Chapter 3: The Rogue King

KURAVORN Keep, Guran

Krytos exhaled a cloud of smoke from his Duron, a thin, gray-black rolled herb leaf wrapped around a silver-thread filter, as he gazed out the window of his private study.

Wisps of smoke curled around his legs as if they were dancing before slowly vanishing into thin air.

Afterward, he picked up the golden goblet on the table and took a sip of the two-hundred-year-old wine inside. Its bittersweet flavor slid down his throat, but he paid it no mind. It was his favorite wine, not only because of its taste but also because it had been his father’s favorite—King Siker Hakor Montgomery, the former king of Daremkor, Guran, the territory of werewolves.

Eleven weeks. Only eleven weeks until the eclipse would once again shroud Satheli Kalone.

Krytos couldn’t help wondering who would be the next to die by his own sinful hands. Who would beg him to spare their life this time? Which family would storm into his kingdom, demanding justice for their loved ones.

Too bad he couldn’t give them an answer. He would never tell them what happened during the eclipse—not because he wanted to keep it a secret, but because even he didn’t know what transpired when darkness swallowed the sky.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The three sharp knocks interrupted Krytos’s thoughts. He turned toward the door before settling back into his cushioned, shiny black chair.

Three knocks. That was the signal reserved for urgent and important matters.

“Come in,” he commanded gravely.

The door opened, and Kelmor, his right-hand man, stepped inside. He took five paces forward before bowing respectfully.

“Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty, but someone has emerged from Orrukai, near our border. A woman. She’s injured and unconscious,” he reported.

Krytos’s brows furrowed. He was an intelligent man, yet for a moment, it felt as though Kelmor had spoken an entirely different language.

“What do you mean, emerged?” he asked.

In all his years of living in Satheli Kalone, he had never heard of anyone coming out of Orrukai. As far as he knew, it was nothing more than an ordinary forest, its trees growing far apart from one another.

“According to a dwarf who happened to pass by, he saw the woman suddenly thrown out of somewhere he couldn’t identify. She was still conscious when he saw her, but she lost consciousness shortly afterward.” Kelmor paused briefly before continuing. “She’s currently in the dungeon, where she’s receiving treatment. We don’t know yet whether she’ll survive.”

Krytos rose to his feet. “Take me to her. I need to see whether she still requires treatment or should simply be left to die.”

He strode out of his private study, heading straight for the dungeon. The servants he passed greeted him respectfully, but he neither acknowledged them nor returned their greetings.

Everyone living within his fortress had been exiled from somewhere, whether from the packs of Guran, a werecat clowder, a fox court, or a village that no longer wanted them. Some had killed someone. Others had stolen important artifacts. Some had been falsely accused, while others had left their packs of their own accord, and a few simply had nowhere else to go.

Any werewolf he deemed worthy was allowed to remain in his fortress, serving him in exchange for shelter. Those he deemed unworthy, however, were thrown into the dungeon, where they would await the next eclipse. When the time came, they would become his sacrifices—the ones he would kill to spare everyone else from meeting the same fate.

“Where is the woman?” Krytos asked Kelmor as they walked down the hallway, which was lined on both sides with cells holding all kinds of thrashing creatures.

Some of the werewolves couldn’t stop themselves from shifting at the sight of him. Some vampires bared their fangs and reached for him through the iron bars, while some foxes remained silent, huddled in the corners of their cells as though too terrified to move.

“She’s in the cell at the very end of this hallway, Your Majesty. Our healer is treating her,” Kelmor answered, his voice nearly drowned out by the noise coming from the prisoners.

“I don’t want to die yet! Please, not yet!”

“You’re a plague on Kalone! Die already!”

“I’m not afraid of you!”

The irritation already etched across Krytos’s face deepened. His patience, never particularly abundant, was wearing thin. If the prisoners continued making such a racket, he might lose his temper, and the eclipse might even arrive early this year because of their foolishness.

“Silence them, Kelmor,” he ordered coldly, and Kelmor immediately obeyed.

Krytos continued down the hallway until he reached the cell where the woman had been placed. Before long, silence descended upon the dungeon that had been so noisy moments earlier.

Inside the cell, he found the healer in the middle of casting a spell. The healer was visibly struggling, sweat dripping from her forehead as she worked to save the woman’s life.

And there she was. A pale woman lay motionless on a wooden bed, her body covered in deep wounds, and blood soaked the strange clothes she wore.

Krytos’s brows furrowed. He didn’t know why, but something about this woman felt different. He had a hunch that she wasn’t from here—not specifically from Satheli Kalone.

“How is her condition?” he asked the healer, whose name he couldn’t quite remember.

The healer glanced at him before returning to the task at hand. “Her heart stopped earlier, Your Majesty, but it started beating again. I’m doing everything I can to save her, and I also noticed a handprint on her neck, suggesting that someone strangled her and nearly suffocated her.”

Someone had tried to kill her? But why?

Krytos found himself growing curious about the identity of this dying woman. Beyond that, there was something about her aura that he couldn’t begin to understand.

In the nine hundred thirty-five years he had lived in Satheli Kalone, he had never experienced such a profound sense of bewilderment. So, instead of killing her as he had initially intended, he changed his mind.

He turned away from the cell. “Call me when she wakes up. Make sure she stays alive,” he ordered coldly.

He didn’t miss the way Kelmor’s head suddenly snapped up, his expression betraying his surprise at Krytos’s unexpected command.

Well, Krytos was just as surprised as Kelmor.

Rather than returning to his private study, Krytos headed straight for another private chamber, one he often occupied whenever the eclipse drew near. It was a room whose walls were covered in enormous claw marks and dried blood—a sight and smell he had long since grown accustomed to.

At the center of the room stood a wooden table and a backless chair. Scattered across the tabletop were the wood and tools he used for carving.

It was an activity his late father had taught him, one that Krytos had grown to love over the years.

A small wooden wolf sat atop the table, the final piece he had carved the previous year. It wasn’t an ordinary wolf figurine meant for children or display. Each wolf represented a victim of his curse—a tribute to those who had been slain by his own hands.

Krytos sat down and picked up the figurine, running his thumb over its smooth, unfinished back.

Eleven weeks from now, he would need to carve another one.

Perhaps he should have Kelmor and the others gather a fresh batch of wood for his next piece.

Hmm, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?