Rabbit for slaughter

The council hall smelled of polished wood, expensive wine, and old power.

River stood beside the serving table, holding a silver tray with both hands. Six kings sat around the long table, their voices filling the room as they argued over borders, trade, and the growing unrest between their territories. At the head sat King Dorian of Aridonia, listening with a calm expression.

River’s arms trembled beneath the tray’s weight.

His ribs ached with every breath. Bruises covered his back and shoulders, hidden beneath his servant’s clothes, and the beating Hesper had given him that morning had left him weak enough that even standing felt like an effort. He had not eaten since the bread crust and it was starting to get to him.

“Aridonia has held the seat of peace for six months,” said King Tavish of Stormvale pack, turning his cup slowly on the table. “By the old rotation, the offering falls to the next pack in line.”

“We know the order,” said Dorian.

“Then there’s no confusion.” Tavish’s gaze slid down the table. “Stormvale gave the last. Before that, Ravenmoor.”

“Before that, Hallowfen,” Edric grunted. “And the Goldmane girl before him. Pretty thing. Lasted the shortest, I heard.”

“Soup!”

The King he stood behind , King Edric, barked while waving for him.

He lowered his head and moved between the kings, careful not to draw attention to himself.

Then it swept over him, just as he lifted the ladle to pour the warm soup.

The room tilted.

It was a slow one, like standing on a boat, and his hunger had stopped hurting and turned into something worse, a thin high ringing in his ears. The candles blurred into long gold smears. The kings’ voices came to him as if from the bottom of a well.

“…a girl of good blood, naturally…”

“…no more half-measures, the North won’t accept…”

“…the mad dog might tear down our bloody walls next if we…”

His fingers slipped against the tray, and before he could recover his balance, a bowl of hot soup tipped over the edge.

Silence fell.

The scalded king shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“You incompetent rat!”

River stumbled backward, dropping the tray. Metal clattered against the stone, and the remaining bowls shattered around his feet.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” He dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he tried to gather the broken pieces. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

The slap came before he could finish.

His head snapped to the side. Pain flared across his cheek, and he tasted blood.

“Take him away!” the king snarled. “Have you no discipline in this palace? What is this meaning of this? Guards!! Seize this boy! I will have his head!!”

Two guards seized River by the arms. He tried to stand, but his knees only gave out beneath him.

“Wait.”

King Dorian’s voice cut through the commotion.

The guards stopped.

Dorian regarded his nephew with an expression that revealed nothing. River looked at him desperately, searching for even the smallest sign of concern.

He found none.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Dorian said to the offended king. “The boy has been a troublesome presence in my household for some time. Perhaps this unfortunate incident presents an opportunity to correct the matter.”

The king narrowed his eyes. “And what do you propose?”

Dorian folded his hands on the table.

“The North has requested another offering, yes?”

River went still.

For a moment, he thought he had misunderstood. Everyone in Traska knew what the North meant. They knew about Blackwell Keep, its cursed king, and the unfortunate souls sent beyond its gates. The offerings never returned.

Dorian continued as though discussing an ordinary diplomatic arrangement.

“My nephew is wolf-less, without standing or prospects. He has brought little honor to Aridonia, and today he has insulted a king beneath my roof. Sending him north would serve as an apology to Your Majesty while fulfilling the North’s request. Not to mention, by the old rotation, it is Aridonia’s turn.”

His uncle had not merely agreed to sacrifice him. He had found a way to make it sound like a favor.

“Uncle…” River whispered.

Dorian did not look at him.

The council resumed its discussion, and the guards dragged River from the chamber. His feet scraped against the stone floor as he struggled to keep up, his cheek burning and his stomach twisting with hunger.

He finally understood.

He had never been family to Dorian. He had simply been something the king had used until disposing of him became convenient.

⸻

Far to the north, beyond the forests and mountains that separated Aridonia from the frozen territories, a man stood before the tall windows of Blackwell Keep.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter.”

Another man stepped into the chamber, a sealed letter in his hand. His red hair was bright against the dark clothing of the northern court, and his expression had faded into something more cautious.

“A message from King Dorian of Aridonia,” he announced.

Oskar turned from the window. “Another apology for the last flimsy sacrifice?”

“Another offering, he says this one is worth it this time.”

He handed over the letter.

The dark haired man broke the seal and read the contents in silence.

“River Ashvale,” he said at last.

“Twenty-three years old. Dorian’s nephew.”

“Nephew?”

“By the King’s admission.”

“And why Dorian is sending his own blood here?”

“Apparently, the boy offended one of the kings during a council meeting. Dorian seems to believe sacrificing him will settle the matter.”

A deep chuckle rang out in the room.

“A convenient solution.”

“Would you like me to refuse?”

“No.” The man folded the letter and placed it on the desk. “Prepare a room.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

As the red head turned to leave, he spoke again.

“Caius.”

The other man stopped.

“He will be eager to meet his new…prey. Prepare the East wing.”

Caius’s expression sharpened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

⸻

River woke in a bed so soft that, for several moments, he thought he had died and woken up in another lifetime.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, and the clean sheets smelled faintly of lavender. His body ached, but the sharpest pain had dulled into a heavy soreness. When he tried to sit up, a groan escaped him.

The door opened.

Liesel, one of the maids and his bullies, entered carrying a basin of warm water and a folded stack of towels, and River immediately grew wary.

“His Majesty has ordered that you be prepared for your journey,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “You should bathe.”

“Journey?”

She set the basin down. “You’re being sent to the North, remember?”

The words settled over him like ice.

River stared at her, hoping she would laugh and admit it was some cruel joke.

She did not.

“Please,” he whispered. “There must be some mistake.”

“There isn’t.”

Liesel helped him into the bath, then left a small jar of salve beside the water. River washed carefully, wincing whenever his fingers brushed the bruises across his body. Afterward, he dressed in clean clothes and found a tray waiting on the table.

Roast chicken, carrots, fresh bread, plums, and tea.

He hesitated before sitting down. Then hunger soon overwhelmed his caution, and he ate until his stomach hurt, barely noticing the tears slipping down his face.

No one had fed him like this in years.

For the next few days, the palace treated him with a kindness so sudden that it frightened him more than its cruelty ever had.

On the third day, five new outfits appeared in his room. One was an ivory tunic embroidered with silver leaves, accompanied by dark trousers and polished boots. When River tried it on, he barely recognized the young man staring back from the mirror.

He looked handsome.

For one foolish moment, he wondered whether Dorian had changed his mind and decided to take him back as his nephew.

Then Hesper entered.

“You should be grateful,” she said, inspecting the outfit. “Not every sacrifice receives such generous treatment.”

River’s hope vanished.

“Sacrifice?”

Hesper gave him a thin smile. “Did you imagine your uncle was sending you north for a holiday? The offerings are fed, bathed, and dressed properly before they leave. It makes the journey more pleasant for everyone involved.”

“Don’t be naïve.” Her smile disappeared. “You are being prepared for the Mad Wolf. Eat well and sleep while you can. You’ll need your strength.”

After she left, River sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.

He was being fattened for slaughter.

That evening, he overheard two maids whispering in the corridor.

“They say the Mad Wolf never sleeps.”

“I heard he crushed an entire rebellion alone. The war was so gruesome, the North’s snow remained red for months!”

“My cousin’s husband was stationed near the northern border. He swears the king isn’t human anymore, he’s a full on beast.”

Another maid lowered her voice. “They say he eats people.”

“Enough,” an older woman hissed. “Do you want someone to hear you?”

River backed away from the door.

There were other stories, too. Some claimed a terrible howl came from the keep every evening. Others insisted the previous offerings had vanished before they could even reach the king’s chambers.

Every rumor found a home in River’s imagination, growing more monstrous each night.

He began dreaming of a dark corridor and an iron door he could never open. Something waited on the other side, breathing heavily, its claws scraping against the metal.

On the seventh day, the carriage arrived.

River chose the plain gray wool outfit instead of the ivory tunic. He could not bear the thought of being dressed like a gift.

As he gathered his few belongings, the older maid waddled over to him and handed him a bundle wrapped in cloth.

Inside were warm bread, cheese, and plum cake.

“Eat when you can,” she murmured. “And don’t let them see you hungry.”

River looked up, startled. “Thank you.”

She turned away before he could say anything else.

No one came to bid him farewell.

The carriage doors closed, and River watched Aridonia disappear through the window as four gray horses carried him north. Six riders escorted him along the road, their faces grim and their conversation sparse.

By the third day, the green forests had given way to barren land. The air grew bitterly cold, and the wind carried the sharp taste of iron and snow. The riders grew quieter as the mountains rose around them.

Near midnight, they reached a narrow pass.

Blackwell Keep stood beyond it.

The fortress was built from black stone, its towers rising against the moonlit sky. Narrow windows punctured its walls, but no banners fluttered above the battlements, and no welcoming lights shone from the gates.

The carriage stopped a hundred paces from the entrance.

“Out.”

“What?”

“This is as far as we can go…out with you, boy.”

River stepped down into the snow, clutching his bundle.

“Wait,” he called as the riders turned their horses. “You can’t leave me here!”

None of them answered.

The carriage wheels crunched over the frozen ground, carrying the escort back toward the pass. River stood alone, watching until the darkness swallowed them.

Then a voice spoke behind him.

“Rude lot, aren’t they?”

River spun around with a startled scream.

A red-haired man stood nearby, looking far too amused by his reaction.

“Apologies,” the stranger said, lifting both hands. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

River pressed a hand against his chest, struggling to calm his racing heart.

The man smiled.

“My name is Caius Thorne. I’m the Beta of the North, and I’ll be your escort for this lovely night.”

“What is your name, little rabbit?”