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!"

 

[Junia]

Junia had seen hundreds of fights in the Bloodpit. Wolves pitted against wolves. Wolves pitted against men. The blood had run so thick some nights that the sand was stained for days after. She had learned, under Fabian's watchful eye, to smile at their spectacle. To sip her wine with a polite curve of her lips while the crowd roared for more carnage.

But this was different.

She had seen unfair fights before, but this...this was slaughter.

Her gloved fingers clutched the metal railings as wardens poured into the pit, silver flashing, circling like carrion birds. Junia's breaths came in shallow, pulse hammering against the delicate curve of her throat. When the first spear struck, she flinched back, nails biting through the gloves.

"This isn't a fight." She said, words spilling from her mouth before she could catch them. Her voice was barely above the roar of the crowd, but Fabien's head turned anyway, wine-dark eyes narrowing in amusement at his wife's commentary.

"What was that?" He asked, a lazy grin crossing his face.

"That...it isn't fair." Junia said, straightening her spine, chin lifting though her stomach knotted, knowing the punishment that would come with her talking back. "The rules forbid-"

A hand struck her cheek. With the chaos in the Bloodpit, Fabien must have been very sure no one but the Carriven box witnessed him.

"The rules?" Ansel barked out a laugh, delighted. "Oh, little Junia, now you care for rules? You've gone soft for the mutts? Do you forget we make the rules?"

Fabien chuckled, thumb brushing along the stem of his wineglass. "She does have a soft heart. Almost sweet, really. Pity it won't do her any good here."

Junia swallowed hard, trying to force back any tears and the sting of her cheek. The next blow struck, silver flashing through the air. The man in the sand staggered but stayed upright. Her eyes found his for only a moment, but something in Junia's chest lurched.

"Fabien, call it off." She begged, turning to him now. "You'll kill him- and look! You'll kill the other one two. He's one of your best fighters, isn't he? What will your patrons bet on next week when you've wasted your finest beasts on a spectacle?" It was a weak point, but still she begged.

Ansel laughed again, gleeful as a child. "Perhaps we should make this a regular thing. The crowd would love it."

Junia's nails dug crescents into her palms. Below them, the black wolf staggered back to its feet, ribs still cracked, but fury glowing bright in its eyes. Junia gasped as the beast threw itself back into the fray, jaws closing on a warden's shoulder, throwing the screaming man into the sand.

"They're killing them!" She cried, standing, voice sharp. "End it now, please. Please, Fabian."

"All this fire for a mangy pair of dogs." Ansel tutted. "Maybe she should have been left in the Kennel when her father brought her here."

Lord Ned finally looked away from the pit, expression one of idle interest, as if Junia's pleas were merely a new form of entertainment for him. "Let it play out," he said mildly. "The people are having the time of their lives. Do you not hear their cheers?"

And then the Leash struck. The black wolf's body went rigid, yelp so loud, it cut through the thundering crowd. Junia's hands flew to her mouth, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes. "Stop it. He's down. Enough."

No one listened to her.

The fight didn't end until the last of the wardens were limping, bloodied or unconscious. The man in the sand was swaying on his feet like a storm-tossed mast. Only then, did one of the remaining guards step in behind Søren and bring the butt of a spear down hard against the back of he skill. She watched the man crumple into the sand, unconscious. The black wolf let out one last choked sound before it, too, went still.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers as the wolf and the man were dragged from the Bloodpit, ending the nights festivities. Junia sat there, frozen, staring at the sand below, strewn with blood and broken bodies.

"See?" Ansel tossed back the last of his wine. "A perfect ending!"

Fabien's hand patted her knee before the brothers stood and left her there, staring into the pit.

---

The party was still raging in the great hall when Junia slipped away. Laughter and music followed her down the torchlit corridor until the heavy wooden doors closed behind her, muffling it into nothing but a distant hum.

She moved quickly through the Carriven estate, the silk hem of her gown gathered in one hand, the other gripping a small wicker basket that she had prepared while readying herself for the lavish afterparties. Herbs, tinctures, a flask of clean water, strips of linen, and a single woolen blanket were tucked neatly inside. Her pulse was still thrumming in her ears, louder than her slippers on the stone floors.

Most of the household was at the feast, guards as well. The few guards she did pass were drunk or distracted and embarrassingly easy to evade in the maze. By the time she reached the kennel, the air was thick with the stink of blood and damp stone. The screams and snarls of earlier were gone, leaving only the hum of breathing, whimpering and occasionally the rattling of a chain.

Junia paused at the threshold, a gloved hand hovering over the latch before she forced herself to lift it. The gate opened with a groan and she paused as it echoed loud enough to make her flinch.

The Kennel was a warren of cells, narrow, iron-barred and often far too crowded. Wolves lay in heaps of fur and muscle, some in partial shift from whatever the Wardens had done to them. Some of them were no more than men with haunted eyes that followed her. Most ignored her though, too far gone to care.

She walked softly, careful not to let the basket bump against the bars. Junia's throat tightened as she past a cell where a young boy lay motionless, chest barely rising.

But then she found him.

He was seated in the farthest cell, back braced against the wall, a wrist cuffed in silver that bit into the skin. A younger man lay asleep near him with a worried look on his face. Blood dried black on the man's bare chest, his side, along his jaw. His head hung forward slightly, dark hair plastered onto his face with sweat.

For a long moment, Junia only stood there, basket clutched tight against her skirts. The torchlight caught on the lines of his body, livid bruises blooming across his ribs, a gash along his side where silver must have been embedded as it still bled.

She didn't speak as she let herself in with a key swiped from Ansel. She sank to her knees before him, ignoring the cold seeping through the silk skirts as she reached for the flask. She wet one of the strips of linen, breath steady now that her choice had been made.

Junia pressed the cloth to the cut along his ribs, wiping away blood as she pulled the piece of silver from his flesh and dropped it on the ground beside her. She kept her eyes on his wounds, on the dark, bloody water running down to the floor as she cleaned him. She worked in silence, her movements careful and precise, dabbing the next cut and then another, then another, rinsing the cloth when they ran red.

And when the worst of the blood was gone, she took a handful of crushed herbs and mixed them with something from a bottle she uncorked before spreading the salve along the gashes.

When she had done all she could, she sat back on her heels, gloves stained red. She hesitated, then drew the blanket from her basket and draped it around him. Only then, did she lift her silvery blue eyes to him. "I'm sorry." She whispered as she looked at him, at the hard line of his jaw and blood drying on his hair, at the exhaustion that her family had forced on him.

Then she rose, smoothed her skirts and turned away from him. She looked at the younger man and regretted not bringing a second woolen blanket. But she would if she returned.

 

[Søren]

The last thing he’d heard before blackness swallowed him was Leif calling for mercy. The last thing he’d seen was her, fingers curled around the bars of her safe little cage, eyes wide with something he hadn’t thought a Carriven capable of.

He had no sense of how long he’d been out. Time was just the pulse of pain, silver gnawing its way through his blood, setting every nerve on fire. If unconsciousness was a pit, then he’d lain gratefully at the bottom of it, a reprieve from the agony. He didn’t even stir when she cleaned his wounds, when she pressed salves into the torn meat of his side. He didn’t stir when she bound him.

But when the blanket was draped over him, soft and alien against his battered skin, some stubborn part of him clawed back up from the dark. Pain - he was used to that. Comfort? That was enough to warn him something was wrong.

His eyes cracked open, amber dulled to embers, and his lips moved in a hoarse whisper.
“You shouldn’t be here, sad girl."

The word rasped out, dry, but the edge of a smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. He shifted slightly under the blanket and instantly regretted it, a shiver racking him, teeth clenched against a low groan. Normally, he burned hot as a forge, now he was pale, cold, his skin slick with fever sweat. His breath hitched, and he swallowed down the nausea, refusing to let it show more than it already had.

His gaze found hers, heavy-lidded but sharp beneath the weight of sickness. “Go on, then. Best flutter back to your cage before they clip your wings for it."

 

[Junia]

You shouldn't be in here, sad girl.

Junia jumped at the sound of his voice, a small, involuntary hop that sent the hem of her silk skirts tangling under her foot. She stepped backwards, fumbling to free herself as one shoe caught on the folds. Her basket bumped the bars behind her and a few loose stems spilled to the floor, rolling away like frightened little things.

"Well, you should not have been in that fight," she said finally, the words falling soft and lilting from her lips, her coastal cadence still clinging to her voice even after all the time she had lived in Ashcroft. The words came out sharper than intended, more accusation than comfort, because she was afraid and anger was easier to wear than tears.

Go on, then. Best flutter back to your cage before they clip your wings for it.
Junia's jaw tightened. Flickering torchlight slid across her cheek and caught the fresh bloom of a bruise there. A pale purple halo she had hidden during the feast had been revealed after layers of makeup wore off. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the familiar ache. It had not been the first, nor would it be the last.

She considered leaving, but thoughts clouded her mind. A small bitter whisper reminded her of the way Fabien had been distracted by the blonde that Ansel had tossed his way that night, laughing as if her body was some bauble to be passed around. If Junia won't give you an heir, brother, than perhaps this pretty little thing will. She's eager enough to play at wife, even if she's being paid for it.
Fabien hadn't laughed outright, he'd only smirked as his eyes slid to Junia. It was a look that told her that he did not disagree. That her failures were a living wound that he would let his brother prod whenever he liked.

The shame of it flushed through her now, tightening her throat and she only realized her hands were trembling when another herb slipped from the basket. She lowered her gaze, forcing the storm back beneath her ribs where it was safer. It always was.

She didn't respond to Søren immediately. Her eyes caught the sheen of sweat painting his chest and brow, the unnatural pallor beneath his own wounds. Fever was setting in. That realization steadied her. Whatever cruelty the men in her house delighted in mattered little. She knew how to knit wounds and soothe pains. That was something Fabien could not take from her.

Junia knelt back on the cold floor, hands searching the basket for what she needed. More herbs wrapped in linen, a small pestle of smooth, dark stone. She ground roots together until they bled, a bitter scent that was sharp enough to cut through the stench of the Kennel.

"Open." She said softly, though their was steel beneath her lilting accent now. She raised a hand towards him, fingers smeared with the dark paste. "It will help with the burning." Her eyes flickered up to his briefly, not pleading or pitying. It was an order, as though healing him was the only thing in Ashcroft she did have control over.

 

[Søren]

“The difference is choice, love,” Søren murmured, the words dragging out of him in a weak rasp. His head tilted slightly, scanning the row of cells, making sure the others were asleep or too broken to stir. There was little he could do if one of them decided to take a bite at her, not in this state. His gaze lingered on Leif for a moment, soft, protective, before another wave of pain rolled through him, forcing his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, she was still there. Not a fever dream. The blanket slipped as he shifted again, and only then did he notice the sharp tang of herbs clinging to him, the faint coolness of wounds that had been cleaned and bound. His brow knit, amber eyes lifting to catch the faint torchlight, fixing on her face.

He saw it immediately. The welt on her cheek, purple beneath the torch’s glow. Payment for her outburst that even he'd noticed. For that brief spark she’d let slip.

He stared as she worked, silent, unreadable, caught between disbelief and the fevered haze that made everything feel unreal. His gaze flicked to her fingers, stained with the dark paste she offered, and something rough edged curled into his tone.

“Not afraid of being bitten by a mutt?” he asked, voice low, almost curious. For a moment, the corner of his mouth tugged, just enough to show the ghost of a dimple.

His arm felt like stone, but he lifted it anyway, fingers circling her wrist with surprising steadiness. He didn’t look away as he obeyed, closing his mouth around her fingertips and slowly sucking the foul medicine free. The taste was bitter and vile, but beneath it, there was skin. Warmth. Salt. Enough that the wolf in him stirred, hungry, a flicker of predator glinting in his fevered eyes as he let her hand drag slowly from his mouth.

He swallowed, grimaced at the aftertaste, and leaned his head back against the wall. “You’re never going to change it, sad girl,” he rasped. “Don’t get your pretty face fucked up over it. You’re a Carriven. Best start acting like it.”

 

[Junia]

Junia's lips curved when he spoke of choice, though it wasn't in amusement. It was something quiet and sad. Her thumb brushed unconsciously over the rim of the stone pestle, smearing more green paste onto her fingers.

"Choice..." she echoed softly, almost to herself. "Tell me what it means, truly. Is it the freedom to pick which chain you wear or the luxury of pretending you are not already bound?" Her voice was low, accent a little stronger with each word, an accent which the Carrivens' guests laughed about behind their fancy fans and gloves.

Memories from the night pressed in again, bitter as the herbs she worked with: laughter spilling from the great hall, Fabien's hands roaming down the tiny waist of the blonde girl with an innocent smile, as though it were nothing at all. As if his wife sitting two chairs down did not exist. No one had seen her slip away. No one had cared. She could vanish into the walls and the only notice she would earn was that the Lord's barren wife had disappeared.

His question drew her eyes back.

Not afraid of being bitten by a mutt? He had asked her, voice rough but mouth tugging faintly with something almost resembling a smile.

"There are far worse monsters than a wolf," Junia murmured as she waited for him to consume the medicine. When his hand closed around her wrist, she tensed, instinct tightening her shoulders and breath caught. But she did not pull away. Her lashes lowered as he guided her fingers toward his mouth and she watched, strangely transfixed, as his lips closed around them. She felt his teeth rasping gently as they grazed her skin, the heat of his tongue dragging along the foul medication on her fingers.

She didn't flinch, only studied him, the green stain of herbs across his lips before he swallowed and let her hand slide free. A hunger flickered in his eyes, but she did not drop her gaze. She merely wiped her fingers clean against the side of her silk skirts, leaving a small green blotch blooming across pale lavender fabric .

You're never going to change it, sad girl. Don't get your pretty face fucked up over it. You're a Carriven. Best start acting like it.
Her smile returned, thin and fragile. She didn't correct the nickname he'd given her.

"I did not choose to be a Carriven," She said quietly, almost musing aloud. "And perhaps choice is nothing more than another trick of the god's games. Sumir fá skítspil [some of us are dealt a shitty hand], but we must play them all the same."

Her eyes flickered to the younger man in the far corner. "Was he hurt tonight?"

 

[Søren]

His gaze narrowed on her, lingering. She wasn’t from here, that much was obvious. The cadence of her voice gave her away, as did the way she carried herself. She was beautiful, a delicate ornament Fabien could wear on his arm, flaunt like a prize. Søren couldn't trust her, not with the Carriven name clinging to her like a curse, but he could see now that she was as much a prisoner in this place as he was. Bound in silk instead of chains. Caged all the same.

Still… she had choices. She’d made one tonight, sneaking down into the kennels, risking her neck to treat the wounds of a mutt. He only hoped, for her sake, that her husband never learned of it.

He let his head rest back against the wall, pain dragging at him, yet his eyes never left her. The bruise on her cheek stood out in the torchlight, and for a moment it was all he could see. "Dovaryn.." he murmured to himself, eyes falling to her hair, fingers twitching with the subconscious thought of reaching out to it. He recalled the mourning birds that sang at night in the trees surrounding his home. Beautiful things, their feathers black as midnight and tipped with silver, so that in moonlight they seemed dusted with frost. The songs they sang carried like a mourning hymn, low and haunting, enough to stir sorrow in even the hardest of hearts.

“Aye,” he rumbled, answering her earlier murmur. “There are worse monsters. But as you can see…” he said, running his tongue along his sharpened canine, "…I am both.”

For it was men she meant. Men with the power to hurt and take without consequence. He knew them well, he’d killed enough of them at Carriven’s command, in the blood pit and on the front lines of whatever battles he was thrown into. She had nothing to fear from him, not as he was now, fever burning through him and strength bled thin. But the others? If she lingered too long, if one of them caught her scent and thought to make her pay for every brother buried in Carriven soil…

Her words drifted back to him then, soft and laced with a tongue that stirred some distant memory he couldn't place and foreign enough to stir curiosity even through the haze. Forced marriage, perhaps. Another chain. Another game. Yes, the Gods and men loved their games.

When she spoke of the boy in the shadows, though, something sharpened in him. His body tensed, every instinct flaring, and the word slipped out harsher than he meant “No-.”

He tried to sit up, his muscles straining, but the effort sent a lance of pain through his ribs. The sound that tore from his throat was more beast than man, a guttural growl as he sagged back against the wall. He dragged in a breath, steadier this time, and forced the word again, softer.

“No.” His gaze found hers, unwavering. “I took his fight.” His voice was a rasp, heavy with pain but edged with concern, not for him, but his brother.. “Isak would’ve killed him...” It was only a matter of time.

His eyes flickered to the far corner, the boy curled small against the stone, then back to her. “He shouldn’t be here,” Søren said, quieter now, the rumble in his chest almost tender. “There are monsters among us that should. But not him.” he sighed and looked up at her once more..

"Go, now, before any others wake."

 

[Junia]

Dovaryn? Junia's lips curved faintly at the strange word on his tongue. A sound half-foreign, half-haunting and entirely brewed by his fever.

"Hm..." She murmured, almost dismissive, as though she had not heard it properly, or perhaps she did not wish to dwell on it. Yet the word clung in her mind like a burr, delicate and sad.

She watched Søren when he called himself both monster and man, eyes glinting with that same aching fever as he dragged his tongue along the sharp edge of a fang. She did not dispute it. After all, it was true, in its way. He was both. But somehow, standing before him, Junia did not feel that same fear she felt with other monsters. He wouldn't hurt her like others.

And he jolted suddenly, pain ripping through his chest while Junia's brow furrowed as she stepped closer. He tried to hide it, sagging against the wall, but she saw the way he tried to guard his ribs.

"The black wolf," She said softly, "He has a name..." Her voice trembled with a strange realization. She had never thought of them that way. Wolves with names. Wolves with brothers. The people that lived inside the wolf's skin were just that...people.

Her eyes rose back to Søren. "It was courageous.. taking the fight for him." She commented, entirely ignoring his orders to leave. "Move." She said instead, the word hushed and insistent as she pressed her palm gently against his side until he shifted enough to let her see. She tried not to gasp. The bruising was ugly, blackened deep under his skin, already swelling worse than the welt Fabien had left her with.

She set her jaw and began to bind him, hands moving quickly. "I'm glad for his sake Ansel has no idea of the switch during the game. Otherwise I fear he may have made you fight him in that pit." When she tied off the last of the linen strip, she sat back and gathered scattered vials and cloths into her basket.

A sound stopped her. Low, guttural, from the far cells. Wolves half-shifted, eyes catching torchlight with their teeth bared. Their growls bled into the silence, growing with each panicked heartbeat. Men who lost themselves to their curse pounded fists against the iron bars until they shook.

Junia's pulse leapt. She rose quickly, fumbling with the latch and whispering under her breath. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" The key shook in her hands as she tried, and failed to lock Søren's cell. Something small and silver fell from her necklace, rolling along the floor near where Leif slept. Her breath caught, more fear flooding her as she lunged for it.

That was when the crash came.

The wolf she had mistaken for a corpse when she arrived slammed through his own unlocked door, iron slamming into the wall in a loud bang. He was on her in an instant, a mass of claw and reeking, rotten breath. Junia hit the stones hard, the charm forgotten, her skirts tearing as she dragged her along the filthy floor with his teeth.

Junia didn't cry, didn't scream. Wolves fought often in this hell-hole, but the sound of her might very well get them all slaughtered, and even if this was how she ended, they didn't deserve that.

 

[Søren]

His brow furrowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"Of course… We all have names, sad girl," Søren rumbled. And yours is Carriven, he reminded himself bitterly, though he kept the thought buried.

"There’s nothing courageous about any of this," he muttered, swallowing down the bile that threatened with every breath. His amber eyes tracked her hands as they bound him. He allowed it.

When her hair brushed against his arm, pale strands catching the torchlight, his hand rose of its own accord. Fingers caught at the ends, roughened pads dragging softly across them. Gods, soft. He hadn’t touched anything so delicate in years. There were no females amongst the wolves, and he had forgotten what it was to be near a woman at all, let alone one as beautiful as she was, if such others existed.

Then he heard the growl. Low, guttural, wrong. His eyes sharpened, instincts flaring. He should have forced her out sooner.

“No—wait—” Søren grit out as she panicked and left his side. He tried to stand, but his body felt like it was a hundred times heavier than it was.

“Leif!” he barked, the command a whipcrack. His younger brother jolted awake, panic wide in his eyes. “Help me up—protect her—” Søren forced out, just as iron screamed and the wolf burst from its cell.

“NO!!”

Adrenaline burned away pain, and though he couldn’t shift if he tried, he launched himself at the wolf as he dragged her down, claws tearing silk, teeth gnashing at her fragile frame. He didn’t think. He only moved.

Leif was there a breath later, yanking Junia to her feet and shoving her behind him, his face carved with confusion and terror.

“Søren!” Leif shouted, watching his brother crash fists into the wolf’s snarling maw even as its claws raked open new wounds in him.

“Lock the door!!” Søren roared, his growl animal, feral, vibrating through the stones. Behind a locked door, at least, they couldn’t get to her.

Every motion was agony, but he refused to relent. Hooking an arm under the wolf’s throat, Søren dragged the beast down into the blood-stained straw, crushing ribs beneath his weight as he snarled into its ear..

“Fucking… submit!”

 

[Junia]

Junia yelped, a string of sharp, guttural words from her homeland spilling from her lips before she could stop them. "Guðir hjálpi mér! God's help me! Ógnarvænn helvíti hunda! Monstrous hell hound!" Curses her mother would have washed her mouth out for, spat out now in panic as claws and teeth shredded silk from her skirts.

She didn't even see Søren dart over her, his body slamming into the beast in a crack of flesh and bone. It was a blur of black and blood. Her back struck stone, breath knocked out of her, and when she scrambled to her feet, it was Leif's face she saw first- eyes wide, innocent, hand reaching for her.

Junia flinched from him. Shamed burned through her body a heartbeat later when she realized..he wasn't trying to harm her, he was trying to help her.

She didn't feel the burning pain in her leg until the scent of iron hit her nose. Didn't notice blood dripping steadily in a patter beneath her, darkening the straw and stone. All her fear fixed on the bars rattling, other wolves stirring.

"You have to let me out. Please." She gasped, voice high and frantic with more of her accent taking dominance. Her hands grasped at Leif's sleeve. "I can't- I have to.." She gasped for air, shoving the younger werewolf back towards the bars. "You need to help your brother."

Junia fumbled at the back of her head, tugging free a pin that held some of her hair in place, more of her dark and light locks fell loose around her shoulders as she freed a small silver blade that was hidden in the carved clasp. A creative gift from her husband to ensure she never fell victim to his mutts if they were to escape.

She turned back to Leif and shoved it in his hands.

"Subdue the mutt, quickly!" She begged.

 

[Søren]

Leif had long ago learned not to question his brother’s word. If Søren told him to lock the girl in, then that was what he would do. But his hands shook, and he kept his distance. She had already flinched from him once, and she bore the name Carriven. What in the gods’ names was she even doing here?

When she shoved him toward the bars, he stumbled, torn between obeying her and obeying Søren. His eyes darted to the tangle of fur and blood where his brother wrestled the beast.

“I—” The word broke off as she pressed something into his palm. Pain seared through his skin like a brand. Leif cried out, the silver clattering to the stones as he recoiled.

Another step and fire lanced his bare foot as he stood on something else. He yelped again, hopping back, wide-eyed with panic. His gaze snapped to hers, the fear in it raw and unhidden.

She had brought silver into their cells.

Subdue the mutt…

Leif pressed himself harder to the wall of the cell, others growled and snarled and called back to him, telling him to rip out her throat, to break her neck, and worse…

Søren heard both yelps, heard her words, heard the others. His attention snapped sideways, first to the girl, then to his cowering brother. The hesitation cost him. Teeth sank into his arm and white hot pain ripped through him. He snarled, rage flaring, and seized the wolf’s jaws. With a roar of effort , he forced them apart until bone cracked like a branch snapping. The beast yelped, the fight gone out of it, and scrambled limping into the corner.

The other wolves were silent now, their eyes reflecting the torchlight. Watching. Waiting.

Søren staggered to his feet, staggering into the iron bars. Sweat and blood slicked his skin, his chest heaving, fever and dizziness threatening to drag him under. But his gaze still burned gold.

“Challenge me…” His voice was a low growl, rough and commanding. “Or go back… to sleep.”

None moved.

He swayed, his strength thinning, but his words carried weight. His head turned toward his brother, his voice rasping with command.

“Leif… get her… out of here.”

 

[Junia]

The silver hit the stone with a metallic, accusing clink and Junia felt it in her stomach as guilt crept in. She cursed herself under her breath, a single sharp intake of air that tasted like iron. "I'm sorry," she whispered to Leif, taking two stuttering steps away from him, feeling utterly helpless. She noticed a trail of dark droplets that mapped a line across straw and stone from where she had been attacked, noticed the hot, slow thread of blood slipping down the inside of her leg.

Panic rose sharp, but she let the silk cling to the wound rather than draw more attention to herself in the wolf's den.

Søren's voice cut through the chaos then, low and final as the Kennel fell into a tense, waiting hush with other wolves watching him hold a line. Junia heard Leif obey, and for a second thought she saw gratitude in his eyes, quickly followed by something like pity. Shame flooded her so quickly that she tasted bile in her mouth. She slipped past Leif after Søren's command, shoulder brushing the younger wolf's arm. She murmured under her breath, eyes locking onto Søren's as she scurried off.

“Fyrirgef mér, ég verð að fara.” Forgive me, I must go.

She didn't move to pick up her small silver blade. She could not risk the seconds as every heartbeat now felt like bell counting down until her eventual doom. Instead, she limped quickly with one hand pressed to her bleeding leg, the other clutching the basket as she stumbled up the dank staircase and out into the cold night.

Ashcroft's night swallowed her as Junia fled. The great house loomed under torch and moonlight, music from the feast still spilling from open windows as laughter escaped alongside it. Junia paused in the shadow of a pillar and prayed to any god that might be listening, that her absence would not have been noticed, that Fabien would be lost in wine and a warm lap long enough for her to return unnoticed.

She dared the avenue of servants and corridors at a pace that had quickly slowed with her injury, every stone of the Carriven's home familiar yet foreign and daunting under her feet. When she reached the door to the chamber she shared with her husband, the sound that met her was the worst sense of violation. What came was not the idle music of the parties, but the intimate and horribly obscene moans of her husband and a woman. A woman who was not her. Not his wife. Her skin paled quickly, she felt faint. The room pitched and nausea crept back up on her.

Psst.

A soft hiss pulled her from her frozen state. A small hand beckoned; a maid, the same one who she had often seen in the eastern wing, pulled her sideways. The servant's expression was something Junia didn't understand: alarm, confusion, calculation. She tugged the silent Junia along the servant's corridor, little more than a pair of shadows slipping between torchlights. She pressed the young woman through a gap that led into a tiny maid's chamber: a single cot, a basin, a cracked mirror, and the smell of soap was all there was in there.

A door clicked closed behind them.

The maid was older than Junia, slightly wrinkled from years of work and life. Her hands were steady, she was clearly a woman who had seen secrets and folded them away like they were linens. She studied Junia, her pallor, the dark bloodstain on her silks, a bruise blossoming on her face. The woman's mouth hardened into something disgustingly similar to the look that had been on Leif's face- pity- but her tone was without judgment.

"Sit and hold still," She said, guiding Junia to the basin.

Junia sank onto the narrow stool, one hand trembling on the basin's lip. The maid moved with practiced hands, pressing a damp cloth to the bleeding on her thigh. Her expression shifted as she wrung out the bloodied water and began extracting bits of torn silk and straw from the wound with fingers that did not flinch.

"I cannot fix the dress," she murmured, more to herself than Junia, "but it can be hidden." She said as she blotted the wound and dabbed at it with a strong smelling salve. She wrapped her thigh with a strip of linen. "The bite is another matter..."

Junia watched the maid's hands, moving from her leg to her hair as she drew a comb from a nearby table and began taming Junia's loosened locks, reworking it into something simple, but more refined than the windswept waves she wandered in with. Where the carved clasp of her silver had gone missing, the maid produced a plain, dark ribbon and tied it with a bow. With another piece of fabric, she looped it around her waist so that the torn silk could be pinned over with a borrowed petticoat. It hid the worst of the tear.

"You're lucky," the maids voice turned stern and almost motherly, "You didn't come back when the guards were still watching. They would have seen you."

Junia closed her eyes for a single breath, letting the older woman's words steady her. The gown could not be mended, but she doubted her husband had spared it a passing glance with the pretty blonde in his lap. That would be enough.

"Keep to your rooms," the maid whispered, "and if anyone asks, you fainted from the heat in the great hall. The house will eat up that story gladly."

Junia nodded, tucking the older maid's rough hand into her own in a quick thank you, then limped down the servant's passage and back toward her chamber.

 

[Søren]

Leif still stared at her, terror widening his gaze at the thought of being locked in the cell with her. But Søren would never knowingly put him in danger…

She whispered an apology, and Leif’s lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t know what to do with her words, with the shame in her eyes. He only knew the sound of his brother’s voice as it rolled through the kennel, low and final, and held the others at bay.

Leif’s throat bobbed as his gaze shifted past her to Søren. His brother swayed, half-propped against the bars, eyes burning molten gold even through the sweat and blood that drenched him. Around them, the wolves watched in silence, their stares sharp and weighing, as though they were already measuring the cost of patience.

Leif stopped breathing as he waited for the moment one of them might lunge, might test him, might push too far. He prayed, silently and frantically, to any god who might still listen that none would. Søren was strong, yes, but more than that, he had earned their grudging respect. He had fought when others would have fallen, refused to kill when the kill had been begged of him, shielded them from punishment when he could. He had made them useful, valuable, kept them alive in the Carrivens’ pitiless hands.

But now he had spilled blood for the Carriven girl. For her.

Leif’s stomach twisted, dread biting sharp as he wondered how deep the wolves’ hate ran. Deeper than their respect?

His gaze snapped down as a new scent cut through the straw and damp stone. Blood. His pupils dilated, nostrils flaring. It trailed across the floor toward her limp, each dark drop calling to him like a drumbeat.

“Are… were you—” The question died in his throat when Søren growled his name.

Get her… out of here.

Leif obeyed at once, fumbling the lock and pushing the door wide. He followed her as far as he could, ensuring she did not run into any further trouble until she was safely out of any wolves' reach.

When he returned, Søren had already collapsed into the straw, his chest rising shallow and slow. Leif grabbed the blanket, the one that carried her scent, and draped it over him.

“What was she doing here, Sør?… Why.. was she bringing you blankets?” he muttered under his breath, confusion and unease knotting together.

He locked the cell door, though not for her this time. For Søren. For the sake of keeping him alive while the kennel burned with unrest, while rage and howls rattled the iron through the night.

Søren slept through it all.

 

[Junia]

The blonde woman stumbled from the room Junia shared with Fabien, half-dressed and completely hammered. Junia watched her from the shadows of the hallway, eyes narrowed while the blonde made her way in the opposite direction, humming a happy little tune. Something hot burned behind her eyes, a sharp pang in her chest for a man who made it a habit to sample the locals.

She rubbed at her sternum until the pain went away, quietly padding along the stone floor until she reached the door. She pressed an ear to it, listening until the satisfied snores of her husband caught her attention. It was safe.

Junia slipped inside the room and glanced at him, sleeping heavily with nothing more than a ring on his finger. Candles burned low, the hearth nearly out by the time she made her way to her wardrobe and let the ruined dress fall to the floor. Other than the bruise to her face and the bite in her thigh, she was relatively unscathed. She could not say the same for Søren or the other wolf, although she hoped her efforts to aid Søren were not in vain.

She froze as Fabien rolled over, groggily opening one eye and beckoning her over in a mess of slurred words.

"I'll be back in a moment, love." She murmured, grabbing a longer nightgown and donning it before he was conscious enough to notice the bandage on her leg.

With shaken steps, Junia made her way to the messy bed and laid down beside her husband, quickly drifting off.

---

Heat came in waves. At first Junia thought it was the closeness of her husband as he wrapped himself around her. But the warmth grew intolerable, worsening as hours passed, pressing against her until even the silk of her nightgown felt suffocating.

She stirred in bed, lashes fluttering against the faint sheen of sweat that covered her. An ache deep in her thigh seemed to be creeping outward, burning and throbbing beneath the torn flesh. Junia hissed softly, pressing a hand to the wound, feeling heat radiating through her nightgown.

Sleep came in waves. When her eyes closed, she floated on fever-dreams of snarling jaws and bloodied sands, of silver clattering on stone and wolves whispering in their cages. Her body tossed and turned, unable to remain trapped in her husband's arms, damp hair sticking to her skin as she fought back shallow breaths.

Her mouth was dry, pulse growing rapid and uneven. She shivered despite the sweat beading on her skin. Her leg ached, growing sharper each time she shifted.

Junia curled in on herself, whispering half-formed words in the cadence of her homeland. Not curses. Fragments of old prayers she had not spoken since childhood. She clung to them like driftwood even as her throat rasped with each ragged breath.

Burning. She was burning alive.

 

[Søren]

The morning came slowly. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and unrest; a storm had broken in the night, and its echoes still simmered.

Leif hadn’t slept. He sat cross legged near the bars, his back to the cold stone, staring at his brother. Søren lay still in the straw, a shrouded shape beneath the blanket, breath steady but shallow. Leif had checked a dozen times just to be sure his chest still rose.

The wolves hadn’t been quiet, not for a moment. They had howled and snarled through the dark, fists battering iron, voices rising in rage. Not just hunger. Not just pain. Something else gnawed at them now. Something sharper.

Whispers had rippled through the cells like the hiss of snakes.

He bled for her.
The Carriven whore.
He chose her over his own.

Respect for Søren had held them back last night. But in the grey light of morning, it frayed. Too many pairs of eyes fixed on him now, gleaming with suspicion. Wolves owed him their lives, but they had lost brothers to the Carrivens. How long before that debt was forgotten?

Leif felt their stares like hot coals pressed to his skin. He had never been more aware of the name that clung to the girl. Carriven. The same name that hung over them all like a curse.

He shifted, running a hand over his hair, still catching the faint scent of her blood. It clung to the straw, to the stones, and worse, to the blanket covering his brother.

Søren stirred then, a low sound escaping him, and Leif leaned forward instantly.

“Don’t move too fast,” he whispered. “They’re watching. All of them. And they’re not… they’re not happy with you.”

From the darker corners of the kennel came a growl, soft but dangerous, a warning that the night’s unrest had not truly ended.

"What the fuck was the Carriven bitch doing here, Sør?" Isak growled from the next cell, another few started up too, but Isak slammed his chains against the bars and quieted them. "Let him speak!!"

Leif gave Søren a nervous look, reaching to help him sit up, though Søren refused the help and pulled himself to sit up, head bowed, fingers kneading the back of his neck.

"She was healing me." he answered.

"Why the fuck would she do that?"

Søren shrugged. "I don't know - but she risked being killed by them and us for doing it, and if she hadn't I'd likely be dead." he said matter-of-factly. "She tried to stop the fight yesterday. Maybe, she can be of use - either way, she came here offering help and didn't deserve to be killed for that."

"She brought silver in here! I can smell it!" Gregor growled, pacing two cells away, shoulders rolling..

"She'd be a fool if she didn't. Some of you proved that point." Søren growled back in warning. "She's not of their blood. Perhaps she's just as much a prisoner here as we are." he grimaced as he used the bars to pull himself to his feet, still unsteady. He looked down at the cloth she'd wrapped around his wounds.

"You want to fuck her, Sør? That it?" Isak growled.
"I'll take my turn first." Gregor chimed in, and the two rattled their bars at one another. Søren huffed.

"She won't be touched, by any of you. That's a fucking warning."

There was the crash of a door being kicked open, and every wolf including Søren clutched at their heads as they were brought to heel by the warden and his leash.

"Alright mutts - save it for the bloodpit." he grinned, silver teeth glinting.