3. FRESH CUNT FOR THE BEAST

The highest-ranking general, Narkhul, pushed forward, his bulk swallowing the firelight. His fists were wrapped in rusted chains. His two cold, stony eyes were locked on Kaerith.

“You missed one,” Narkhul pointed at Kaerith.

Rhazien hesitated. “That one’s nothing, Narkhul. A mutt. Looks like she can’t even stand, and she stinks of injuries.”

“I didn’t ask what she looks like,” Narkhul growled. “I asked who she is.”

There was a long silence in the courtroom.

Alpha Fenrik didn’t even glance in her direction. She was his daughter, and she disgusted him. She had never been meant to exist.

With a long, exasperated sigh, Fenrik peeled the wood of his chair with his fingers. His ring caught the firelight briefly as he leaned back, his face grim. “Kaerith,” he exhaled, a low, almost bored sound. His brow twitched. “She is my daughter.”

The generals exchanged glances, a rare flicker of surprise tightening their grim faces. General Thornek shifted in his seat, his stitched mouth twitching behind his cowl.

“You’d offer your own blood…your only child as a sex slave to the beast?” Narkhul spat, his voice like scorched parchment.

In all his years taking slaves, he’d never seen a parent so willingly offer their own blood to the Beast.

“She carries your mark, Fenrik,” General Thornek snarled, his fist slamming onto the table. “Or is the name of your house so thin now you’d offer it to the Beast?”

Alpha Fenrik didn’t so much as lift his eyes. Rather, he took a slow drink from his horn of mead, the firelight catching on the grizzled scars on his knuckles.

“She’s wolfless,” he muttered. “A curse from the moment she was born. You want her, take her. Makes no difference to me. She was born wrong.”

A ripple of amusing shock passed through the generals. Rhazien snorted, Thornek sneered.

Kaerith’s fingers tightened on the chain binding her wrists. She kept her face hidden as Narkhul’s gaze pinned her in place.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

And then, without a word, he reached into his cloak and drew out a thick silver manacle that was etched with hollow marks—a brand of ownership.

“It is not part of the ritual to pay for the chosen slave,” Narkhul tossed it onto the table before Fenrik with a cold metallic clang. “But I will this time.”

“I’ll take her.”

“She’s yours then.” Fenrik relaxed in his chair. “She was never a daughter to me.”

Thornek stared at Fenrik, then glanced at Kaerith. He shook his head, a mix of pity and disgust on his face.

Kaerith’s breath hitched as she felt the burn through her chest like fire. The pain settled like stones in her throat. 

The pack elders who had gathered said nothing. Kaerith caught a glimpse of Raelka as his lips twisted in a thin line. Rowan smirked. None of them tried to save her.

She knew she couldn’t be saved— but no one tried to help.

Behind her curtain of hair, Kaerith’s teeth clenched.

Father…why?

But she did not raise her head, nor did she plead.

The chains binding her to the other girls were unhooked, and Rhazien grabbed her by the arm and yanked her forward, making her stumble.

“The rest of the girls shouldn’t be set free.” Narkhul gulped down wine from a drinking horn before setting it back on the table. “They are coming along.”

“What?” Fenrik’s eyes widened. “It’s not done that way.”

Narkhul glared at him. “Now, it is.” He paused. “The price must be paid.”

Kaerith’s heart sank as she glanced back at her father. His indifference hurt her so much—he didn’t even look back. Her fate was sealed in his eyes, and yet, a part of her still yearned for him to care.

Kaerith's heart hammered in her chest as a gag of foul cloth was stuffed into her mouth. A heavy cloak of black wool reeking of grave dust and rot root oil was thrown over her head, masking her scent and stopping her omega heat from rising in case it began.

She kept her gaze fixed on the silver chains linking her wrists and ankles as they bit into her skin. 

Her heart pounded as each step took her away from her past life. She could hear her father’s voice fading into the distance.

The road to the kingdom of Murnokh was long, cold, and heavy with mist.

Kaerith walked barefoot, and every step tore new scrapes in her soles as mud, sharp stones, and frozen earth bit into her feet. The iron collar around her throat pressed tight, its hollow insignia cold against the burn of her omega mark.

The other girls who were with her at the court hall all trailed behind her. None were set free.

None of them looked at her, much less talked to her.

A Hollow… I can’t believe that’s what I am.

A slave for sex, feeding, breaking, and devouring. In the Kingdom of Murnokh, it was a death sentence given a name.

The Hollows were flesh offerings taken to Murnokh’s bone halls to feed the Dreadborn’s hunger. Some were drained in days. Some bled for years, and none returned to their families.

But Kaerith…was meant to serve the beast alone. She belonged to no one but the beast.

They stopped at the side of a road that was thick with dead trees, and then one of the warriors took out a branding iron pulled from the coals of their traveling brazier. 

They said no words, forcing her down into the mud.

The branding iron glowed as she felt the heat of it against her skin. Kaerith hissed, biting down hard on the gag as the searing iron scorched the back of her neck, marking her as Murnokh’s property forever.

Her flesh immediately formed a blister under the fang symbol. 

The smell of her burnt skin made her stomach churn, as smoke curled into the foggy sky.

She whimpered softly.

The stench of scorched flesh clung to her hair, and every heartbeat sent a pulse of raw fire down her neck.

When they were done, the warriors put the searing iron back into the coals and tossed her back onto her feet as they continued the journey.

By dusk, the path had turned into rocks. The Bonefields, a barren wasteland of bleached remains and black soil, loomed ahead. The world was silent there…there were no birds, no insects, no trees, no homes…just wind.

And then the gates came into view… gates of the Kingdom of Murnokh. It loomed like an ancient skull, its jagged teeth carved from black stone.

The wind groaned through the open maw that looked like the mouth of a long-dead beast.

The Beast—Gorvane Thorneveil—echoed through the dark halls of Murnokh, a name that struck terror into the hearts of all who dared speak it. 

Soon, it would be Kaerith’s fate to meet him.

Kaerith’s steps faltered as the presence of something cold slid over her skin.

The bones under the ground stirred, and the chains at her wrists rattled on their own.

“Kaerith Virelyn,” the bones whispered from the fortress. From the beast waiting inside.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her throat tightening around the gag. It knows my name…how is that possible?

Thornek’s brow twitched. His gaze flicked from her to Narkhul. “It knows her name? How’s that possible.”

“I have no idea, this has never happened.” Prominent lines appeared on Narkhul’s forehead.

As the gates creaked open, torches flickered along the walls. Black water bled from the fortress walls, slicking the stone like old, rotted blood.

A long, crumbling bone staircase led to the throne hall, where a figure stood.

It stood cloaked, face hidden beneath a heavy, dark hood. Cracked bone beads hung from its sleeves. 

It didn’t move or speak, but Kaerith felt it, and it sent a chill through her veins.

It stood like an ancient, starving monster glaring into her soul.

Kaerith dared to lift her eyes under the hood's shadow, but the thing's head tilted as if it knew every step she was about to make.

A clawed hand yanked her chain tight, cutting off her gasp.

“Move.”