Thirty-Two: Wren

The doors to Nightwind pack house are not doors so much as jaws—two slabs of blackened oak, studded with enough iron to anchor a ship, parted just wide enough to admit the condemned. They swing open on silent hinges, sucking in a coil of frigid air that raises the hair on my arms and scours the sweat from my collarbone. I step through, the silver cuffs already burning fissures into my skin, and the borrowed coat—three sizes too large, because nothing here is meant to fit—sags off my right shoulder, advertising the bones underneath.

Jace stands at my left, hands clasped behind his back, posture so correct it could be a warning label for spinal injuries. His eyes—too pale, too quick—flick over me and away. The professional mask is flawless, but underneath it there’s a seam of something else, a hairline crack of regret that he covers by blinking more than he needs to. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even stand close enough for our arms to brush. He just waits for the guards to take up position, then leads me forward with a stiff nod, like I’m the world’s most dangerous shopping cart and he’s afraid to jostle the produce.

The entrance hall is an anatomy lesson in stone. The ceiling soars—arches on arches, ribs and vertebrae of ancient pine and imported marble, the kind of space built to make wolves feel small even when they’re not. Torches burn in brackets twelve feet off the floor, their light more shadow than flame, flickering up and down the cold flagstones so that every step echoes with a double. Mine, then Jace’s, then the hollow third of someone following just out of sight.

We cross the vestibule at a measured pace. The vestibule is really a gauntlet: flanked by two lines of guards, each in tailored uniforms, each holding a sidearm in open display and a hand-tooled baton on the hip. The wolves here are older, meaner, their faces marked with the kind of scars you get from enforcing rules no one wants to follow. They don’t try to hide their contempt. Some stare, eyes gone predatory-black around the edges; a few bare their teeth, subtle, like they’re already planning how to cut me apart if I step out of line.

The first time I pass one, the hairs on my neck stand up so hard it feels like needles. My wolf presses against the inside of my skull, hot and furious, but I clamp down hard and keep my face blank. These people want to see fear, or hate, or something they can use. I don’t give them anything.

Jace walks me past the guards, never slowing, never looking at me. When he speaks, it’s in a voice low enough for just me, and just them, to hear.

“You’ll be escorted at all times,” he says. “Any attempt to shift, to run, or to make a scene will result in immediate restraint. You understand?”

I nod, but it’s a calculated gesture—enough to register, not enough to concede anything else.

He turns his head a fraction, meets my eyes for the first time since the council. There’s no sympathy there, not exactly. More like exhaustion. “They’re not interested in your excuses,” he murmurs. “Or mine.”

I look straight ahead, mapping exits as we go: the doors behind (impossible, even if I made it past the guards), two side halls leading off to what smells like kitchens and maybe storage, a spiral stair up to a balcony with sightlines over the main floor. The windows are too high and too narrow to break, but the mortar around them is old. If I had a tool—and a night—I could maybe work a section loose.

Jace’s voice goes flat, all business again. “You’ll be assigned quarters. Meals, training, and medical checks are at set hours. Deviations are not tolerated. The Alpha’s orders are absolute.”

Something about the way he says “Alpha” makes my teeth itch. I wonder if he’s even allowed to say Lucian’s name anymore, or if the law extends that far.

My wrists are sweating under the cuffs. The silver must be alloyed with something extra—it doesn’t just burn, it vibrates, a low hum that sets every nerve on fire and keeps the wolf sedated. I flex my hands, fingers tingling, and try not to think about what will happen when they finally come off.

We turn left, into a corridor lined with display cases. Inside, swords and axes gleam under glass, each labeled in precise script. Some are ceremonial, etched with runes and wrapped in leather darkened by age and sweat; others are brutal, meant for use, the edges still nicked from combat. I can smell the blood baked into the grips, even if they’ve been polished a hundred times. The metallic tang is thick, and the wolf in me catalogues every potential weapon before my human brain can catch up.

Beyond the cases, the corridor opens into a gallery that overlooks the training yard. Through the barred windows, I catch flashes of movement: young wolves sparring with blunted blades, the sound of their impacts muffled but distinct. A trainer paces the perimeter, barking corrections and threats. The air from outside is so cold it fogs the glass with every exhale, but the heat of the bodies makes the window sweat.

Jace pauses here, just long enough for me to see what waits on the other side of this hall. “Physical discipline is non-negotiable,” he says, voice softer. “If you refuse, they’ll break you in other ways.”

I study the yard, the hierarchy on display. Even from here, I can spot the pecking order—the way the biggest wolves control the center, the smaller ones darting around the edges, always watching for openings but never challenging head-on. It’s the same inside as out.

We move on, the corridor narrowing. The ceiling drops, the light grows dimmer, and the air takes on the dense, wet chill of a cellar. The sound of the training yard fades, replaced by the drip-drip of water leaking through old pipes, and the low hum of voices somewhere below.

A set of stone steps appears at the end of the hall, worn down at the center by a century of foot traffic. Jace gestures for me to go first. “Basement level,” he says. “You’ll be in the restricted quarter, for now.”

My left foot goes numb as I step down, the nerve damage from the cuffs spreading up the arm and into the shoulder. I keep my balance, but my vision tunnels for a half-second—just enough to make my heart pound and my hands curl into fists. The wolf thrashes, wants to howl, but I force it down. Last thing I need is a show of weakness right now.

The steps lead to a landing. Here, the guards are fewer but meaner, their uniforms darker and their badges sewn with a different thread. One checks the cuffs—rough, not gentle—then grunts and waves us through. The smell in this corridor is bleach and fear.

We pass three doors, each with a steel grate. From inside, I hear a cough, a whispered curse, then nothing. I try to get a look, but Jace pushes me gently ahead. “Don’t linger,” he says.

There’s a door at the end, heavy wood reinforced with iron bands and two deadbolts. Jace produces a key, fits it into the lock, and turns. The mechanism is silent, but the weight of the door as it swings open could crush a foot if you weren’t careful.

Inside: a cell, but dressed up to look like a room. Bed on one side—cot, really, with a scratchy wool blanket and a pillow flat as a book. A table bolted to the floor, and a chair so lightweight I could snap it in half if the wolf took over. The walls are stone, damp, covered in peeling whitewash that fails to hide the history underneath. There’s a drain in the corner, ringed with rust. On the far wall, a tiny slit of window, too high to reach and too narrow to do anything but remind you what the sky looks like.

Jace enters behind me, closes the door, but leaves the key in the lock. “This is temporary,” he says, as if I should be grateful. “Council wants to see how you do. If you prove manageable, they’ll move you to standard quarters.”

I walk the perimeter, taking inventory. The cot is nailed down, the blanket short enough you couldn’t use it as a noose. The table has nothing on it—no pen, no paper, not even a cup for water. The only source of light is a bulb in the ceiling, protected by a steel cage. There’s no switch; it’s controlled from outside.

I turn to Jace, let him see the calculation in my face. “You ever get tired of being a warden?”

He shrugs, as if it’s just another Tuesday. “Somebody has to be.”

I glance at the cuffs, then at the drain. “What happens if I refuse food?”

He studies me for a long moment, then says, “They’ll force it. You’d hate the method.”

I nod, then sit on the cot, testing the give of the mattress. It doesn’t give. I rest my hands in my lap, the metal cuffs digging into bone. I want to ask about Lucian—if he ever comes down here, if he watches on the cameras, if he dreams about the wolves he’s locked away—but I bite my tongue.

Jace stands near the door, hands in his pockets. “First meal is in thirty minutes. If you need anything, call through the door.” He sounds like he means it, but there’s a hollowness in the way he says “anything.”

I lean back, eyes on the bulb. “Thanks.”

He hesitates, then leaves, the door shutting soft as a whisper.

I’m alone now. Not just in the cell, but in the whole building. The other wolves are ghosts, the guards are scenery, and Jace is nothing but a shadow in the hall. I flex my hands, feel the burn of the silver, and picture what it would feel like to shift in here—skin splitting, bones realigning, the wolf howling through the iron and stone.

But the cuffs keep the wolf asleep. I sit still, counting the seconds by the drip in the corner, and wait for the world to remember I exist.

Above, the training yard erupts in a chorus of howls and laughter. I close my eyes and imagine the moon, high and clean and free.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll find a way to see it.

Tonight, I am caged. But so is everyone else.