Page 32 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

A curious look lights again in their brown eyes. “Sometimes. You do seem to draw that side out of him more quickly than others, though.”

“Others?”

The guard laughs. “He’s usually more… careful.”

“What do you mean?”

They cock their head, thinking. “You’ll see. Maybe.”

“Lucky me.” I strike until the knuckles of my fists are bright red and the sting of each blow leaves pinpricks across my skin. “I think I hate him.”

“Most people do,” the guard admits, shrugging. “At least at first.”

They expect me to ask another question. I can feel it, hanging unsaid between us.

I leave it.

As far as I’m concerned, the less I know about Wolf, about any of them, the better.

We keep going, punching and kicking through drill after drill until my muscles scream. Even lifting a fork to my mouth is going to hurt like shit after this. But the exhaustion clears my mind, focusing me and sharpening my senses.

Only when every inch of me is covered in sweat does the guard nod for me to stop. “Get some water. And make sure you eat. You need…”

“Fuel to build muscle.” I squeeze my eyes shut at the piercing ache behind my heart. My sister must be better by now, right? Not being able to see her, to know for sure that she’s okay, feels like a dagger between my ribs. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Shadows flit at the edges of the guard’s brown eyes. There’s a flicker of hesitation, but it vanishes a second before I can try to twist it to my advantage.

Still, I can’t resist one more question. “If you’re sticking around after today, I should know your name.”

A small, sad smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes. The guard rubs at the scarred palms of their hands and picks up the bag they had left on the small wooden chest at the foot of my bed—enormous, sure to be softer than anything I’ve ever slept on before.

They neatly tuck their notes on all my weaknesses into the pack, eyes guarded.

“Talon,” they answer after a long moment. “You can call me Talon.”

I tilt my head. “Wolf. Talon. Those aren’t your real names, right?”

Talon laughs softly. One thumb runs along the hilt protruding from the gauntlet sheath on their wrist. “No, they aren’t our real names. Wolves and caoranachs were sacred to the Old Ones, and to the mages. Some of us take our working names from different parts of them. A reminder—of what we’re fighting for, and what Eireann can still become again.”

There’s something stirring about that, the idea of someone who dreams so wildly, so defiantly, that their dream becomes not just a part of them butthem.

Even though I know better than to hope, there’s no denying the cautious rustle of it deep in the pit of my stomach. Like a creature waking after a long, dark winter.

Talon turns for the door.

“Wait,” I call out before they can open it, heart hammering.

This is probably stupid—a half-formed fledgling of an idea. But…

“If you want me to kill the king, I need a map.”

NINE

I fall into bed hours later, exhaustion like an anchor on every one of my muscles.

Still, sleep won’t claim me.

My limbs, despite the aching, won’t settle. They tremble, and a familiar twinge of panic jolts through me at the uncanny feeling of someone lurking just out of sight. The same feeling I told myself to ignore in Quayside when I carried the magic in my pocket.