1. THE DREADBORNS ARE HERE

    “Move faster, Kaerith! If that water’s not back before I return from the market, I’ll have your hide for supper!”      

       The shout came from Madam Susanne, Kaerith’s supervisor, who had a sharp tongue and a hand quick to slap. She didn’t wait for a reply, bustling past Kaerith with a basket on her arm. 

       Near the pelts, a butcher muttered under his breath. “Dreadborn scouts were seen near the east ridge last night.” 

       “Shut your cursed mouth, fool,” another man hissed. “Speak their name and they come.”

       Kaerith kept her head down, pretending not to hear, though her stomach twisted. No one spoke of them in daylight. 

       The sun bled over patched tents and crooked frames. The camp reeked of marrow rot, old blood, and cook fires burning too low. Somewhere, a hammer rang against iron, and the sound was a war drum in Kaerith’s skull.

       The whole place stank of sweat and decaying things.

       Kaerith grunted, staggering barefoot with a heavy wooden bucket clutched in blistered hands.

       The water sloshed with every step she took, spilling down her dress. She wiped the dirt covering her face as she kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of warriors sharpening their blades or laughing at a slave who was being tormented.  

       She hadn’t eaten since morning. Her dress clung to her, soaked down the front.

       She went quickly, else she'd get thrashed for wasting time.

       No one spared her a glance. Not the warriors polishing their blades, not the women hanging wolf pelts along drying racks, not the children sparring wooden swords near the fire pits.

       As she passed the training yard, boots stomped against packed dirt, voices barked and laughed behind her, and her foot caught on a loose stone. She stumbled, the water sloshing.

       "Oi! Watch it! Peasant."

       Kaerith barely had time to process the words as her body slammed into a broad chest, and she stumbled back, the bucket almost slipping from her grasp.

       The water poured on the ground and soaked the dirt on the boots of whoever she’d bumped into.

       She looked up and immediately regretted it. It was Rowan, son of the Beta. He towered over her with a cruel grin on his face as his golden hair was tied back.    

       She walked aside, looked down, murmuring, "I’m sorry."

       “Sorry?” Rowan’s lip curled. The black tattooed ink on his throat twitched as he tilted his head toward the boys at his back. “Look at this worthless bitch.”

       His gaze dropped to the mud-soaked boots, then back to her face. “I should carve the apology from your skin.”       

      I should’ve slit his throat the first time I could.

       Kaerith kept her head low, her gut twisting. She knew that grin — the same he wore when they hung that girl last spring, the one who mistakenly poured his drink.       

       Coward. She thought. If I had my wolf, you’d bleed like a stuck pig.       

       “Spill another drop, and I’ll have you choking on my cock before the beast ever gets his turn.”       

       Kaerith’s stomach twisted, but she kept her head down.       

       One day, you bastard. One day, I’ll carve your name into the dirt with your own teeth. She despised Rowan with all her heart.       

       He turned to his friends, flicking his hand, signaling to them. “Drag her to the platform.”     

       “Please. No—”        

       Kaerith took a step back, but rough hands seized her arms. One of them ripped the bucket out of her hands and threw it away.       

       As they dragged her to the wooden platform near the training yard, her bare feet scraped against the dirt.     

       The wooden platform was just ahead, stained from countless punishments. They shoved her onto it; she gritted her teeth as her knees hit the planks hard.       

       She didn’t struggle because she had learnt not to.      

       The crowd followed, whispering and cursing.    

       A soldier kicked the side of the platform. “Get the ropes.”     

       Two boys climbed the stage and yanked her up, dragging her like an animal. Her wrists were pulled forward and tied to the tall whipping post. The rope was rough, causing her already blistered hands to bleed.     

       The platform smelled of piss and salt. She could almost see the ghosts of others who’d bled here. One day, she’d set her ghost free too.      

       One woman hissed, “Cursed whore!”     

       “Wolfless bitch!” Another said behind her.    

       “Should’ve been drowned at birth!”       

       They hurled the names at her. She looked up at them; she knew their faces, members of her father’s pack, Fenrir’s Fang. The same people who had once bowed to her mother, the Luna, just until she died.       

       “Should’ve slit her throat at birth and saved the pack the shame!”       

       Rotten fruits were thrown against the platform, half-eaten onions rolled past her knees, and the stink of them mingled with sweat and smoke.      

       Rowan stood below, his arms crossed, grinning up at her.       

       His voice rose above the others. “What kind of princess can’t shift? What kind of heir is cursed for an eternity?”       

       Kaerith kept her eyes down on the dirt. Her heart beat hard in her chest, but she bit on her lower lip. She knew better; females had no say in the pack.      

       Kaerith Virelyn was the daughter of Alpha Fenrik Greythorn, by blood. Yes, but it meant nothing here. She was born under the Tear of the Moon, which was seen as a flaw in the Lycan bloodline.        

       She carried the mark of the moon’s sorrow that cursed her to never fully be accepted into Lycan society. No wolf ever came to her. No shift—wolfless. No power. No mate. Just a weak omega slave.       

       After her mother birthed her, she refused to sacrifice her to the moon, claiming Kaerith was the only child she’d borne in her lifetime. She protected Kaerith all her life, even from her husband, and the pack never forgave her for it till she died.      

       Now, Kaerith’s mother was dead; they found their way with her, and her father, Alpha Fenrik did nothing about it.       

       Every day, she scrubbed floors, shovelled shit, hauled water, and cleaned blades still wet with blood. And when it wasn’t enough, they made her bleed for their happiness.       

       “Twenty strokes,” Rowan declared. “For disrespecting me. And spilling the water the gods gave.”       

       The crowd cheered— clapping, whistling, and stomping their boots against the wooden platforms.        

       Rotten vegetables flew through the air: mushrooms, mushy turnips, browning lettuce, and soft apples mixed with fresh ones.       

       The weight of every fruit and veggie cracked against Kaerith’s back and shoulders. A tomato burst near her head, splattering juice across her cheek and eyes.       

       Warriors, elders, women, children, and slaves all watched with cold eyes, some laughing, some murmuring, some giggling, some pointing at her, some eating, all looking down on her as if she weren’t the Alpha’s daughter.       

       A thick-muscled warrior stepped forward, with a whip in his hand. He threw his arms high in the air, and the crowd cheered at him, their fists pumping as they continued stomping their boots.       

       Kaerith closed her eyes, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack. The crowd jeered, and a rotten apple struck her throat, its sour juice running down her cheek.       

       The first lash landed like fire across her back.        

       Her body snapped against the post, her teeth grinding so hard she tasted blood.       

       Kaerith swallowed the scream she felt clawing at her throat but refused it as the pain tore through her whole body, and scattered her thoughts. Blood oozed, sticky against her dress.       

       She curled her fingers tightly as blood mixed with dirt under her knees.       

       The second lash landed across her bone, and her breath hitched between her ribs, heat spilled down her spine. Her eyes welled, and tears blurred her eyes, sliding down her cheeks and dripping from her chin to the wood as a sharp sound rang in her ears, blocking out the crowd’s jeers.      

       If the gods won’t kill me, I’ll burn them myself.       

       The third strike landed on her waist, and the whip circled her stomach. The rope pulled her arms straight as the pain blurred her sight, and she fell to her side with her shoulders trembling and her jaw locked tight, with every muscle stretched out. 

             She felt her blood soaking through the thin material of her dress as the jeering crowd and heavy laughter dulled.

               Warriors turned toward the outer ridge, dropping their spears with a clatter, as screams rang out in the distance, just as the fourth lash was about to land on her back.

               A dog howled as a spear slipped from a warrior’s grip.

               People ran off, shoving past the stunned onlookers and the ones who had cheered seconds ago now scattered like startled birds.       

       “Move! Move!”       

       “They are back again—!”       

       Even through the blood and heat, Kaerith lifted her head, her vision blurred by tears and sweat. Her heart began racing as she felt the wrongness in the atmosphere.       

       Just then, tents flapped open as people tore through them. Crates of eggs were overturned, and food spilt across the ground.        

       Most mothers yanked their daughters by the arms; guards shouted orders, but no one followed as boots pounded in all directions.   

       An old man whispered as he fled past, “The Beast is hungry again.”      

       “The Dreadborns are here!”

       Kaerith’s stomach clenched.