17. Bow
1138 Words
= Amara =
“The Veyrath don’t record history the way other packs do,” Lorne, Mikael’s beta, said. His voice low but steady.
Lorne and I are currently in the library, where everything smelled like old paper and polished wood.
I couldn’t help but look around. Tall shelves stretched toward the ceiling, packed with books bound in leather, cloth, and materials I couldn’t even name. Some spines were etched with symbols instead of titles, the markings faintly glowing as if they were alive—or at least aware.
I stood near one of the long tables while Lorne moved with practiced ease through the aisles, pulling books as if he already knew exactly where each one lived. There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty. This place belonged to him as much as it belonged to the Veyrath Pack.
“We value memory, oral tradition. But when something is written, it means it’s considered sacred—or dangerous enough to be preserved accurately.” he continued as he walked near to me and placed the first book on the table.
I nodded, absorbing every word, as I went beside him. “So these books are…?”
“Core knowledge,” he replied. “Culture. Territory laws. Hierarchies. Rituals. Things you’re expected to know if you live here.”
If you live here.
The words settled heavier than I expected.
Lorne pulled out another book, thicker than the first, and continued talking as if he hadn’t just reminded me how temporary my place felt.
“You’ll notice that respect is deeply embedded in everything we do. For instance—” He paused and turned to face me fully. “When a lower-rank wolf faces a higher rank, they place their right hand over their left chest and bow slightly. It’s not submission. It’s acknowledgment.”
I instinctively mirrored the gesture, placing my hand where my heart rested.
“This gesture is mandatory when addressing Alphas, Betas, Elders, and appointed officials,” Lorne continued. “Failure to do so is considered disrespect, sometimes even provocation.”
I swallowed. “Good to know. I would’ve messed that up.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s why you’re here.”
He picked up another book and flipped through a few pages. “Another thing—eye contact. In Veyrath, sustained eye contact with a higher rank is discouraged unless permitted. Brief eye contact shows honesty. Staring implies challenge.”
I bit my lower lip and suddenly remembered what I had done yesterday.
“Meals are communal,” he added, stacking the third book. “The Alpha eats first, then the Beta, then the rest according to rank. However, guests and outsiders are always offered food before Omegas. It’s a matter of honor.”
Outsider.
Again.
“Public disputes are forbidden,” Lorne went on. “If you have an issue with another wolf, you bring it before a mediator or an Elder. Violence within the territory is one of the fastest ways to earn exile.”
He handed me the fourth book, its cover embossed with a symbol that looked like a crescent claw wrapped around a flame. “This one details the territorial divisions—residential zones, training grounds, markets, borders. You’ll want to memorize the boundary markers.”
“And the fifth?” I asked, glancing at the final book still in his hands.
Lorne hesitated, just briefly. “Rituals. Mating traditions. Mourning customs. Birth rites.”
Oh.
“I’ll… read that carefully,” I said.
“That would be wise.”
By the time he stacked all five books into my arms, they felt heavier than their physical weight suggested. Knowledge always did that—it settled into places you didn’t realize were vulnerable.
“Come,” Lorne said, already turning toward the exit. “You’ll understand more once you see the town.”
The transition from the hushed reverence of the library to the open air outside was jarring. Sunlight spilled over stone paths and wooden structures, the town of Veyrath unfolding like something out of a story I hadn’t realized I’d stepped into.
“This is the central district,” Lorne said as we walked. “Market’s east from here. You’ll smell it before you see it.”
As if on cue, warm scents of baked bread, herbs, and something smoky drifted through the air.
“To the north is the greenhouse,” he continued, pointing toward a wide glass structure nestled between stone buildings. “It supplies medicinal plants and food during winter. South leads to the training grounds. West is residential.”
I nodded, mentally mapping everything as best I could.
But it wasn’t the town that made my steps falter.
It was the people.
At first, it was subtle—lingering glances, conversations pausing mid-sentence as we passed. Some wolves inclined their heads toward Lorne, right hand over left chest, respectful and precise. Their eyes flicked to me afterward, curiosity sharp and unfiltered.
Others weren’t as careful.
I felt it in the way their gazes hardened, lips tightening as if my presence soured the air. Disgust wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in narrowed eyes, in shoulders turning away, in murmurs that didn’t bother lowering their volume.
“Who is she?”
“Not one of us.”
“An outsider.”
The word followed me like a shadow.
I kept my chin up, my expression neutral, even as something cold twisted in my chest. I understood it. I really did. Packs were built on blood, loyalty, history. And I was none of those things.
Still, understanding didn’t make it hurt less.
“They’re adjusting,” Lorne said quietly, not looking at me. “You represent change. Veyrath doesn’t like uncertainty.”
“I can tell,” I replied.
A young wolf passed us and bowed deeply to Lorne, performing the gesture he’d taught me earlier. When his eyes flicked to me, confusion crossed his face before he looked away entirely.
I placed my right hand over my left chest and dipped my head slightly anyway.
Lorne noticed.
“That was… appropriate,” he said after a moment.
“I’m learning,” I said. “Even if they don’t want me to.”
We reached the edge of the market, the noise swelling around us—voices bargaining, laughter, the clatter of goods. Life, normal and vibrant, continuing whether I belonged in it or not.
As we walked, I realized something unsettling.
This wasn’t just a town I was touring. This was a world deciding whether it would ever accept me. And as the curious stares mixed with open disdain, I knew one thing with painful clarity—
Being an outsider wasn’t just about where you came from. It was about whether anyone believed you deserved to stay.
- Writer
