Alpha Prince's Little Dagger

Chapter 3

ASTRID

The gag in my mouth tastes of dry sweat, the burlap sack over my head rough against my cheek.

The collar around my neck is so tight I can barely breathe, but the guards don’t care. They drag me out of my cell and down the hall at a clipped pace. I have to half-run just to keep up.

Every time I stumble, some metal bit on my collar jingles.

“Step up,” one of the guards orders, his hand rough on my arm.

I obey blindly.

My foot finds the floor—and another guard shoves me hard from behind. I pitch forward, my hands catching against smooth, cold bars. I grope around them and realize the bars encircle me completely.

I’m in a cage.

The cage lurches forward. I grab the bars and fighting to stay upright, my stomach churning.

Is this how they transport defendants to trial?

It doesn’t feel right.

A few minutes later, doors creak open. The stale air freshens, and I can smell the lush decay of leaves turning on their trees. We’ve left the Tower of Justice. Which makes no sense. The courtroom lies only a few floors above the jail.

The scent of foliage and rich soil gets headier as we move along, and cool shadows pass over me.

The guards don’t say a word; they don’t even grunt with effort. I would feel better if they did.

The quiet—occasionally shot through with the trill of birdsong—is chilling.

But it doesn’t stay quiet for long. When the guards finally set my cage down, I can hear chiming similar to that coming from my own collar. The hair on my arms stands alert, sensing that the guards and I are no longer alone.

My cage door opens, and a guard pulls the sack off from my head. In the fading evening light, I see a row of cages similar to mine. Held within each is another human, a collar around their neck, a golden bell hanging from the center of the collar.

I recognize a few of the terrified faces from my jail cell.

This is no trial.

White-clad werewolf guards stand sentinel in front of each cage, including the massive man who pointed me out.

We’re at the edge of the forest that sprawls out behind Mooncrest Castle.

As I look behind me, I see a makeshift dais has been erected—builders must have spent all morning on it—and is currently set with the cream of the werewolf-nobility crop.

Jewels cluster on the wrists and necks of the half-dozen ladies; the beards of the half-dozen men gleam with oil.

They’re seated in a semicircle, an opulent golden table before them set with platters of steaming chicken, roasted mutton, and plump sausage, peppered through with goblets of wine and mead.

A finely dressed quartet serenades the nobles with their strings. Servants slink about, removing emptied plates and glasses with averted eyes.

My heart stutters as I realize they’re here to watch. Which means we’re their entertainment.

The werewolf sitting in the center of the semicircle, a pale, blonde man in his mid-twenties, I’d guess, yawns widely, showing off wickedly pointed canine teeth.

“Gyles,” he calls lazily, “I’m bored. Begin.”

One of the servants, a man whose back is stooped with age, hurries to the werewolf’s side, though he keeps his eyes on the ground.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says.

Based on his age, along with the sultry she-wolf pouting beside him, I’m guessing this family member is none other than Prince Cassius himself, fresh from his wedding.

Gyles shuffles to the edge of the dais, where he can address both the nobles and us caged humans. On a table next to him stands a gilt hourglass, sand all pooled in the bottom.

“Good evening,” he begins, addressing us. “Due to the great generosity of the Ashtons, you have each been given the most honorable opportunity for pardon.”

“Instead of appearing before a court, the consequences of your crimes will be decided here, in the forest. You are participants in the Bell Run!”

Unconsciously, his fingers brush the hollow of his throat, almost as if he can still feel a collar there.

“You will have the duration of this timer to evade your pursuers. If you manage to survive until the last grain of sand falls, your crimes will be pardoned. If you are caught, you are at the mercy of your hunter.”

At first, my brain refuses to register Gyles’s words.

A game, I think, a bit dazed. That won’t be so bad.

But as I scrutinize the phalanx of guards in white—the hunters, as Gyles explains—my mind snags on one phrase: If you manage to survive.

My stomach turns.

So this is no game after all.

“Only those guards get to play?” a voice like a flute calls from the dais.

When I peer closer, trying to pick out who spoke, I see a teenage girl who can’t be much older than Luca. Her thick blonde locks, keen eyes, and creamy complexion easily mark her as Daniella Ashton, the youngest of the king’s children.

She looks exactly like someone who’s never been told no.

“Any noble who wishes to participate is, of course, more than welcome,” Gyles responds, tucking his chin in her direction deferentially. “Though hunters are not allowed to bet on themselves or each other.”

Apparently, each noble would be putting jewels down on which guard they believed could collect the most bells. In other words: which guard they believed could hunt down the most humans.

Daniella grins, nudging the man sitting behind her.

Unlike the rest of the nobles, his hair is dark, his skin tanned. He’s dressed in supple leather with exquisite stitching, the design much simpler than that of his counterparts, but even from a distance, I can tell he’s uncomfortable in the finery.

Daniella whispers something to him, but he only purses his lips.

She frowns, frustrated.

As I study him, his eyes suddenly snap up, staring right into mine. My breath catches.

I expect his flinty grey irises to hold malice, but instead, they seem curious.

I look away quickly. It would not be smart to start the Bell Run with any action that could be seen as insolence.

“The guard who collects the most bells will receive a gift from Prince Cassius himself,” Gyles continues. “A token of gratitude for entertaining His Highness on his wedding day. And he’ll gain legal ownership of the humans he captures.”

Gyles pauses to smile at us. “If a human prisoner manages to keep their bell until the end of the run, they’ll be free, and they’ll keep their solid gold bell as compensation.”