Crown Of Blood And Lies

Chapter 2: Ash and Hunger

{Avina}

I forced myself to breathe, to lower my claws, to shift back into something resembling human. The morning sun had climbed higher now, casting harsh light across the destruction. Glass glittered across the wooden floor like scattered diamonds. Display bins lay overturned, produce scattered.

I grabbed the broom from the back corner and began sweeping, my movements methodical despite the tremor in my hands. Sweep. Gather. Dump into the trash bin. Repeat. The physical work helped ground me, gave my racing mind something to focus on besides the fact that things could've gone horribly wrong.

Two hours passed. I swept most of the glass, righted the overturned bins, and was boarding up the damage to the front window movement caught my eye—two small figures pressed against the door frame, half-hidden in shadow. Boys. Their eyes were locked on the produce bins near the entrance, hungry and calculating in a way that made my chest tighten. The moment I turned toward them, they jerked back like startled animals, flattening themselves against the wall.

But they didn’t run. I could still see them peeking around the frame—one set of dark eyes above another, the taller boy shielding the smaller one with his body. I kept my movements slow and deliberate as I raised my hand in a gentle wave, beckoning them forward with what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

They looked at each other. The smaller boy—he couldn’t have been more than seven, with a shock of matted brown hair and a purple bruise blooming across his left cheekbone—tugged on his companion’s torn sleeve. The taller one, maybe ten, shook his head once. Then twice. But the little one’s stomach growled loud enough that I heard it from across the shop.

Finally, they stepped into the light.

My heart clenched. Their clothes hung in tatters, more holes than fabric. The older boy’s hands were cracked and weathered like old leather, the kind of damage that came from sleeping rough and scavenging through refuse. Dirt was caked under their fingernails, smudged across their hollow cheeks. The smaller one had a raw scrape across his knuckles that looked infected.

But it was their eyes that gutted me—wary, ancient eyes that had seen too much, expected too little. Orphans of the territorial war, most likely. Refugees from the western territories who’d fled Klaus’s brutal rule, or children whose parents had died in the border skirmishes.

“Hello,” I said softly, crouching down to their level. I extended both hands, palms up, the universal gesture of peace. They stared at my hands like they might bite.

The older boy moved first, reaching out with trembling fingers. The instant my hand closed gently around his, he flinched violently and yanked back, his whole body coiling as if bracing for a blow. The smaller one whimpered and stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The reaction hit me like a punch to the gut.

I stayed perfectly still, keeping my hands extended, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

The older boy’s chest heaved with rapid breaths. His eyes darted to the door—calculating escape routes—then back to me. Slowly, so slowly, I tried again. This time I moved my hands even more carefully, telegraphing every motion.

“See? Just want to help.”

The apples I selected were perfect—crisp and red, still cool from the morning delivery. The scent of them, sweet and clean, seemed almost obscene against the sour smell of unwashed bodies and desperation. I placed one apple in each of their palms and closed their fingers around the fruit.

For a heartbeat, nothing. They stared down at their hands like I’d given them bars of gold.

“Is this…” the older boy’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Is this really for us?”

“Really?” the smaller one echoed, his eyes so wide I could see white all around the irises. “We don’t gotta… you don’t want nothin’ for it?” The hope and disbelief warring in their expressions made my throat tight.

“Really,” I confirmed, reaching out to ruffle their hair—gently, carefully, giving them time to pull away if they wanted.

They didn’t.

The older boy’s hair was stiff with dirt and oil, but the smaller one’s was surprisingly soft beneath the grime. A sound escaped them both—something between a laugh and a sob—as they clutched the apples to their chests like someone might try to steal them away.

“Thank you,” the older boy whispered, his voice thick. “Thank you, miss, we—we ain’t had nothin’ fresh in…”

He trailed off, but I understood.

Days? Weeks?

“You’re welcome.” I wanted to say more—wanted to offer them a meal, a bath, a safe place to sleep. But I knew better. Boys like these were skittish. Push too hard and they’d bolt. “You can come back anytime you’re hungry, alright? I’ll always have something for you.”

The smaller boy’s face crumpled, tears tracking clean lines down his dirty cheeks. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you, miss!” they chorused, their voices cracking with emotion. The older boy grabbed his companion’s hand and they ran—not in fear this time, but with the manic energy of children who’d been given an unexpected gift.

I watched them disappear into the crowd, the smaller one already biting into his apple, juice running down his chin. The older one tucked his into his shirt, probably saving it for later. Or for someone else. The ache in my chest didn’t fade. How many more were out there? How many children were one missed meal away from starvation, one cold night away from death? The territorial war had shattered so many families, left so many orphaned and alone, displaced from their packs.

But it was something. It had to be something.

I straightened, brushing my hands on my apron, and turned back toward the shop—when an eerie quiet descended. My gaze shifted to the crowd outside, encountering the troubled looks on their faces, their eyes locked in the direction of our capital’s entrance. I moved to the edge of the door frame to see what was going on. A group of men emerged along with three towering wolves. Those in human form wore tactical gear.

The seal of the Blood King adorned their shoulders—a snarling wolf, a clear indication of their identity. These were the Ashmere Elite. The royal guard. Enforcers of pack law and territorial boundaries. A woman near me grabbed her child and pressed him against her legs, her knuckles white against his shoulder. The instinctive submission to superior predators.

My jaw tightened.

A hush fell over the crowd as the group advanced, their movements tense and precise. Cold alpha eyes scanned the assembled throng, radiating dominance that made weaker wolves want to bare their throats. A couple of individuals were roughly seized by an arm or shoulder, yanked into the open space, only to be released and shoved aside after a brief assessment.

The Ashmere still in wolf form moved with predatory calculation, their massive heads swiveling toward young children as they passed.

They were clearly looking for someone.

The question was...who?