1. THE DREADBORNS ARE HERE 1
“Move faster, Kaerith! If that water’s not back before I return from the market, I’ll have your hide for supper!”
The shout came from Madam Susanne, Kaerith’s supervisor, who had a sharp tongue and a hand quick to slap. She didn’t wait for a reply, bustling past Kaerith with a basket on her arm.
Near the pelts, a butcher muttered under his breath. “Dreadborn scouts were seen near the east ridge last night.”
“Shut your cursed mouth, fool,” another man hissed. “Speak their name and they come.”
Kaerith kept her head down, pretending not to hear, though her stomach twisted. No one spoke of them in daylight.
The sun bled over patched tents and crooked frames. The camp reeked of marrow rot, old blood, and cook fires burning too low. Somewhere, a hammer rang against iron, and the sound was a war drum in Kaerith’s skull.
The whole place stank of sweat and decaying things.
Kaerith grunted, staggering barefoot with a heavy wooden bucket clutched in blistered hands.
The water sloshed with every step she took, spilling down her dress. She wiped the dirt covering her face as she kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of warriors sharpening their blades or laughing at a slave who was being tormented.
She hadn’t eaten since morning. Her dress clung to her, soaked down the front.
She went quickly, else she'd get thrashed for wasting time.
No one spared her a glance. Not the warriors polishing their blades, not the women hanging wolf pelts along drying racks, not the children sparring wooden swords near the fire pits.
As she passed the training yard, boots stomped against packed dirt, voices barked and laughed behind her, and her foot caught on a loose stone. She stumbled, the water sloshing.
"Oi! Watch it! Peasant."
Kaerith barely had time to process the words as her body slammed into a broad chest, and she stumbled back, the bucket almost slipping from her grasp.
The water poured on the ground and soaked the dirt on the boots of whoever she’d bumped into.
She looked up and immediately regretted it. It was Rowan, son of the Beta. He towered over her with a cruel grin on his face as his golden hair was tied back.
She walked aside, looked down, murmuring, "I’m sorry."
“Sorry?” Rowan’s lip curled. The black tattooed ink on his throat twitched as he tilted his head toward the boys at his back. “Look at this worthless bitch.”
His gaze dropped to the mud-soaked boots, then back to her face. “I should carve the apology from your skin.”
I should’ve slit his throat the first time I could.
Kaerith kept her head low, her gut twisting. She knew that grin — the same he wore when they hung that girl last spring, the one who mistakenly poured his drink.
Coward. She thought. If I had my wolf, you’d bleed like a stuck pig.
“Spill another drop, and I’ll have you choking on my c**k before the beast ever gets his turn.”
Kaerith’s stomach twisted, but she kept her head down.
One day, you bastard. One day, I’ll carve your name into the dirt with your own teeth. She despised Rowan with all her heart.
He turned to his friends, flicking his hand, signaling to them. “Drag her to the platform.”
“Please. No—”
Kaerith took a step back, but rough hands seized her arms. One of them ripped the bucket out of her hands and threw it away.
As they dragged her to the wooden platform near the training yard, her bare feet scraped against the dirt.
The wooden platform was just ahead, stained from countless punishments. They shoved her onto it; she gritted her teeth as her knees hit the planks hard.
She didn’t struggle because she had learnt not to.
The crowd followed, whispering and cursing.
A soldier kicked the side of the platform. “Get the ropes.”
Two boys climbed the stage and yanked her up, dragging her like an animal. Her wrists were pulled forward and tied to the tall whipping post. The rope was rough, causing her already blistered hands to bleed.
The platform smelled of piss and salt. She could almost see the ghosts of others who’d bled here. One day, she’d set her ghost free too.
One woman hissed, “Cursed w***e!”
“Wolfless b***h!” Another said behind her.
“Should’ve been drowned at birth!”
They hurled the names at her. She looked up at them; she knew their faces, members of her father’s pack, Fenrir’s Fang. The same people who had once bowed to her mother, the Luna, just until she died.
“Should’ve slit her throat at birth and saved the pack the shame!”
