Chapter 3: The German's Disdain

Sleep eluded me that night. Every time I closed my eyes, his face materialized: those storm-gray eyes, that cruel, beautiful mouth. The way he had looked at me, as if I were something he yearned to shatter, or devour. I struck the thin mattress beneath me. "Stop it," I hissed, my voice a ragged whisper. "He called you a half-blood like it was a disease. He's not your enemy. He's not anything."

The wolf disagreed. He's pack, it countered. Or he could be.

"He's pureblood. He probably bathes in the tears of half-breeds."

You don't know that.

"I know enough."

Abandoning the pretense of sleep, I sat by the small window in my cell. The sky above Istanbul was a dull, polluted gray, a stark contrast to the clear skies of the Black Sea coast. Somewhere out there, my mother was likely sipping her morning tea, content in her pretense that I had never existed. Good. Let her pretend. I had far greater problems now.

Dawn brought the guards. Not Dimitri this time, but two younger shifters, their movements as cold and efficient as any of the Council's servants. They led me through a different network of corridors, wider and brighter than the ones I knew, their windows offering glimpses of a courtyard I hadn't seen before.

The courtyard teemed with shifters. Dozens, perhaps a hundred, stood in hushed clusters, their eyes constantly scanning, constantly observing. I recognized some of the packs from the previous night—the Alaskans with their bone necklaces, the Mongolians with their sharp features, the Africans with their intricately braided hair.

And then I saw them. The Germans. They stood apart, a small, dark-clad contingent. They didn't speak, didn't move, merely waited, like a pack of wolves poised for the perfect moment to strike. Niklas stood at their center, clad in black: black pants, black shirt, black boots. His hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp planes of his jaw and the subtle curve of his ears. He looked like a predator cloaked in human skin. As his gaze met mine, his lip curled in a sneer.

"Ah," he announced, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard. "The dirty blood arrives."

The courtyard fell silent. I felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon me—curious, hostile, indifferent. Yet, my gaze remained locked on Niklas. "Dirty blood," I repeated, walking towards him. "How original. Did you conjure that yourself, or did your mother teach you?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a few nervous titters. Niklas's eyes narrowed. "You have a mouth on you."

"And you have a stick up your—"

"Enough." Vera's voice, sharp as a honed blade, sliced through the rising tension. She appeared at the far end of the courtyard, flanked by the Alaskan and the Mongolian. Behind them, a man I hadn't seen before, tall and dark-skinned, his eyes holding an ancient depth, followed close.

"This is not a brawl," Vera continued, her tone firm. "This is a Gathering. You will show respect."

Niklas inclined his head, a barely perceptible movement, but his eyes never left mine. "Of course, Councilwoman. I was merely… greeting our newest guest."

"Guest?" I scoffed. "Is that what you call kidnapping now?"

Niklas's smile was a predatory flash. "I call it recruitment. You should be flattered."

"Recruitment for what?"

Vera stepped forward. "The Blood Call was merely the first step. You carry your father's memories, Elif. That makes you valuable. But value must be tested." She gestured to the assembled shifters. "Every year, the Council hosts a Competition. Packs from across the globe send their finest warriors—purebloods, half-bloods, it matters not. They fight. They prove their strength. And the victors receive land, resources, and the Council's favor."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"You will compete," Vera stated. "For the Council. If you win, you earn your freedom. If you lose…" She shrugged, a gesture that conveyed finality. "You belong to the pack that claims you."

I stared at her, incredulity warring with a rising tide of anger. "You want me to fight for you? After you drugged me, kidnapped me, and cut me open?"

"I want you to survive," Vera replied, her gaze unwavering. "There's a difference."

The courtyard slowly emptied, the shifters dispersing back into their groups, no doubt whispering about the half-blood who had dared to confront Niklas Vollbrecht. I remained alone in the center, grappling with the enormity of what had just transpired.

"Elif Demir."

I turned. The tall, dark-skinned man from earlier was approaching. Up close, the lines etched into his face weren't wrinkles, but something deeper, like intricate maps of forgotten lands. "I am Kianuk," he introduced himself. "Of the Alaskan pack."

"I remember you. You were on the Council last night."

He nodded. "I was watching you. Not because of the relic. Because of your energy."

"My energy?"

"You are different from other half-bloods. You carry something within you. Something ancient." He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that was both unnerving and insightful. "Have you ever wondered why your father chose to hide the relic instead of using it?"

Until that moment, the question hadn't even crossed my mind.

"He wasn't greedy," Kianuk continued, his voice a low rumble. "He was scared. The relic isn't merely a weapon. It's a key. And keys can unlock doors that are best left closed."

"Are you going to tell me what door?"

Kianuk offered a smile, a sad, gentle expression that unexpectedly reminded me of someone—perhaps my father, or the father I wished I had. "Not yet," he said. "You're not ready."

Before I could press further, a shadow fell over us. "Step away from her, Alaskan."

Niklas. Of course.

Kianuk remained unperturbed, his gaze steady as he looked at Niklas, then back at me. "Be careful, Elif Demir. The wolf you fear might be the only one who can save you." He turned and disappeared into the dispersing crowd.

Niklas watched him go, his jaw set tight. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Everything about you concerns me now." He stepped closer, close enough for me to catch his scent again—pine, smoke, and something darker, more primal, beneath. "You heard Vera. The pack that claims you gains possession of the relic's location. And I intend to be that pack."

"So you can control it?"

"So I can destroy it."

I blinked, taken aback by his unexpected declaration. "Why?"

Niklas's expression flickered, a fleeting glimpse of pain, raw and unguarded, crossing his features before the cold mask snapped back into place. "Because relics like that don't bring power," he said, his voice low and quiet. "They bring death. And I've seen enough death to last a lifetime." He turned and walked away, leaving me with a thousand unspoken questions.

The remainder of the day was a blur of introductions and explanations. Vera convened all the competitors in the main hall, outlining the rules of the upcoming trials: three distinct challenges—strength, speed, and cunning. Each pack could field a single representative. The ultimate victor would claim all.

"But Elif doesn't belong to any pack," a voice called out. A woman with hair like spun moonlight and eyes like chips of ice, likely Siberian, I surmised. "She's a rogue. A half-blood. She has no right to compete."

"She will compete as the Council's champion," Vera declared, her voice brooking no dissent.

Murmurs rippled through the assembled shifters. "The Council has never had a champion."

"There's a first time for everything," Vera stated, her gaze challenging anyone to dispute her authority. "Unless any of you would like to question my decision?"

Silence.

The white-blonde woman stepped forward. She possessed a chilling beauty, akin to a blizzard—cold, deadly, impossible to ignore. Her icy eyes met mine, holding them captive. "I am Anastasia Volkov," she announced, her voice as sharp as frost. "Leader of the Siberian pack. And I have no desire to witness a half-blood embarrass herself in the ring."

"I didn't ask for your interest," I retorted.

Anastasia offered a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You have spirit. I appreciate that. Perhaps when Niklas breaks you, I will collect the pieces and forge something useful."

"You want me in your pack?"

"I want your blood. Your father was a formidable warrior. His daughter might prove useful—if she survives." She turned and walked away, but I felt her gaze on me for the rest of the afternoon, a calculating, predatory stare. Another enemy, I thought grimly. Perfect.

That evening, I found a secluded corner of the courtyard and leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the sun dip below the Istanbul skyline. I didn't hear Niklas approach; I only knew he was there when his shadow fell across me.

"You're alone," he observed. "That's foolish."

"I'm not alone. I have myself. And myself is excellent company."

He snorted. "Your mouth will be the death of you."

"My mouth has kept me alive so far."

He sat down, not beside me, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. We sat in silence for a long moment, the sky bleeding into hues of orange and red.

"Why do you hate half-bloods so much?" I finally asked.

Niklas was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. "Because they remind me of what I lost," he said at last.

"What did you lose?"

"Everything."

He stood abruptly. "The first trial is tomorrow. Strength. You'll be facing a pureblood from the Mongolian pack. His name is Temur. He's killed seven half-bloods in the past year."

I swallowed, a knot forming in my stomach. "Thanks for the warning."

"I'm not warning you. I'm telling you that you're going to lose. And when you do, I'll be there to collect the pieces." He began to walk away, then paused. Without turning, he added, "One more thing."

"What?"

"The wolf inside you. Does it feel different when I'm near?"

My heart stopped. "What?"

"Answer the question."

I desperately wanted to lie, to deny any connection, to assert that he was merely another arrogant pureblood who believed he owned the world. But the words wouldn't come. "Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "It feels… restless."

Niklas turned his head just enough for me to see the sharp profile of his face, the tension in his jaw. "Good," he said, his voice low. "That means you're not completely broken yet." He walked away, vanishing into the encroaching darkness.

The morning of the first trial dawned cold and gray. I stood in the center of the arena—a circular pit lined with stone, surrounded by hundreds of expectant shifters. Above us, the Council sat on their elevated thrones, observing the proceedings like gods presiding over a gladiatorial contest. Across from me stood Temur. He was a giant of a man, easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders like a bull and hands the size of my head. His eyes were black, empty, and a cruel smile stretched across his face.

"A half-blood," he rumbled, his accent thick. "I've killed your kind before. You all scream the same way."

"And you all bleed the same way," I countered.

His smile faltered. Kianuk, the Alaskan, stood at the edge of the pit, holding a staff. He raised it high, then brought it down. "Begin."

Temur charged. I dodged left, but he was faster than his bulk suggested. His fist slammed into my shoulder, sending me spinning. I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring.

"Get up," a voice from the crowd commanded. "Get up, half-blood!" I recognized Anastasia's voice, her ice-blue eyes gleaming from the stands.

I pushed myself up. Temur charged again. This time, I was ready. I dropped low, swept his legs out from under him, and watched him crash to the ground. The crowd roared.

"Not bad," Temur growled, regaining his footing. "But not good enough."

He shifted. Not fully—only his hands. His fingers elongated into sharp claws, fur sprouting from his knuckles. He lunged at me, claws extended, aiming for my throat.

I shifted too. Just my legs. Just enough to grant me speed. I leaped over his attack, landed behind him, and kicked the back of his knee. He stumbled. I grabbed his arm and twisted. Bone cracked with a sickening sound.

Temur screamed. I released him and stepped back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The crowd fell silent. Even the Council seemed frozen. Temur stared at his broken arm, then at me. His eyes, no longer empty, were wide with fear. "I yield," he gasped.

Kianuk raised his staff. "Winner: Elif Demir."

The arena erupted. I stood in the center of the pit, breathing heavily, my entire body trembling. I had won. I had actually won.

And then Niklas was there. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I gasped. His eyes burned, his face inches from mine. "You cheated," he hissed.

"I won."

"You shifted. The rules state—"

"The rules say nothing about partial shifts. I read them."

Niklas's jaw tightened. For a terrifying moment, I thought he would strike me. But then he did something far worse. He smiled. "You're clever," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "I'll give you that. But cleverness won't save you in the next trial." He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Listen to me very carefully, half-blood. You are now bound to my pack. Not the Council's. Mine. If you object, I will execute you myself. Do you understand?"

I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "Why?" I whispered. "Why do you want me so badly?"

Niklas pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. And for a fleeting moment, I saw something other than hatred in his eyes. Something that looked like hunger. "Because," he said softly, "you're the most dangerous thing I've ever seen. And I want to be the one holding the leash."

He released my wrist and walked away. I stood there, trembling, and felt the wolf within me shiver with something that wasn't fear. It was desire.