Chapter 3 — Chapter Three

Elowen

I’m racing down a shadowed prison corridor, the stone walls endless and suffocating. My body feels like a crumbling statue, vines of darkness coiling around my arms and legs, binding me. Images flash before me—damp cells reeking of mold, metal scalpels glinting with menace, hearts dripping black ichor that pools at my feet.

I’m sprinting through a forest under a moonless sky. My tattered dress snags on jagged branches, and thorns pierce my soles like cold needles, drawing hot blood down my arches. I don’t know if I’m chasing salvation or fleeing doom, but I know one truth: if I stop, I will die.

Thorne’s face swims into view, blurred as if seen through rippling water. “What’s wrong with her? Is it the bite?”

“It’s her wolf.” Silas’s voice is dark silk, a soothing balm against my burning bones. “Elowen, darling.” A cool palm presses against my clammy forehead, and the beast raging in my chest quiets, if only for a moment. “Look at me.”

I force my eyelids open and recoil.

Silas’s pupils expand into empty black voids, his mouth curling into a smile sharp as a blade’s edge. His laughter cuts through me, harsh and endless, a winter storm in sound.

I know what you are, I scream within the cage of my mind.

What?

Monster.

The shadows claim me anew.

I’m trapped in an icy void, black water lapping at my waist, chilling my marrow. A great beast lumbers through a dilapidated chapel, a rabbit limp in its maw, while shattered stained-glass windows depict wolves howling at a crimson moon. A whip tears through my flesh, the acrid scent of incense burning my nostrils as male laughter shatters my eardrums. A woman weeps amid a blinding snowstorm, her cries carried on the wind.

Feral amber eyes fix on me, unblinking.

“Her body is assimilating,” a voice murmurs, honey laced with venom. “It fights to reject the wolf.”

“She was fine earlier.” Thorne’s voice, rough with worry, thick with the Varethwild’s rolling burr. “A mite restless, aye, but not like this.”

“She’ll go through phases until her first shift. It will pass.”

“Did this happen to ye?”

“Yes.” A hand tilts my head back, forcing a chalice to my lips, its contents bitter as poison. “Drink up, little rabbit.”

No. No. No.

I thrash against my pillow, helpless. A chill darkness trickles down my throat, spilling over my lips. He melts into the gloom, his voice echoing in the hollows of my mind.

My pawn. My puppet. Mine.

I blink, and I’m padding through Blackthorn Hold. Cold air grazes my bare legs, my naked feet slapping against flagstones. The coolness soothes my fevered skin; the shadows caress my cheeks like old friends. My legs tremble with weakness. It’s too dark to see, but I’m tethered to an unseen leash, pulled forward. My fingers tighten around the hilt of a silver blade. Something feral growls deep in my chest.

I’m not a pawn. I’m not a puppet. I belong to no one.

I enter a chamber. He sleeps in a bed pressed against the wall. I can’t tell if I’m awake or still lost in dreams—everything is hazy, yet he seems solid, real. His arm rests above his head, dark hair mussed across his brow. He looks soft. Peaceful. So easy to kill.

I blink again, and I’m straddling his torso, the blade at his throat. My thighs clench his hips. He feels solid. Hot. His fingers lock around my wrist like iron. He opens his eyes, and something wild stares back. He blinks, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and the beast recedes, replaced by something equally dangerous. He smells of blood, dark fairytales, and the untamed heart of the forest.

“I don’t recall inviting you into my bed, Elowen, darling.” His tone drips with mockery, but beneath it, a flicker of something softer—concern, perhaps—lingers in his gaze.

He carries me now, my cheek pressed against his bare, hard chest. I’m a doll in his arms, a toy to be toyed with, a puppet to be strung. I snarl and writhe, but his grip tightens, unyielding. He hands me off to another as if I weigh nothing. Thorne murmurs soothing words against my ear, his breath warm. I’m burning, restless. When will this torment end?

“Where’d ye stumble on her, then?” Thorne’s voice is thick with sleep and worry.

“In my chambers.” Silas’s amusement cuts through the fog. “I think her wolf wants to kill me.”

“I reckon most Wolves want to kill ye.” A pause, heavy as a heartbeat or an era. “Ye speak of her wolf as if it’s not part of her.”

“It isn’t.”

“The wolf is who we are, Silas. If ye’d accept that part of yerself—”

“Thorne, if I ever seek your counsel, I’ll ask for it. And if I do, I fear for the state of the world.” Footsteps echo like war drums in my skull. “Mind your charge, Thorne, before she wanders too far.”

The darkness pulls me under once more.

I’m in a carriage with Malric, a crimson slit across his throat, blood seeping into his collar. Strings are hooked into my arms, a faceless shadow forcing me to dance in an empty ballroom. Silas prowls closer, eyes blazing with violence.

I’m running. Lost. Corridors twist into oblivion. A symbol burns in my mind—a key, its bow adorned with crescent moons, ancient and foreboding.

Someone screams.

Someone sings.

A bright, blinding light sears through me.

I jolt upright, gasping. My hair clings to my sweat-soaked skin, and I’m tangled in damp bedsheets. I’m alone.

Grey light dances across the room, dust motes swirling in the weak dawn, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone. Rain lashes the windowpanes, a relentless drum. A fire roars in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to my chilled bones—someone must have tended it recently.

My head throbs, my mouth parched as barren earth. My limbs feel brittle, as if they might snap under the slightest strain. A raw groan scrapes from my throat. A beaker rests on the bedside table; I seize it, sniff the clear liquid within, detect no scent, and gulp it down. The icy water soothes my raw throat, tracing a cold path to my stomach.

I try to untangle the fevered visions from reality, but they blur into a painful knot. Days or weeks must have blurred into one—I’ve no sense of time. Silas’s voice cuts through the haze, murmuring that my body is assimilating the wolf. My hands tremble as I grip the bedsheets, forcing the dread down. He could be wrong. He could be lying.

Or he could be telling the truth. I could be becoming one of the creatures my kingdom taught me to loathe and fear for twenty years. The part of me the priest tried to scourge away with whips and incense, that my father sought to poison, that doomed my mother. It might be real.

Another fragment surfaces—straddling Silas in his bed, a knife at his throat. I shake my head. Impossible. A fevered delusion, not a memory.

The air in here is stale, thick with the stench of sickness. It drags me back to mornings spent at my mother’s bedside, and the weeks I lay ill, locked in my chambers after her death. Only she didn’t die of sickness, as I’d believed. Anger simmers beneath my skin. My father murdered her. I clench my fists, taking deep breaths to cage the fury. I’m far from him now. Perhaps, one day, with Thorne’s help, I’ll claim justice for her.

I rub my face with both hands, then swing my legs out of bed. In my thirst, I missed the parchment beside the beaker, and the hunk of bread on a small plate with a butter knife. I snatch up the note.

*Princess, I’m in a meeting with some of Silas’s clan. I’ll be back shortly. Eat your breakfast. Stay where you are.*

My stomach growls, ravenous, so I obey one command. The dry bread scrapes down my throat, sitting uneasily, and I wash it down with more water.

My soul rebels against his second order. I can’t stay here. The walls seem to creep closer, suffocating me. In my mind, I hear my younger self begging a maid to let me walk the palace gardens, or dine with my father and brother, or ride as my mother once did. I can’t be that helpless girl anymore. I swore I’d be more.

I push myself to my feet, legs shaky, a sharp pain scraping inside my skull. I groan, clutching the windowsill for balance, and breathe deeply. The view reveals a gloomy courtyard, the sun smothered by roiling grey clouds. Rain batters the cobblestones below, where a broken statue of a wolf stands sentinel, its stone snout weathered by time—a relic of Blackthorn Hold’s ancient past.

An armoire looms in the corner. I shuffle toward it, hoping for fresh clothes. Inside hang only male garments—breeches, shirts, and a kilt of red tartan like Thorne’s, its edges frayed from years of wear, a testament to his long exile. I wonder if Fiona or another of his clan brought it while I slept. I hope she’s safe after Thorne and Silas’s betrayal.

The shirt I’ve worn is stiff with sweat. I peel it off and select another. As I slip it on, the scent of dark pine envelops me, and my pulse quickens in protest, even as I button it. I don’t want to wear Silas’s clothes or carry his scent, yet something in it stirs me—a pull I loathe and can’t deny, mirroring the beast I fear within. I tug on breeches, cinching them with a belt as they hang low on my hips. A faint sigil of crossed claws marks the shirt’s hem, a hint of Silas’s Elarion lineage, foreign and fierce.

A soft tap sounds at the door. I freeze.

Thorne would have entered without knocking. I glance at the butter knife on the table, hurry over to slip it into my pocket, then cautiously open the door.

A girl my age stands in the corridor, striking with long, wavy dark hair, a sharp jaw, and full lips. Her black dress, laced at the sleeves, is elegant, and she seems vaguely familiar, though I’m certain we’ve not met.

“Hello?” My voice rasps from disuse, and I clear my throat.

“Silas requests your presence in his council chambers.”

I nod, though being summoned by the alpha of Lowfell grates on me. Still, it spares me the task of searching this unfamiliar hold for Thorne—and perhaps I might glean answers about this wolf within me.

“Are you part of his clan?” I ask.

“Aye.”

I offer a tentative smile, hoping for a connection in this cold place. “I’m Elowen.”

She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a glimpse of a scar or tattoo on her wrist, which she quickly hides with her sleeve. “I know.”

I wait for her name, but she only exhales sharply, as if I’m a burden. My smile fades, a pang of isolation tightening my chest—every kindness here might hide a blade, just as my father’s did. “One moment, please.”

I wince as I slip on my bloodstained, muddy slippers—the ones I wore when Caelan returned me to Malric. They’re unfit, but they’ll do.

The girl says nothing as she leads me through a maze of narrow corridors. Blackthorn Hold feels more oppressive than Duskhowl Keep, its dark stone walls unadorned by tapestries or clan colors. Iron sconces hold flickering torches, their bases etched with ancient wolf runes, a silent testament to this place’s primal history.

“—I won’t risk her.” Thorne’s growl rumbles as we near a heavy door, his Varethwild accent thick with strain.

“Don’t be absurd.” Silas’s voice is smooth as satin. “She’ll be fine. We can handle the shift if it comes to it.”

The girl knocks, and silence falls within.

A strange anticipation builds in my chest. I’m wary, yet curious about Silas’s domain—this very real Blackthorn Hold in the Varethwild. Thorne once said some doubted Silas, the half-wolf of Elarion, was even an alpha. Those who questioned it often ended up dead. How did he claim this place? Is it truly his home? Do his people revere or fear him? As the girl glances nervously over her shoulder, a distant growl echoes somewhere in the hold, raising the hairs on my neck.

“Come in,” Silas drawls, his voice a velvet threat.