with olive skin on a gray wolf.
My eyes barely register the fourth direwolf and its rider—I’m too busy gawking at what they’re dragging behind it.
Or…who.
Gasps go up in the crowd as people visibly take a step back in horror.
It’s a commoner man, hogtied and bumping against on the cobblestones. Blood and bruises cover his face, yet he doesn’t fight his shackles. He looks resigned. He’s given up.
Rage ignites in my blood.How dare they?
The direwolves and their riders edge toward the middle of the square just as the breath leaves my body.
Iknowthat man. He was the dumbass who threatened me at the fight last night.
My gaze skirts back to the direwolf dragging him around. Massive is an understatement—the direwolf is easily taller than the most battle-ready horses the commoners ride in the army. His fur is midnight black, and he has a feral, bloodthirsty look in his gaze. He bares his teeth, each sharper than a dagger.
The direwolf’s rider matches him in ferocity. He’s in his late twenties, I’d wager, with light brown skin and dark, messy hair that has a blood-red streak in it. Like every Bonded I’ve ever seen, he’s undeniablybeautiful, with deep brown eyes and scruff framing his chiseled jawline. But…
My pulse speeds up as I clock the tattoos completely covering his neck, his hands. Not much makes me afraid, but this?Run, a self-preserving, animalistic part of me cries.Danger.
Even us commoners know what those are. Kill tattoos.
For someone to be so thoroughly cloaked in them…
He’s killed hundreds, easily. Maybe more.
Monster. This guy’s a fucking psycho killing machine.
My gaze slides up to his face and my stomach flips as I make eye contact with him. The Bonded man practically glowers at me from a distance. His lip rises in a sneer. Maybe my fear of him is written all over my face. I avert my eyes.
Power radiates off of him in waves. Whoever he is, he’s someone important in the king’s forces. It would be impressive for someone as young as him… if he weren’t absolutely terrifying.
The Bonded man hops off of his vicious direwolf with practiced grace. For the man’s gigantic size, he moves like water. In two fast steps, he’s reached the commoner tied to the back of his wolf.
He grabs the man off the ground with one hand, displaying an inhuman level of strength. Using his direwolf’s magic, maybe.
“This man,” the rider calls out, his rumbling deep voice echoing over the silenced crowd, “is a deserter from the front. The king takes deep offense to anyone who would dare abandon their comrades in arms. Do you deny the charge?” he asks the man.
“No,” the man mumbles between his split lips.
The rider continues, “We have brought him here today to make sure all the citizens of Sturmfrost are aware of what happens to cowards.”
He lifts the man higher and I suddenly know what’s about to happen. I have no love lost for deserters, and especially not this piece of shit. But my sister cannot bear witness to this.
“Cover your ears,” I whisper quickly to Saela, who complies. My hands slide over her eyes, holding her warm, small body tight to mine.
The rider grabs a dagger with his free hand and guts the man from navel to neck. His anguished screams echo, bouncing off the buildings around the square. Then, as the crowd watches in horror, the Bonded man sticks his hand into the deserter’s belly and yanks out his entrails. Somehow the man is not dead yet, gurgling in pain, blood bubbling out of his mouth and dripping down his chin.
