Chapter 6

Quinn's POV

I asked for strong, hardened warriors. So why did I find myself staring down at a runt who looked like he had barely seen eighteen winters?

I sat perfectly still on a thick branch of the ancient oak tree, my presence masked by the shadows and the rustle of leaves. Below me, the pup had arrived to wash. It was unusual. Most recruits usually spent their time boasting to each other or collapsed in exhaustion from the march. This one had already found the hidden stream.

Earlier today, I had watched from the high platform as he saved another recruit from a charging warhorse. His reaction time was a crazy thing that didn't match his small stature. Now, as I watched him from above, he began to pull off his clothes. 

I immediately looked away.

I had no interest in seeing his prepubescent body. 

I preferred these high places. They afforded me the chance to see everything while remaining hidden. I have felt like a monster for as long as I can remember. I never understood why until the day I first shifted into my Lycan form. Most wolves become four-legged beasts, but I became something in addition—a massive, two-legged, white-furred nightmare.

I am the only Lycan in existence.

The wise ones in the capital had searched ancient Greek texts, pulling out a term long forgotten: Lycanthropy. They told my father it was the result of a curse placed on my mother. People feared me, which was normal. People always fear what they cannot understand.

I grew up in bitter isolation and having a twin brother didn't even help. Ezra was bitter from the moment we were born. What I saw as a curse, Ezra coveted with a soul-deep jealousy. He hated me, he hated the Moon Goddess and he hated our father for giving me the crown even though I was the younger twin. Eventually, he gave into that hate and—

A rustle of clothes from below snapped me back to the present. The pup was finished with his bath. I glanced down as he turned away to dress. He was a weird kid, obsessed with privacy. He pulled on a lower-face mask and adjusted a small leather pouch at his waist.

Then the wind shifted, blowing hard from behind him toward my perch. I frowned, inhaling deeply. I couldn't smell him.

Actually, it was more accurate to say I couldn't place his scent. It didn't carry the dominant, musky spice of a young he-wolf, nor did it have the sweet, soft undertones of a she-wolf. It was just... neutral. Faintly herbal, like crushed leaves. Was this what teen boys smelled like these days? He was a total enigma.

I heard a small gasp. The pup was on his hands and knees, staring at the water. "No," he whispered.

I watched as a heavy cloak slipped from his fingers and began to float away, caught in the rapid part of the stream. Without thinking, the boy started to wade in after it. The water was fast and the rocks were jagged. He was going to get himself hurt over a piece of wool.

"Don't be stupid," I said.

The words left my mouth before I could stop them. I hated speaking. My voice always sounded too deep, like stones grinding together. It was a voice made for commands, not conversations.

The pup froze, his head whipping around as he searched the darkness. When he spoke back, I felt a nagging sensation in the back of my mind. He was muffling his voice, changing the pitch intentionally. Why? What was he hiding?

"Return to camp," I told him, keeping my tone flat.

He lingered for a moment, stubborn and shivering, before he finally obeyed and disappeared into the trees. Once I was sure he was gone, I dropped from the branch in a single, silent leap. I entered the water without hesitating. It was because I felt a strange flicker of pity for the runt. He would freeze tonight without that cloak.

I pushed off the bank, my movements of great speed. My Lycan side allowed me to see through the water as if it were daylight. I sighted the dark fabric snagged against a branch further downstream and pulled it out.

Then I walked toward the center of the camp, the wet cloak draped over my arm. I found Hunter seated around a small fire near the command tents. Hunter was one of my eight commanders and the closest thing I had to a friend. He was sitting with two other commanders and a few veteran warriors.

As I stepped into the firelight, the atmosphere changed instantly. The warriors scrambled to their feet, their faces pale with fright. They bowed their heads, staring at the dirt, their bodies rigid with terror.

I sighed internally. Everyone was afraid of me. Even Hunter, who stayed seated, had a cautious, guarded look in his eyes.

"Hunter," I said, my voice cutting through the silence.

"My King," he replied, standing slowly.

I threw the soaking wet cloak at his chest. "You have two hours to make this completely dry. Use the smithy’s heat if you have to. Bring it to my tent when it is done."

I didn't wait for an answer. I walked off toward my temporary quarters—a large, black tent I had set up near the edge of the camp. I preferred being among the men during a conscription, even if they were scared to be around me.

Inside the tent, I sat at a rough wooden desk covered in scrolls. We had roughly 450 wolves at the Hold now, with more arriving every hour. I spent the next two hours dividing the new recruits under my commanders, ensuring each one was placed where their skills would be most useful.

A soft knock came at the tent pole. Hunter entered, holding the cloak. It was warm and bone-dry.

"Here it is, Quinn," he said, using my name only because we were alone. "Is this for a guest?"

"For someone," I said, taking the cloak from him. "Go get some rest, Hunter."

He looked like he wanted to ask more, but he knew better. He bowed and left.

I stepped out into the cool night air. I knew which tent the boy had entered earlier judging by his faint, herbal scent. I walked to it and stopped. The camp was mostly quiet now, save for the crackle of the watch-fires.

I leaned over and dropped the cloak onto a tree stump right in front of the tent entrance and left immediately. Goddess forbid someone finds the Lycan King playing errand boy for a recruit. I didn't like that my people feared me, but that fear ensured my authority was absolute. It kept the packs in line.

I rounded the corner of a nearby supply shed and waited in the shadows. I wanted to make sure he got it.

Like I hoped, the flap of the tent moved. Someone small emerged. It was the boy. He looked around cautiously before his eyes landed on the cloak. He picked it up, feeling the dry fabric with an expression of pure shock. He wrapped it around his shoulders and, for a brief second, a small, genuine smile touched his lips. 

I found myself smiling too. It was a strange feeling.

What am I doing? I caught myself and wiped the expression from my face. I turned away, my cloak billowing behind me as I headed back to my quarters. I needed to find out more about the boy. There was something about him that didn't fit.

Tomorrow at dawn, training will start in full. I would see exactly what the little warrior was made of.