All Chapters of The Wilder Games - Savage Surrender 1: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Branwen Mosswood POVThey always said I was too pretty to survive the world I was born into. "Might get you coin, that face of yours," My ma would mutter, tying back one of my escaping dark curls while I squirmed. "But it'll get you killed twice as fast."I suppose she wasn't wrong.Name's Branwen Mosswood, a born witch, tavern wench, and right nuisance to anyone who thinks I ought to keep my head down. I grew up on the outskirts of Divinora, just outside the great stone walls where the fancy folk sleep on featherbeds and pretend monsters aren't real. Couldn't be seen having beasts and witches living among 'em, gods forbid. So they pushed us all into the surrounding wilds, and there we stayed. Hiding in plain sight under mossy roofs and stone circles while pretending we're nothing more than herbalists with a flair for theatrics.Truth is, I was born with dirt under my nails, blood in my spells, and magic in my marrow. But most days, I didn't feel like some powerful forest witch. I f

Branwen POVI wake to the blaring of horns. The sound is metallic and ancient, like the gods themselves decided to announce the slaughter. My eyes fly open. For one blissful second I've forgotten where I am. Then a guard's fist closes around the collar at my throat and yanks me off the cot like I weigh nothing. "Up, witch. Time to dance."I hit the stone floor barefoot, my snarl half formed, but there's no time to argue. Doors crash open all along the corridor as guards drag prisoners from cages one after the next. We're shoved into a single line, thirty of us, marked for death, leather clad and wide eyed. We are herded toward the exit like cattle to the chopping block.As soon as the outer gates swing open, icy dawn air blasts my face. I squint through the glare. Ahead looms a massive iron gate stretched between two jagged stone towers. Beyond it sprawls the Killground, an endless, wild forest that looks more beast than land. Thorny undergrowth, towering trees dripping moss. Red so

Nythor FrostbiteWhite Tiger Warlord POVHer scent is going to be the death of me. Earth and sunlight. Wild magic and ripe berries. A forest witch's scent, yes, but uniquely hers. The moment it hit me, my tiger went feral beneath my skin. Wanted blood. Wanted to claim. Wanted to sink his teeth into that soft curve where her shoulder meets her neck and mark her mine before any other beast even looks at her. She's infuriating.Goddess green eyes and wild chestnut curls. Legs as long as a summer day. Hips my hands are still aching to grip. Fierce, too, snarling at me from high in her cursed trees where I cannot reach, wearing nothing but leather scraps and bad manners.A tease. A torment. A temptation. I growl low in my throat, pacing beneath the oak she's wedged herself inside. A clever climber. She knows exactly how far up to get where I can't reach without exposing my human form to an enemy's arrow. Wicked little witch. I swipe angry gouges into the bark.The stakes are higher than ev

Hadrian Ironpaw POVLion Beast LordThe scent hits me like sunlight breaking through the canopy after a storm, hot, wild, and dangerous. Ripe berries. Earth. Magic.A witch. An intriguing one. My beast claws at the inside of my chest, snarling with need. I freeze mid step, inhaling like a dying man offered breath for the first time. My pupils sharpen, my canines ache, and my fingers twitch with the urge to shift and tear through the forest after her.But I don't. Not yet. Because I'm Hadrian fucking Ironpaw, King of the Emberspire, Firstborn of the Flameclaw Line, and I don't chase. Not unless it's worth it. Not unless it's mine. And this witch? She's worth every cursed step.The stories they whisper about me in the Walled Cities aren't even close to the truth. They say I'm cruel, that I rip hearts from chests and wear teeth like jewelry. That I was born during a blood eclipse and bathed in the fire of the Embermount itself. Most of that's horseshit. But the part about me being unstop

Silas Coilheart POVThe Killground reeks of weakness today. I smell blood soaked earth, panicked sweat from those pathetic human scraps, and the distant whimpers of tributes breaking too soon. I slither through the underbrush in my half shifted form, my scales glinting like oil in the light, my tongue flicking to taste the air. It's thick with promise. Females are scarce, witches even more so, but I've scented one.She smells ripe and potent. Her essence lingers like venom in a vein...berries, earth, and wild magic that could swell my coffers with heirs. No more scraping for half-breed spawn from unwilling sluts. This one will breed true, or I'll wring her dry trying.ur. "Slither back to your swamps. This ground's claimed."Claimed? My tongue flicks the air, tasting the lie. They're hiding something. The witch's trail leads right here, up that tree, then vanishes into the undergrowth. I coil tighter, my eyes darting to the oak. "Claimed for what? I smell a female. Witch blood. Potent