Chapter 1
959 Words
The blade kissed my throat just enough to draw blood.
I didn’t flinch. In Thornwall Pack, flinching got you killed faster than stupidity. The warrior pinning me to the frost-cracked training yard wall was twice my weight, his breath sour with last night’s rotgut and today’s rage. His name was Garrick. He’d been trying to put me on my back for three years.
“Still think you’re too good to or any changes to this one? those legs, Hellspawn?” he growled, pressing the silver edge harder. A thin line of heat trickled down my neck.
I smiled instead, slow and sharp, letting my golden-amber eyes catch the weak winter sunlight. “If you wanted me on my back, Garrick, you should’ve brought more than that pathetic knife.”
His face twisted immediately. The crowd of warriors circling us roared with approval—bloodsport was the only entertainment Thornwall offered freely. I felt the shift in the air a split second before he committed.
I slammed my forehead into his nose. He's cartilage crunched, as he staggered back, I twisted and drove my knee into his groin while wrenching the blade from his grip. In one fluid motion I reversed it and rammed the pommel into his temple. Garrick dropped like slaughtered meat.
Silence fell for half a heartbeat, then the crowd erupted. Bets changed hands. Someone laughed. I wiped the blood from my neck with the back of my hand and spat on the ground beside Garrick’s unconscious body.
“Next time you want to play,” I said to the unconscious fool, “bring friends.”
That was when I sensed them.
Boots. Clean boots. Too polished for Thornwall, where everything was mud, blood, and rust. They stopped at the edge of the pit, two pairs, standing unnaturally still.
Two men stood above the pit in crisp Ironmoor livery — deep burgundy and silver. Colors I hadn’t seen in fifteen years. My stomach didn’t twist and my pulse didn’t spike. I’d always known this day would come. People like my father, Isaac Thorne, never threw away a weapon forever. They simply stored it until it was useful again.
I wiped blood from my lip with the back of my hand and climbed out of the pit. The underground lights cast long shadows across the stone floor. Both men took a small step back as I approached. Smart.
“What do you want?” I asked with a flat voice.
The older one cleared his throat. “You have been summoned back to Ironmoor Pack by order of your father. The Lycan King requires a bride. You have been chosen.”
Chosen??. What a pretty word for sold.
I tilted my head, letting a slow smile curve my lips. It wasn’t kind. “Do you understand what happened to the last person who tried to make me do something I didn’t want to do?”
They said nothing. The younger one’s hand twitched toward his sidearm. Fear rolled off them in waves. I could almost taste it .
I stared at them a moment longer, then turned and walked toward my quarters without another word. They followed at a careful distance.
My room was exactly as I’d left it that morning — one narrow bed, one metal locker, bare concrete walls. No pictures. No comforts. Nothing that could be used against me. I grabbed the single duffel bag I owned and stuffed in spare clothes, a few weapons, and the suppressant vials I kept hidden. That was all.
I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. There was no one worth the words. Allies here were temporary. Enemies were honest. The relationships I had were forged in blood and survival, not affection. Leaving Thornwall felt like stepping away from one cage into another.
Ashra’s voice brushed against my mind, warm like embers and sharp like claws. *How do you feel, going back to Ironmoor? That place carries nothing but blood and betrayal.*
I paused for a second, zipping the bag. I don’t feel anything, I told her honestly. “I lost my sense of feelings for them a long time ago. They’re just ghosts now. Ghosts and a father who wants to sell me.”
Ashra hummed, almost amused. Good. Ghosts burn easier.
I zipped the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out without looking back.
As I moved down the corridor, I heard the low murmurs behind me.
“Who the f**k was that?” someone asked.
A warrior answered, voice rough with respect and unease. “That’s the Hellspawn. Been here since she was nine. Fought her way up from the bottom. Never seen her afraid of anything.” A pause. “Never seen her smile either.”
I kept walking, boots echoing off the stone. The Ironmoor men fell in step behind me as we emerged into the cold night air where a sleek black car waited — It was far too luxurious for Thornwall.
I climbed into the back seat without hesitation. The door shut with a heavy, final click. As the car pulled away from the only home I had known for fifteen years, I stared out at the dark forest blurring past the windows.
Ashra coiled tighter inside me, most restless. *The Cursed King waits for us. Nyx Calder. They say no woman survives his claim.*
I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching my own golden-amber eyes reflect back at me, flickering with the first hints of hellfire.
No one had ever survived Nyx Calder after he claimed them.
I know that fact but at this point, there was nothing I could do.
“ Let's get to Ironmoor Pack first Ashra. Then we'll figure out what to do ”
- Writer
