2. SOLD TO THE BEAST

While mothers yanked their daughters' hands, taking them to safety. The pack warriors moved at once, shoving through the crowd, grabbing girls by the arm, dragging them from their tents, from beside their mothers, from behind wagons and carts.

  Kaerith felt everything going on, even with her head hung heavy against the post, blood and sweat blurring her sight. 

  A girl’s scream nearby rang through her ears and just then hands were on her.

  “Cut her down,” a voice snapped. “Then chain her.”

  The rope at Kaerith’s wrists were loosened, and she crumpled to her side. But before she hit the ground, a soldier hauled her up by the arm. The roughness of his grip scraped over the open wounds on her back.

  “Put her with the others.”

  Immediately, cold iron closed around her wrists, the chains rattling. Her heart pounded in her chest as she barely resisted, there was no room to think. Girls were being snatched from everywhere now, and were dragged towards the platform. 

  Kaerith’s eyes fell on the face of a slave she worked with, streaked with dirt and tears as a soldier dragged her into line. Another girl bolted only to be slammed into the mud.

  Some of the girls were dragged from their homes half-dressed. Some clung to their mothers, begging. But, it didn’t matter, as the pack warriors took them all.

  Kaerith closed her eyes, swallowing hard, wishing — for the first time in years — that the warrior had driven a knife straight through her throat.

  I should’ve done it myself the night my mother died. Should’ve slit my wrists by the river. Should’ve climbed the cliffs and let the sea take me. Anything but this.

  But she hadn’t. Because some pathetic, desperate part of her had hoped it would get better, and that the moon goddess would remember her name.

 And that was the hope of a fool.

  It makes no difference. If I fight, they'll beat me into the dirt and drag my corpse anyway.

  Around her, the line kept growing. And now, she was being chained and shoved in a line with other girls her age. The other girls around her were shuffled into formation, faces pale, hair clinging to wet cheeks. 

  Kaerith kept her head down, rubbing her sweaty palms together. The last time the Dreadborns came, her mother was still alive, and had protected her. But now, she was dead, and her father, Alpha Fenrik didn’t give a fuck about her.

  No one’s coming for me anyways. No one ever does.

  The clatter of spears, and the scrape of boots blurred around her.

  A man whispered as they passed: “Not for us. It’s for the Beast. It’s always for him.”

  The chains rattled as the line of bound girls marched through the damp clearing, iron shackles biting into Kaerith’s wrists.

  Their bare feet left footprints in the mud as a few bit down on their lips to keep quiet. Tears streaked dry lines on the bloated faces of a girl that couldn’t stop whimpering.

  A few of them stifled sobbed, shoulders shaking, unable to lift their heads, with the fear that the warriors would whip them.

  Kaerith walked behind them, shoulders hunched, her face hidden behind a curtain of her hair matted with sweat and dirt. Every step ached down to her marrow. 

  The lashes on her back burned with each step as the damp fabric clung to her open wounds. The fear gnawed her marrow, but she clenched her teeth and kept walking. She kept her head down.

  Around them, the pack warriors guiding them were silent. The tents sagged under heavy rain. The air stank of rotting meat and wet fur.

  Held back by pack warriors wielding spears were men and women gathered on either side of the clearing. Mothers gripped their kids, their muddy cheeks smeared with tears.

  A father howled as his daughter passed. An older woman cursed the gods. An underfed girl clung to a post, whispering the name of her sister.

  “Mira!”

 “Not my daughter—please!”

  A woman pushed forward from the crowd at the sight of her daughter among the bound girls, her voice cracking. A child, not older than six clung to her skirt, sobbing. 

  Just as she tried to break through the line of the pack warriors. One of the warriors stepped forward, the iron plates of his gauntlet clicking as it crashed into her chest, shoving her back.

  “Stand down,” the warrior barked.

  Kaerith saw none of it. She only heard it—the cries, the curses, the begging. They slid past her ears like the wind.

  Everyone had someone who didn’t want them to be mistreated, or taken away by the warriors, but she had none.

  Chains rattled with every step as they bit into her wrists and ankles. Around her were girls no older than herself, moving forward—some lowered their heads in silent grief, while others cried openly.

  One of the girls just ahead of Kaerith stumbled at the sight of her mother, chains clicking around her ankle. Her tears tore through the crowd.

  “Mama!” She screamed. “Please—Mama, don’t let them take me!”

  Her voice was shrill, desperate. As long as she kept walking, the warriors didn't see a reason to put her in place. But, the girl kept crying, her voice broke into choking gasps and then hiccups. 

  The moment she broke through the line, one of the pack warriors yanked her arm, dragging her back among the other girls.

  Another girl just stared, wide-eyed, her lips moving in a silent prayer to the gods.

  The pack warriors escorting them were grim and silent, their cloaks decorated with wolf fur and the claws of wolves long dead. 

  Mud splashed around as their thick leather boots stomped on the ground. Their armor stank of iron scent of blood as they marched with their spears pointed downward.

  The grand timber doors of the court hall was just ahead, it was carved from blackened oak and was bound in bronze.

  On either side, two great wolves carved from stone stood— their eyes narrowed, teeth bared, like they were frozen in mid-snarl.

  The moment Kaerith looked up, her stomach dropped as her eyes met with one of the two warriors— warriors? No, they weren’t warriors! She had seen those bonemasks before… Dreadborns.

  They stood guard before the hall, armored, their faces hidden behind jagged bone masks. They didn’t move or blink. Yet their presence sent a ripple of fear through the crowd that lined down the path.

  Even the pack warriors avoided their gaze.

  Kaerith’s gaze lowered to the ground. Her stomach twisted, her breath shallow. 

  Everyone knew the stories — the Black Sun, the cursed king who rose after 1,500 years, and the monsters he made of men. They were no longer wolves. Not quite human. They were called the Dreadborns

  It wasn’t blood the king hungered for now… it was worse.

  He began to claim the daughters The Fenrir's Fang ever produced, their flesh and heat. 

  The beast fed on them. His desire was too intense, and no woman taken to him could survive the intensity of his sexual desires.

  And now, as Kaerith and the other girls were led forward, that price was about to be paid.

  As they reached the entrance, the girls hesitated, and the nearest soldier struck the ground with the butt of his spear.

  “Move.”

  Stepping inside the hall, it stank of tallow smoke, damp wood, bloodied fur, sweat, and animal pelts. 

  Tallow candles were lined around the walls, and smoke curled into the rafters.

  A long table stretched across the hall, and at the far end sat Kaerith's father, Alpha Fenrik Greythorn. He was cloaked in the pelts, his pale eyes flicked to the girls and met Kaerith’s and then he looked away.

  Beside him stood Beta Raelka, sharp-faced and silent, keeping his hands folded. His son, Rowan, leaned casually against a wooden post, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

  The pack’s elders sat scattered on either side, but no one spoke.

  Opposite them stood the Dreadborns.

  Generals. Warlords. Figures dressed in black and bone. Their armor shined like charred iron, their faces half-hidden beneath heavy cloaks and bone-carved masks. Their presence overall made the room feel smaller. 

  General Narkhul walked over and sat like a boulder, his fists clenched on the table. Thornek, the second general’s rusted iron jaw flexed as he studied the girls. Rhazien, the third general, lounged, an unsettling grin tugging at his scarred lips. 

  But none of them were the Beast.

  Kaerith knew that now.

  He’s not here yet. The Beast doesn’t waste time with picking.

  Even Alpha Fenrik’s shoulders were tense, jaw clenched. His fingers tapped the side of his chair.

  The bond between the Fenrir’s Fang Pack and the Dreadborn Courts had been forged in old blood. A price for their past sins. Every season, the Dreadborn came for girls of age to serve the Beast as sex slaves.

  One of the generals, Rhazien, stepped forward, his armor dulled by dried blood. His sharp eyes passed as he began walking down the line of girls like he was selecting meat for slaughter.

  One of the girls clutched her chain like it held her life, causing another girl’s knee to buckle as she stumbled forward.

  Kaerith lowered her head, dark hair veiling her face. Her back still burned from the whip, and her knees ached. She prayed, silently, not to be rescued because she knew it wasn’t possible, but to be ignored.

  Behind her, someone pissed herself.

  Rhazien snorted at the girl in tears, then moved past another, muttering, “Too thin.”

  His leather-gloved hand grabbed the hair of another girl, shoving her face from side to side, causing the girl to whimper. He grunted. “Too soft.”

  He spat on one girl, shivering. “Too small.”

  “This one looks sick!” Rhazien grimaced, passing another girl who looked lean.

  His shadow halted, and his gaze lingered on Kaerith a moment, then he wrinkled his nose. “This one’s filthy,” he spat. “Looks like a half-dead runt. Weak things wouldn’t last a couple of minutes.”

  Pick me, coward, and see if I don’t tear your throat out before dawn.  Kaerith thought.

  Kaerith knew what would happen if they chose her.

  Rhazien moved away.

  The hall went dead silent, then a gravel-thick voice cut through the hall. 

  “Wait.”