Chapter Two

Nyra

The stone always speaks to me before the guards do: the cold seeping up from the damp walls crawls into my bones, as if trying to scrub out the last traces of hope from within. Through the narrow slit of a window in my cell, a thin blade of light cuts the darkness in two; the Moon stares back at me with her usual indifference, as though flesh beneath her — my flesh — were never touched by blood, or shame, or silence.

The straw beneath me reeks sour, mingling with the taste of iron in my mouth. The shackles coiled around my wrists shed rust that crumbles into black dust against my skin; when I shift, the grains scatter to the ground like falling sand, each speck another measure of time. Every movement holds me to account. Every breath claws at my throat.

“Has our glorious prophet risen yet?” comes the mocking voice from the corridor.

The rasp of a key, the iron door swings open, like a cold mouth yawning wide in the dark.

Maera enters, the beta’s daughter. Her green eyes burn like smoldering embers — bright, but giving no warmth. Two young males flank her, their grins stripped of anything that could be mistaken for human.

“Good morning, cursed one,” Maera leans close. Her fingers whiten as they clutch the bars. “Do you know what I dreamed? That the snow was red with blood. And do you know who I blame for that dream? You.”

I do not answer. I learned long ago that silence has its price — but words cost far more.

“You spoke again yesterday, didn’t you?” — her tone turns silken. “You told the youths not to go to the eastern stream because you had a ‘bad feeling.’ And what happened? Nothing. As always. You only spread fear. Like your mother.”

At her name, my lashes tremble, but I do not raise my head.

“At the stream…” I whisper at last. “Tonight… something will happen.”

Maera’s smile is a blade.

“Of course, prophet. There is always ‘something.’ In the meantime…” she signals to one of her escorts. “Bring water. Let no one say I mistreat our prisoner.”

The bucket lands with a clang beyond the bars. On its cloudy surface, the thin line of moonlight quivers like a drawn nerve. I crawl forward, reach for the ladle. One of the males slams his hand down across my fingers. The crack of it runs all the way to my bones.

“A gift for the brave beta,” he grins.

Maera does not look at him. She does not need dirt to be filthy.

When they leave, I drag the bucket slowly to me. I drink in tiny sips, each swallow scratching down my throat, as though I must convince my body that life is still worth keeping.

[…]

The next day Maera halts before my cell. Her eyes are ringed with shadow.

“Two are dead,” she says at last. “The youths.”

I dare not even sigh.

“You knew,” she adds. “And you let it happen.”

“I said…” — my voice rasps. “I said not to go.”

“You always say something,” her tone hardens. “That’s the problem.”

⸻

Later, Maera returned. This time alone.

“A petition has gone up,” she said. “To the king.”

My head snapped up.

“What petition?”

“Our border disputes. Prey gone missing in the eastern range. The neighboring pack claims we spill too much blood, keep too little discipline. They want the Alpha King to investigate.”

“And you? Do you want him to come?”

She shrugged.

“What could I want? The king does what he pleases. Word is, he’s investigating something already. Shady dealings, thieves, witches. The trail leads this way.”

She leaned closer.

“If he comes, it won’t be for you. It will be because the world is bigger than your little cell.”

“The world is always bigger,” I whispered. “Sometimes it still ends up here.”

⸻

Aedan

At that same hour, far to the north, I stood at my table. The shards of sealing wax crumbled through my fingers like the remnants of old order. The letter was stark, terse, its language of grievance sharp as a blade.

“On Rowan’s lands…” I read aloud. “Missing youths, broken border treaties, protective draughts bought from a witch?”

The final line furrowed my brow. This was not merely disgrace. It was lawbreaking. The law of the packs is no game.

“My lord?” — my captain stepped in.

“We ride east,” I said. “The tally priests await at the Eastern Crossing. We’ll review the stores, the border records, hear the complaints.”

“And the other matter? The bandits’ trail?”

“It leads the same way. One road, two birds.”

I moved to the window. The jagged white of the mountains on the horizon looked like the edge of the world. The air was sharp, clear as steel. Something thrummed in my bones — not the voice of fate, but of duty. When order falters, the Alpha King moves.

Yet when I closed my eyes, another scent lingered still: fur beneath snow, pine in rain, a breath keeping time with mine. It was not fate. It was something that even fate must wait for.

“We ride,” I said. “Now.”