To Tame a Winter Wolf

2.

2 MONTHS LATER:

The world was nothing but white and motion. The sled cut across the frozen earth, runners hissing over packed snow as the dogs pulled us steadily north. We didn't shift into our wolves. One, because Oren needed to transport whatever he needed to get inside the capital. Two, because I had gotten strickt orders from Alpha Jokul never to show my wolf. Oren held the reins with steady hands, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested this journey was routine.

For him, perhaps it was.

For me, it felt like riding toward the edge of something vast and irreversible.

Two months had passed. And since then, the letter had arrived bearing the Skadi crest in ice-blue wax. All youths under Alpha Jokul’s protection were to report to the capital for registration and placement in schooling. No exception. Not even for the daughter of the Mad King. I had stared at the seal for a long time before breaking it. Now here I was, bundled in furs beside Oren, the cabin growing smaller behind us with every mile.

I hadn’t looked back at first. I told myself it was because the wind was too sharp, because snow glare burned the eyes.

It wasn’t.

Brynja had stood in the doorway as we left. She hadn’t cried. Neither had I. She had simply gripped my shoulders, her hands rough and warm despite the cold.

“You keep your head high,” she’d said.

“And your mouth sharper.”

“It already is,” I’d replied, because humor was easier than the tightness in my throat. Her eyes had softened then, just slightly.

“Eat well. Train harder. And don’t let anyone make you small.”

As if that were possible.

She had pulled me into a brief, fierce embrace. Brynja was not a woman of many outward affections, which made this one feel like a crack in stone. Oren had cleared his throat awkwardly beside the sled. And that had been that.

No dramatic farewell.

No promises to visit.

Life in Skadi did not bend for sentiment. Either I would build something new in the capital—find work, purpose, perhaps even belonging. Or someone would discover precisely whose blood ran through my veins. And decide the risk outweighed Jokul’s mercy, and kill me.

I had lived two years in isolation at the edge of these pack lands, my world reduced to a single cabin, a border, and two caretakers who treated me like something more than my lineage. In the capital, there would be hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Young men and women who had grown up in this harsh land. Who belonged to it since birth.

I did not belong.

I was placed.

There was a difference.

“What do they do first?” I asked quietly.

“Registration,” Oren replied.

“You’ll give your name. Your age. Skills.”

I resisted the urge to laugh.

“Skills.”

“You have them, girl.”

“I can chop wood and insult snowstorms.”

“Both are very valuable in life.”

Despite myself, I smiled faintly.

Oren grew more serious after a moment.

“They’ll assess you. See where you fit best. Farming. Hunting. Crafting. Fighting. Guard rotations. Healing, if you’ve the mind for it.”

“And if I don’t fit in anywhere?”

Oren’s grip tightened slightly on the reins.

“Everyone fits somewhere in Skadi. Or they learn to.”

Oren slowed the sled slightly as we crested a rise.

“There,” he said, but this time his voice carried something heavier. We crested the final ridge, and the capital revealed its true form. It was not merely built into the mountain.

It truly was built beneath a palace of ice.

And it was absolutely breathtaking.

The structure rose like a frozen God above everything else—vast, jagged towers of blue-white crystal fused together into a fortress that seemed carved from a glacier itself. Light fractured through its walls, catching the pale sun and scattering it in cold prisms across the snowfields. Massive spires stabbed into the sky, sharp and merciless.

The Alpha’s palace.

A home for Alpha Jokul and the highest-ranked wolves of Skadi.

Even from a distance, it radiated power and authority.

Beneath it—like a kingdom bowing to its crown—the rest of the capital spread outward and downward. Dark openings marked the entrances to tunnels and cavern systems carved deep into the mountain’s belly. Reinforced gates of timber and iron stood guard at each mouth. Smoke did not rise from chimneys here; it drifted from hidden vents along the rock face, vanishing quickly into the wind. Protection from the eternal winter lay underground, where stone dulled the wind’s bite, and ice became a wall instead of a weapon.

The castle shimmered, untouchable. And I knew, with a certainty that felt carved into bone, that I would never see its interior halls. Whatever mercy Alpha Jokul had granted me did not extend to icy throne rooms or elevated tables. That world was for ranked wolves only. For bloodlines that had earned loyalty rather than destroyed it. I was not foolish enough to mistake my survival for acceptance.

The sled slid down the carved path toward the main gate beneath the mountain’s overhang. The hounds pulling us slowed as we entered the shadow of the ice castle. The temperature seemed to drop further there, the light dimmed by towering frozen walls above.

“It’s bigger than I imagined,” I murmured.

Oren grunted.

“It’s meant to be.”

“To intimidate?”

“To remind.”

“Of what?”

“That winter always wins over men.”

Comforting.

Guards flanked the main entrance to the lower tunnels—thick furs, heavy spears tipped with dark metal. Their eyes tracked newcomers with sharp efficiency, but there was no chaos, no shouting. Movement here was disciplined. Controlled. We passed beneath the outer arch.

The wind died instantly.

The difference was… staggering.

Inside the main cavern, warmth pooled from massive fire pits set into the stone floor. The ceiling arched high overhead, jagged with natural formations that glittered faintly where frost clung. Carved pathways branched in multiple directions, marked with symbols burned into wooden placards.

Wolves moved everywhere. Young. Old. Warriors with scarred hands. Women carrying baskets of supplies. Children darting between legs until a sharp look from an elder slowed them. Voices echoed along stone walls, blending into a low hum of life.

This was Skadi’s heart.

Warm.

Alive.

Oren secured the reins and motioned for me to follow.

“Stay close,” he said quietly.

“It’s easy to get turned around.”

“I thought you said I was resilient.”

“You are. You’re also new to this place.”

Fair.

We moved through the main cavern into a narrower tunnel reinforced with thick beams. Torches lined the walls, their flames steady and bright. The air smelled of smoke, iron, damp stone—and people. So many people. I kept my chin lifted, gaze steady. No one spared me more than passing interest. Just another youth arriving for registration, bundled in travel-worn furs. Good. Let it stay that way. Let me just be a girl instead of the Mad King’s daughter.

We turned again, then descended a slight slope that opened into a wide chamber filled with long wooden tables. At the far end, several older wolves sat with parchment and ledgers stacked high. A line of young men and women snaked toward them, some nervous, some bored, some brimming with poorly disguised excitement.

“This is it, kiddo,” Oren said. The words struck harder than the sight of the ice castle had.

This is it.

I studied the other youths in line. Broad shoulders. Confident stances. Easy laughter between those who clearly already knew one another. They looked like they belonged here. I felt like a stone dropped into the wrong river.

Oren shifted beside me, suddenly quieter than he’d been the entire journey.

“You’ll step forward when it’s your turn,” he said.

“They’ll ask questions. Answer plainly. Don’t try to impress them.”

“I never try to impress anyone,” I said.

His mouth twitched.

“That’s part of the problem.”

I exhaled slowly, watching the line inch forward.

This was where he left me.

This was our goodbye...

The realization settled heavily in my chest.

“You’ll go back tonight?” I asked, keeping my voice even. We both hated goodbyes and we both knew it.

“At first light,” he said.

“Weather’s shifting.”

Back to the cabin.

Back to Brynja.

Back to the life that was no longer mine.

“You’ll do fine, Eira,” Oren said at last.

I nodded once.

“Of course I will. You taught me how to be fine.”

Because honestly... what was the alternative?

He hesitated, then placed a firm hand on my shoulder—steady, grounding.

“Whatever name you carry,” he said quietly,

“It doesn’t decide what you become here. You understand?”

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

“I understand.”

He squeezed once, then dropped his hand.

“You know where to find us,” he said.

“I do.”

And then with one final nod, he turned. He disappeared into the flow of wolves and people moving through the cavern, swallowed by torchlight and stone. For one sharp, terrifying second, I felt very small. Alone beneath a giant mountain. Beneath a castle I would never set foot into. Beneath the weight of a name I refused to mourn.

“Next,” one of the registrars called. My spine straightened. I stepped forward into the torchlight, heat from the braziers licking at my chilled skin. Up close, the registrar looked carved from the same stone as the mountain—broad, lined, patient in the way only someone accustomed to order could be.

“Name,” An older man said.

“Eira Ashbourne.”

His quill paused just briefly before continuing. As if he had heard that last name somewhere and he just couldn't put his finger on it.

“Age?”

“Twenty-one,” I answered as I gave him the letter I had received to come here and register today. He nodded and turned the large ledger slightly so I could see the headings etched into the parchment. Columns divided the page into neat categories—Name. Age. House. Evaluation Status.

“You will choose your House,” he said.

“Preference first. Evaluation second. Skadi refines where necessary.”

My gaze shifted to the large wooden board mounted beside him. Symbols had been burned into its surface, each marked with a different sigil.

“Our schooling is divided by function,” he continued when I didn't answer immediately, his voice even.

“The pack survives because every role is filled well.”

He gestured toward the first carving—a wolf’s head crossed with blades.

“Fighting House. Defense. Combat. Strategy. Border patrols. Those who stand at the front when threats rise.”

Another symbol—a hammer over an anvil.

“Crafting House. Smiths. Builders. Engineers. They raise our structures, forge our weapons, and maintain the tunnels.”

A hand cupping a flame.

“Healing House. Medics. Herbalists. Those attuned to restorative arts and magic.”

And finally, an intertwined knot.

“Trade House. Food supply, logistics, diplomacy, internal management. They ensure the pack runs smoothly.”

I absorbed the information carefully.

“So everyone already belongs to something,” I murmured.

“Eventually,” he replied.

“Training determines permanence.”

“And if we choose wrong?”

A voice behind me chimed in brightly,

“You die.”

Laughter rippled through the line. I glanced over my shoulder. A broad-shouldered young man grinned at me, entirely unbothered by my impending doom.

“Comforting,” I said dryly. The registrar did not look amused either.

“If you fail your evaluation, Skadi chooses your house for you. Depending on which skills suit you best.”

The laughter in the line behind me faded quickly.

Skadi chooses.

Which meant aptitude over ego.

Need over desire.

I studied the symbols again.

Crafting House—steady, vital, practical.

Healing House—necessary, respected.

Trade House—quiet power behind every decision.

Fighting House—visible. Dangerous. Strong.

Strong.

The word lodged somewhere deep.

I had spent most of my life guarded.

Escorted.

Watched.

Locked behind doors that required permission to open.

Princess.

Prisoner.

Even after the war, even in exile, I had been delivered to a cabin at the edge of the world and told to live.

Hidden away.

Safe.

Contained.

Weak.

I did not want to be the girl who needed protection. I wanted to be the one who could stand on her own feet if the ground gave way beneath her.

“Which House, Miss?” the registrar prompted. My heart thudded once, hard. On a whim—or perhaps not a whim at all—I said,

“Fighting House.”