Private Tales A Howl in the Dark

[Junia]

The bells tolled above Ashcroft, announcing the night's entertainment.

The smell of iron never left the Bloodpit. It clung to stone, to the sand, to the air itself. Junia Carriven sat stiff-backed in the Carriven box, no better than a gilded cage with its black iron latticework carved with moons and chains that separated them and a host of wealthy friends from the masses in the stands. The thick velvet curtains muffled the worst of the stench from the arena, but even so, the reek of sweat, blood, and ale seeped in, wrapping around her like a second gown.

Her hands remained folded neatly in her lap, silk of her gown pooling around her feet, pale as moonlight. It was a deliberate choice of Fabian's. His favorite shade, his claim of possession of not only Junia, but like the moonlight itself in his ability to control his Mutts. It gleamed for all to see below. Junia's chin was lifted just slightly, expression schooled to neutrality, her lips painted into a soft, pleasing curve.

To her right, Ansel leaned forward over the railing, restless energy coiled into every line of him. His grin was wide and sharp, glinting in the torchlight like the teeth of a jackal. "Look at him," He crowed, gesturing with his goblet toward the sand below. "You can see the fight in this one already." Junia followed his gesture despite herself. The Mutt was on all fours, claws digging furrows into the sand, his chest heaving as he strained against the silver chain drawn tight across his throat. Moonlight caught onto runes seared into his flesh, glowing faintly on the skin beneath.

Her stomach turned. She forced herself to breathe through her nose, slow and measured. It was the way she had been taught to tolerate Ansel's 'games'.

Fabien lounged between Junia and his father, long legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily across the back of her chair. His profile was perfect, noble, carved in the mold of the man who sat beside him. Lord Ned Carriven was smiling, genial, as if they were merely enjoying a night at a theatre listening to music. He raised a goblet in greeting toward a nearby noble friend of his, reaching out for more wine already.

"I'll take ten silver it lasts past the third bell." Ansel announced, flipping a coin to a nearby waiting servant.

Fabian snorted. "You always bet on the wrong side." He lifted the glass to his lips. "Three gold says this one won't make it to the second bell."

Below them a bell rang.

The Mutt lunged with a snarl, chain snapping taut, and the champion met him with a silvered spearpoint to the gut. The sound was wet, sickening, and Junia's body shuddered before she could stop herself.

Fabian's hand shot out, catching her chin in a firm grip that forced her head forward, back toward the carnage. "Look." He murmured, voice like silk.

Her breath caught and she wanted to close her eyes..but she knew better. It was better to look now than face what might come after the fights.

"Don't waste your delicate little gasps on nothing, love." He went on, turning her face to meet his eyes. His smile was small, vicious. Sharp as the silver at his belt. "This is sport, not tragedy. And you're not a child anymore."

Ansel laughed, throwing back his head. "Careful, brother, she might faint and-"

"I'm quite well." Junia forced a soft laugh, thin as glass as she muttered words that had been drilled into her long ago.

"Good girl," Fabian murmured, brushing his thumb against her jaw before releasing her.

She turned back to the sand obediently, even as every muscle in body screamed to look away. The fight was quick, vicious, ending like always... with the champion driving their silver through the werewolf's chest. The beast howled once, an awful, almost human sound, before going utterly still.

Ansel whooped, clapping the railing hard enough to rattle the ironwork. "See! You see! I told you he'd make a show of it! Well done!" Wine spilled from the goblet he toasted with over the side.

Fabien raised his goblet in salute. "Fine, fine. Double or nothing on the next one."

Junia folded her hands tighter in her lap, nails biting through her gloves. Her mouth moved in what must have looked like a smile, even as the sour taste of bile burned the back of her throat. The beast below had already been hauled off to god knows where, sands already being raked clean as the blood was turned under. It was prepared for its next victim.

The crowd roared for more. Torches guttered, bells rang again, and Junia sat silently, fear and disgust locked up behind her ribs where no one could see.

 

[Søren]

The mutts were chained in their holding chambers, a stinking warren of iron and stone beneath the Bloodpit. The air was wet and heavy, rank with blood and piss. From where he sat, back pressed against the cold wall, Søren could see the strip of barred ‘window’ that ran the high length of the cell wall. Beyond it, torchlight flickered on sand stained black with old blood.

Søren hadn’t watched as they dragged Alfred out of the cell, but he could hear it, the scuffle of boots, the sharp command, the rattle of chains as they forced the boy to his knees, forced the change into him. They always made it hurt. The handlers beat him until his snarls were hoarse, until the wolf rose trembling and full of terror.

Leif’s fingers curled around the bars level with the floor of the pit, eyes wide as he tried to watch, and Søren’s low growl drew his attention back. One look from his brother was enough to make him let go and turn his face away just as the yelp split the air.

Alfred had been too weak. Too slow. Too gentle. He’d lost too many fights and was no longer fit for war, no longer entertaining. They called it a fight, but it was nothing more than an execution, and Søren knew the Carrivens would toast to it.

The lock on their door clanked. Two handlers stepped inside, the stink of silver and sweat rolling in with them.

“Time for the next event, mutts,” one of them grunted, rattling the keys. “Might even get a reward if you make it last.”

They chose Isak first, one of the few who stood taller than Søren, and twice as wide. The man was a mountain, more beast than man now, and in the shift he was terrifying. Isak had killed more wolves than any other, and lately Søren suspected he was starting to enjoy it.

They chained him, forced the shift with their runes, and dragged the great black wolf toward the pit. He went snarling, muscles straining, eyes wild and full of hate. When they opened the gates he prowled the arena like a storm given flesh, snapping his jaws toward the Carriven family, promising violence. Isak knew how to play their game, he knew how to survive.

The handlers turned back toward the cell. Søren’s muscles coiled, ready as they moved toward him, but instead of choosing him, they grinned and grabbed for Leif.

“Your turn, pup,” the warden said, tugging on the younger man’s chains.

“He fought yesterday,” Søren intervened as he stood. “It’s not his turn.”

The first handler stopped short, slowly turning back. “Did that mutt just speak to us?”

The second one barked a laugh and smashed his iron plated fist across Søren’s face. His head snapped sideways, blood spraying across the stone. He spat red, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring.

He lifted a hand toward Leif, a silent command not to say a word.

“The mutt did,” Søren rasped, “and the mutt’s glad the fat prick isn’t deaf as well as stupid.”

The second blow drove him to one knee, the third into his gut, forcing a harsh wheeze as the air rushed from his lungs.

“Stay down, dog,” the warden warned with a pointed finger. Søren just laughed, blood on his teeth as he shook his head.

“That fight will be over in seconds, and you know it,” he said, voice sharp. “And when the Carrivens want someone to blame for their dull evening, who do you think they’ll gut first? You two or us?”

The boot caught him hard across the face, splitting his lip, but he was still smiling when he hit the ground.

“Get this mangy bastard up,” the warden snarled. “He wants a fight, he’s got one. Don’t turn him, he can face the fight as he is. I want to see that brute rip the fucker's throat out.”

Leif turned away as they dragged his brother to his feet, chains biting into his wrists. Søren was still laughing, low and bitter, even as blood dripped from his chin.

The handlers didn’t even bother taking him through the shift room. They wanted blood, not sport. Søren’s chest heaved as they dragged him through the gates and into the harsh torchlight of the Bloodpit.

The crowd roared.

He barely had time to squint against the brightness before pain seared white-hot across his ribs - a silver blade, quick and casual, just deep enough to make him stagger.

“Wouldn’t want it too easy for you, mutt,” the handler sneered, jerking the blade free and shoving him toward the centre of the pit. The wound bled freely, hot down his side, the silver burning like fire in his veins. His knees almost buckled before he forced them steady.

Isak was already there. The wolf prowled in a slow circle, hackles high, saliva hanging in ropes from his jaws. He was a mountain of muscle and black fur, twice Søren’s size even on four legs. The chains dropped from his collar and he lunged.

Søren sidestepped, barely. The wolf’s claws raked across his arm as he turned, leaving four burning lines of pain. He didn’t need to look to know that Leif was watching.

The wolf came again, snapping jaws flashing in the torchlight. This time, Søren didn’t dodge. He caught the beast around the ribs, twisted with all the strength he had, using its momentum against it. The two of them went down in a cloud of sand and blood.

The crowd howled.

Søren gritted his teeth, locked his legs around Isak’s ribs, and pulled. His arm hooked around the wolf’s throat, muscles straining as he forced the beast into the ground. He heard the wet crack of a rib giving way beneath his knee, felt the wolf buck and twist in pain.

"You let the rage consume you, brother.. It makes you sloppy..." he growled into the wolf's fur, tightening his hold. His own injuries screamed...

Another rib snapped.

Then another.

The wolf’s howls turned to whimpers. Søren’s vision swam, bleeding, silver sick and lightheaded, but he held on, pinning Isak until the massive beast went limp with submission.

Silence fell across the arena for half a second, then erupted into cheers.

Soren released the wolf and shoved himself to his feet, chest heaving, blood still dripping down his side. He didn’t look to the Carriven box, didn’t acknowledge the crowd, didn’t bow. He simply stood there, his chest heaving, glaring at the handlers until they brought the chains.

When the one who'd stabbed him reached for him, Søren reached first, gripping his arm and twisting it with a loud crack as it snapped and the man screamed, much to the wolf's delight.

 

[Junia]

The crowd was no less rowdy than when the first wolf's broken body had been dragged from the sand. The air was thick with excitement now. Junia tried to avoid looking tense, though her stomach rolled from the gore she had witnessed. When the next gate opened and a black-furred monster stalked into the pit, both Carriven brothers leaned forward, grins splitting their faces.

"A fine brute if ever there was one," Ansel was full of glee, pulling out another handful of coins. "Just look at him. I'd wager fifteen gold he takes the head clean off his opponent before he takes a strike from anyone's blade."

Junia's eyes flicked towards the sandy pit. The wolf was massive, black as midnight and vast as the night sky. His fur rippled over a body made for killing. Whether it was how the beast was born, or how Fabian trained him, it didn't matter. His head swung toward the boxes, eyes catching the torchlight. They were silver. Gleaming. Hateful.

Aimed all towards them.

He prowled the ring with a predator's grace, each step measured, and deliberate like he was making a show before snapping those massive jaws in the Carriven's direction. She jumped back when the beast lunged close enough that she swore she could see foam on its fangs.

"Skittish little thing," Ansel whispered in her ear. "Careful, Junia, you probably look tastier than the other Mutt's he's tasted."

Fabien turned his head just enough to catch her eyes, lips tight and disapproving. "Don't encourage her." He drawled, resting a hand lightly over her knee. "She needs to see this. See the monsters. It's good for her."

Junia swallowed, forcing a shallow nod. The torchlight danced wildly below as the handlers dragged something new into the pit.

Not a wolf, but they pulled it from the wolves den.

Junia's brows knit as she sat forward, trying to see past the milling handlers. They brought a man..no..he must have been a monster.. into the sand. He was battered, blood running freely down his side from a fresh wound courtesy of one of the guards. The crowd howled with cheers and laughter as the black wolf's head snapped towards the scent of fresh blood. Its low growl rolled like thunder across the pit as it stalked closer, abandoning its focus on the Carriven box.

Junia's heart pounded.

And then the wolf struck.

The man barely had time to stumble before the beast slammed into him with a claw, raking skin, teeth flashing. The beast turned again to lunge. Junia shot to her feet, the sound of her own scream tearing through the din of the crowd before she realized she had made it.

"Stop!" She cried, leaning over the balcony. "Stop this! He's not...He's not even..."

Fabien's hand closed tightly around her arm like a vise, yanking her back into her seat. "Sit down." He ordered, low and deadly quiet, mouth so close she could smell the wine on his breath.

"Fabien! Stop them, it isn't-"

"I said sit." His grip tightened until pain lanced up her arm.

Ansel was howling with laughter, slamming a fist onto the railing as the man and beast fought. "By the gods, this is brilliant! Might have to make this game a regular. No weapons, just man against mutt. See who dies slower!"

Junia's breath hitched sharply as the wolf lunged again, but there was something deliberate in the man's movements. The way he grappled, rolled, and pinned the massive beast by sheer will and strength while bleeding out. He was not just surviving. He was fighting to win.

Fabien's fingers loosened on her arm as he leaned forward in interest. "Now this is a fight."

"Look at him go! He's going to break it- break it with his bare hands! Put three gold that mutts ribs go before the bell!"

Junia pressed her lips tight, pulse hammering. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. Her body, frozen as the man locked the beast's massive body under his, forcing it down, breaking bone by bone until its howls turned to whimpers.

The crowd surged to their feet as the wolf finally went still.

A handler reached out to touch the man, and with a snap of the handler's arm, all hell broke loose. The crowd roared louder, some demands for his death, others cheering him on for the act of violence. Drunk on blood and spectacle, they were.

"Another round." Lord Ned Carriven's voice boomed from the box, cutting through the crowd. His genial smile was gone, replaced with the glint of a man who knew exactly how to feed a crowd. "Bring them all in! All the guards. Let the bastard earn his win! If he can."

The gates opened again.

Men poured into the pit, silver weapons flashing, torchlight glinting off their runes. The black wolf lay int he pit, but the man, bloodied and staggering, looked ready. Junia watched him, long enough to see his face, auburn hair matted to his forehead, teeth bared in something that may have been a laugh or a snarl.

And then the real fight began.

 

[Søren]

The handler’s most feared weapon hovered before him like accusation. 'The Leash' they called them, and there wasn't a single wolf here who did not loath them. The little carved rod thrummed faintly in the air, a thin silver thread of power running through it, enough to force a shift, snap a jaw shut, cage a mind with a single command. The only reason the wolves of Ashcroft had not slaughtered every one of these humans. He felt it touch his skin from a distance; liquid fire crawled down his spine and Søren sank to his knees, every muscle and nerve ignited as if the world had been rewired to pain and torture.

“Another round…” Lord Ned called, and the warden lowered the Leash with a casual sneer. Søren let his head fall, chest heaving, bracing himself for more pain.

When he lifted his eyes, he found the Carriven box. Lord Ned wore the same twisted smile as always -the sort that made bargains and dealt death in the same breath. He found her the woman's gaze next and held it for a single, unyielding moment, not pleading, only acknowledging. For the first time in Ashcroft, she had said what no one else dared, and he knew that would not be forgiven.

Bring them all in....All the guards...Let the bastard earn his win, if he can..

The words struck like flint on the man's tongue and sparked an answering dread behind Søren's ribs.

Wardens filed through the gates then, silver and steel flashing as they circled the pit like carrion birds. They carried a cache of weapons and rune-stitched shields.. Søren forced himself upright on shaking legs; the taint of silver still burned to his marrow, but he straightened because he had to, because he had taught himself to. He spat grit into the sand and grinned, ugly with blood and insult.

“No!! Søren—no! Please!” Leif’s voice cracked from the barred window. Søren turned his head just enough to pick out the worry carved across his brother’s face, the familiar furrow of concern; no words were necessary. Don’t ever bow. Don’t ever beg. Don’t ever break.

Leif quieted.

He could feel every old injury protesting, Isak’s claws had opened new maps of pain across his ribs, and the silver wound along his side sang with a cold ache that would not stitch itself shut. It slowed him, made his limbs feel as if they moved through water. Still he moved, turning in a circle in the centre of the pit, alone.

“What, I don’t even get claws?” he called, voice raw. Twelve wardens circled like a hunt; the numbers meant nothing to the men in the box. “Come, Carriven! Wouldn’t it be a finer show to let me rip their throats with my bare teeth?”

Isak was stirring along the sand, he could hear the wolf's ribs popping back into place. The black wolf snarled, and across the sand their eyes met. Søren said nothing aloud, but his gaze said enough. Remember who your enemy is. Get up. Fight.

The bell rang out, and the first warden lunged, spear whistling through the air. Søren snapped back on instinct, hand slamming onto the haft, wrenching it like a lever. He yanked the man forward and drove a heel into his belly. The warden folded and flew several feet back, the spear clattering loose.

Another man came in with a short, brutal cut. Søren planted the fallen spear between them and blocked; the wood shuddered, the blow traveling up into his forearms and flaring every raw injury he carried. He answered with a brutal arc, the spear catching the man's face, and an arc of blood sprayed into the sand as he fell.

The third and fourth wardens moved together, a practiced pair. One feinted low to snap a tendon; the other aimed high for the throat. Søren saw the low sweep and dropped, letting the blade pass under his knees. He spun to bring the spear around and wrench the silver from the high man’s wrist.

A glint slithered between shields—a small, fast dagger like a needle. It found the seam of his ribs before he could finish the twist. The world tore open with a white-hot, wrong kind of pain. The cut of silver burned cold and hot at once. He gagged on the metallic scent.

It did not kill him, but it cut where silver mattered - through flesh that would no longer knit quickly, through blood that now carried a corruption to a werewolf’s healing. It weakened him. It coursed through entire body, turning his blood to acid. He felt the knowledge of that cut down to his bones: they would make his example loud and slow.

As he turned, a spear drove into his shoulder. Pain rang like a bell and a hard, tired spell of fatigue hit him for a breath, then a glimpse of the terror on his brother's face steadied him.

He shoved off the sand with the spear shaking in his grip and drove the haft into another man’s thigh, sending him collapsing. A boot followed and cracked a face into the sand. He had the moment, had almost cut through the throat of a fallen warden, when the Leash ripped through the periphery of his mind. A white-hot pressure slammed his skull; his hands tightened on the haft, then dropped. He buckled to his knees, fingers clawing at his temple, teeth gritted against the urge to howl.

He would not cry out.

He looked up at the wardens closing in, at Lord Ned’s smile like a blade. Then, like a black tide given shape, Isak lunged.

The great wolf barreled into the ring with the force of a falling tree, fur and muscle colliding with armour, jaws snapping for throats, claws raking mail and skin. Men were thrown like dolls; a warden’s silver spear shattered under the impact. Søren found himself thrown forward by the shock, tumbling into the sand as Isak crashed between him and the circling men.

The pit was chaos with men screaming, the crowd roaring, the smell of blood thick and hot , until the Leash came down upon Isak. The wolf stopped fighting, his body writhing as he yelped in agony. Søren's body was failing him, but he would not give these bastards the satisfaction of dying today. Isak, though, was at breaking point.

"Enough.." he tried to say, but the word came out strangled and quiet.

"ENOUGH!"