Chapter 1 — Chapter One

Elowen

Dog fights are barbaric.

They say the fighters in the ring revel in violence. They say the Wolf inside them hungers for release, even on nights like tonight when the moon is not full, and they wear the guise of men.

And don’t they deserve violence for what they have done to our lands?

Yet how many will die? And for what?

I shift on the wooden chair, tugging at the high collar of my gown, pushing a stray strand of red hair from my face. The air in Stoneheart Hall is stifling, thick with sweat and anticipation. Too hot. Too close.

When I stepped from the carriage two days ago, the jagged expanse of the Riftlands stirred something primal within me—though I’ve never ventured this far north before. I long for the untamed slopes beyond these walls, for the scent of pine and the howl of wind through the Fangspire Peaks, a name whispered in southern tales of wild heroes and cursed beasts. I ache to tear off this suffocating dress and run through the grass, dandelions prickling between my toes.

Instead, I sip water from a beaker, clasping my hands tightly in my lap. A bone cracks in the ring, the sound slicing through the hall as one of the males is hurled across the floor. Blood spatters the flagstones near my silk slippers.

Lord Malric, seated beside my father, watches me, a predatory glint in his gaze as he notes my discomfort. His fingers twitch briefly against his cup—a fleeting nervousness when addressing royalty—before his cruel smile returns.

I wonder if he’s imagining tomorrow night, our wedding night.

The thought churns my stomach worse than the fight.

“Your daughter doesn’t approve, Your Highness,” he says to my father, only half-misreading the revulsion on my face.

“She will learn the necessities of our alliances in time,” my father replies, his tone measured, calculating, as if I’m a piece on his war map.

I bristle. Of course, that’s all he sees when he looks at me—a woman, a tool. It doesn’t matter how many lords I’ve charmed for his sake, or how many balls I’ve endured as a glittering distraction while he plots his campaigns. It doesn’t matter that I agreed to this marriage to secure his kingdom.

“Of course.” Malric leans back, ignoring the crown atop my father’s neat white hair. “These creatures are unpleasant for gentler eyes. Though surely she takes some satisfaction in their slaughter. The Wolf clans have pillaged our lands since the Gravemoor Massacre two centuries past. They murder, brutalize, steal. To any woman traveling alone, unlucky enough to cross one, they bring fates worse than death.” He arches an eyebrow. “If you grasp my meaning.”

“I do,” says my father.

Malric sips his ale. “Though I suppose southern women rarely face Wolves—thanks to my armies guarding the border.”

“An honorable duty in service of our great kingdom.” My father doesn’t spare him a glance. “One that carries its rewards.”

“Indeed.” Malric’s eyes darken.

I will my body to be stone, a vessel for the soul within. My mind drifts to those wild Fangspire Peaks, though I’ll never tread them. I’m bound to Blackthorn Hold’s walls—etched with ancient carvings of battles against Wolves, a grim history in every stone—and to a woman’s fate. A prisoner or a prize—that’s all I’ve ever been, soon shackled to Malric’s will.

“If she holds some sentiment for the beasts, however—”

“She does not.”

“Still, she should know their savagery is innate, yet there’s glory in their combat,” Malric continues. “Throughout the Riftlands, the names of top fighters are sung. Tonight’s victors will move to the finer Iron Pits, fed a hearty supper. Concubines will ease their feral nature in other ways.” He drums his fingers on his cup. “As distasteful as that may be.”

“Indeed,” my father echoes.

I watch the muscular, shirtless forms in the ring, snarling and bloody. There’s reason to fear Wolves. Yet as I see the murderous glee in the crowd’s eyes, coin exchanging hands, and the curl of my father’s lip as a warrior is beaten down, I wonder if all men harbor monsters within. Their caged ferocity mirrors the restlessness clawing at my own chest, a longing for freedom neither of us can grasp.

I glance at my betrothed. He lacks the rugged bulk of the fighters, his dark hair tied neatly at his nape, unlike the wild manes of the northern Wolves. But there’s a calculating sharpness in the angles of his face, a hidden beast beneath pale skin as his gaze rakes over me. I’ve lived among monsters all my life; I know one when I see it, polished or not. I’d sooner trust a beast who wears his nature openly than one who masks it with a lord’s manners.

A Wolf tears out another’s throat, crimson spilling down his chin as he grins. Nausea surges—I recall a childhood memory of a servant boy, beaten for a spilled tray, his broken body haunting me still. Malric merely smiles and claps, as if watching a courtly masque.

“Fine display,” he says, snapping his fingers at the stewards. “Escort him to the Iron Pits and clear this mess. Bring the next pair.”

The stewards hesitate but comply, leading the bloodied Wolf away as Stoneheart Hall erupts with noise. Coin changes hands, bets are renewed, cups refilled.

I can’t tear my eyes from the body though. So still. So heavy. It weighs on me, too. He might have been a monster, a Wolf beneath his skin at full moon. Now, he’s just a man. A dead man who’ll never roam the howling peaks again.

Two stewards drag him across the stone like butcher’s meat.

I sip water to steady my trembling hands. Beside me, Malric and my father discuss troop numbers on the northern border.

Silence falls, followed by an excited murmur as two more Wolves enter the ring.

My gaze catches on the one in front. He’s young—too young for this brutality, Wolf or not. Barely sixteen, four years my junior. His coppery hair sticks up in frantic tufts, fear and sorrow carved into his face, yet his jaw is set. Resigned. That look pierces me, mirroring a despair I dare not claim for myself. A scar on his cheek, faint but jagged, softens my initial wariness—he’s suffered before this ring.

Then I see his opponent, and I understand his hopelessness.

“It took five men to drag the big one in,” Malric tells my father. “He killed three. Doesn’t speak much, but we suspect he’s an alpha, likely from the Gravemoor Clan. Quite a specimen, isn’t he?”

The larger male embodies the untamed Riftlands. Towering, with a strong jaw, his muscular frame seems hewn from the mountains themselves. His straw-blond hair is cropped close at the sides, a northern style foreign to southern eyes. He stands expressionless as the crowd howls like a storm around him.

“Indeed,” my father strokes his white beard. “And what brought him this far south?”

“Who can say with these creatures? By northern decree, no Wolf may live unbound south of the border, yet still they creep in.”

The alpha’s eyes meet mine—dark green like forest depths, brimming with hatred. No one has ever looked at me with such raw loathing. My mouth dries as we hold each other’s gaze.

Yet something in my soul stirs.

“It won’t be a fight,” my father remarks, as if discussing a harvest yield.

“No.” Malric’s smile twists. “We’re breaking him in tonight. Something more thrilling awaits him at tomorrow’s wedding feast.”

The alpha’s jaw hardens, violence simmering in his stare. I force myself to be that statue, meeting his eyes though my heartbeat stumbles.

“Well,” Malric snaps his fingers at the Wolves, a bold or foolish gesture if not for the armed guards encircling the ring. “Begin.”

A growl rumbles in the alpha’s throat. The young Wolf pales, clearly aware of his doom. The crowd leans forward, shouting curses, pounding fists on tables, their bloodlust a living thing. He holds the alpha’s gaze, unflinching.

Brave, then.

Courage, I will him, echoing my mother’s words from years past. Have courage, little one. My fingers brush the pendant at my throat, a small silver crescent she gave me before her death.

The alpha’s fist clenches. The younger male dips his head—submission, perhaps. A flicker of something—reluctance, pain—crosses the alpha’s eyes, gone as swiftly as it came. Then he roars, a wild war cry bouncing off the stone walls.

The fight ends in minutes. Brutal. Bloody. The metallic tang of blood taints the air, the crowd’s roars vibrating through the floor. I hear bone snap, the young Wolf’s pained howls. The alpha pins him, hand at his throat, raising a fist for the killing strike. He pauses, as if relishing the moment.

The boy’s wide eyes find mine, not his attacker’s.

I can’t bear it.

This is wrong.

“Stop!” I surge to my feet.

The alpha freezes. The crowd hushes. Malric’s eyes narrow, and a muscle ticks in my father’s jaw.

My heart thunders.

Yet I don’t sit.

“This is not sport,” I force my voice steady, though my knees tremble. “This is murder.”

The hall’s air thickens. The crowd’s bloodlust turns on me, their glares like blades. The alpha’s shoulders heave.

My breath quickens. I shouldn’t have spoken. I’m a woman. A statue. This isn’t my place.

Yet I stand firm.

“Putting down an animal is hardly murder,” Malric says, venom lacing his words. “Or does my betrothed fancy beasts? You’ll find the ways of the north far less gentle than southern customs.”

“That’s enough.” My father’s command rolls through the hall.

Malric bows his head. “I meant no offense, Your Highness.”

“Elowen is tired. She will retire,” my father states.

Shame burns my cheeks for disappointing him.

But I don’t move.

The alpha remains poised, fist raised, awaiting our exchange’s end. The boy’s tear-streaked, bloodied face holds my gaze.

“Let him live.” My mouth is parched.

Malric’s rage simmers beneath his surface. He stands, taking my hands in a cold, vise-like grip. I swallow my disgust at his touch. His smile is a blade. “What use is he alive, my love?”

“He’s young. Strong. Put him to work in the stables.” I meet his eyes, forcing a smile. “A wedding gift, my lord.”

He considers, then leans close, his breath hot at my ear. “Very well, a gift. But know, if you harbor fondness for these creatures, tomorrow night after our vows, I can show you northern ways. Perhaps I’ll cast you into the Iron Pits afterward—let this alpha claim what I’ve denied him here.”

My body locks rigid as his inner monster bares its teeth. A beat of silence stretches; my fists clench at my sides, the weight of his threat sinking deep.

He releases me, turning to his people.

“The fight is over,” he announces, the beast retreating beneath his skin. “A gift to my betrothed, as gentle-hearted as she is fair.”

The alpha’s shoulders knot with raw fury, as if his Wolf rages at being denied a kill. He lowers his arm.

I’m breathing too fast. My dress constricts; the air scorches.

The alpha rises, letting guards cuff him without resistance.

“Return them to the Iron Pits,” Malric orders. “The victor to the finer cells—he’ll need rest for tomorrow’s plans. The loser to the common ones. If he survives the night, we’ll honor my betrothed’s wish. Wolves prey on the weak, though; I doubt much will remain by dawn.”

Guards lead the alpha through the oak doors at the hall’s end. A steward drags the injured boy off the floor.

“My betrothed, like many southern women, lacks the stomach for our sport. Why should she, a delicate flower? She’ll take her leave before the next bout, to prepare for tomorrow.” Malric’s gaze hardens.

My heart slams against its cage. I dip my head, steady my trembling hands, and curtsy. Without looking back, I cross the ring, my skirts trailing through blood as I exit.

Ahead, the fighters are escorted down the corridor. The alpha nears the far end, his presence a wave of heat and scent—sweat, blood, mountain air—though he’s twenty feet away. My pulse races, but I focus on the young Wolf, slumped over a steward’s shoulder, breathing raggedly. Without care, he won’t survive to see the stables. And if Malric’s words hold true about Wolves and weakness…

“Wait!” I curse the quiver in my voice. This will be my home; I shouldn’t fear.

The alpha stills, torchlight carving shadows across his stern profile. He seems poised to turn, but guards shove him through the next doors.

I exhale shakily.

The steward supporting the boy frowns. “The lord said—”

“I am to be your lady, and I’m the king’s daughter.” I straighten, chin high. I’ve played pretend my whole life—smiled through heartbreak, laughed through revulsion, buried rage at wandering hands during dances. I can play the formidable lady of Blackthorn Hold. “Place him in the finer Iron Pits. Ensure he’s fed well.”

I brush past them, navigating the labyrinthine corridors to my chambers in the northern wing. My footsteps echo off the cold stone walls, mirroring the turmoil within me, the chill seeping into my bones.

Handmaids await, dressing me for bed in a long-sleeved white nightdress that grazes my ankles. I dismiss them, moving past the four-poster to gaze out the window. The rugged Fangspire Peaks loom under a crescent moon, its pale light casting shadows across my face. The trees sway, seeming to whisper my mother’s words: Have courage, little one.

Restlessness writhes within me. Tomorrow, I’ll be lady of this hold. Yet I’m powerless. Powerless as I am, I refuse to be nothing.

I grit my teeth, snatch a cloak from the wardrobe, and drape it over my shoulders. Powerless or not, I can’t stand idle. Not when whispers of failed escapes and butchered Wolves haunt the Iron Pits, a danger I can’t ignore. Even if getting caught risks everything. Even if it brings me near that monstrous alpha.

I pull the hood over my red hair, grab a satchel, and slip from my room.

I’m going to the Iron Pits.