They had surrounded her before she even realised they were hunting. When the five uniformed men stepped out, she assumed they were nothing more than another group of opportunistic bastards looking to corner a lone woman on an empty road. She spat venom at them as they closed in, chin lifted in defiance, her fingers steady on the hilt of her knife despite the rapid, traitorous thrum of her heartbeat. Five men, ten, it didn’t matter. She told them to try her, that she’d gut them one by one and watch them bleed for it.
But that was when she noticed their weapons. Not steel. Silver. Chains and blades of it. Hooks meant for flesh. Shackles that hissed simply from their nearness.
Wardens. And she was far too late to run.
They came at her in a single, seamless movement, trained hands catching her arms, her hair, her throat, dragging her down before she could fully shift her weight. She managed to draw some blood, at least, before someone slapped a silver cuff against her wrist and the metal seared through her skin like a brand, her own pitiful blade falling uselessly to the dirt. A scream tore itself from her throat before she could swallow it down, incensed and animalistic, and she fought harder, cursing them, snapping at them, lashing out with every shred of fury she had left. Her defiance earned her a fist to the jaw, another to the ribs and stomach, and still she didn’t stop. It took a boot between her shoulder blades to force her to the ground.
A heavy bag was shoved over her head, swallowing the world in suffocating darkness.
They hauled her like luggage, half-conscious and kicking weakly, and threw her into a carriage lined with silver. The moment she hit the floor, the burn sank deeper, worming into flesh and bone. She curled instinctively to escape it, but the silver was everywhere; beneath her, around her, close enough that her skin felt flayed simply by breathing. Manacles bit into her wrists, and the scent of her own scorched flesh filled the air. She kept screaming anyway, hurling insults, promising their deaths with a violence she meant from the marrow.
Someone finally grew tired of her voice. A blunt strike cracked against the back of her skull, shattering her thoughts like glass. Darkness swallowed her whole.
When she came to, rain was hitting her face, cold and relentless, drenching her through her clothes and the hood still tied over her head. She thrashed instinctively, her throat raw, but the Wardens who held her moved with practiced ease, restraining her as if handling nothing more than a rabid dog. They forced her to her knees in the mud, their weight grinding her into the earth. She tried to twist free, but the hands pinning her were merciless, and exhaustion dragged heavily through her limbs.
Avalyn had no idea what they pressed into the back of her neck, it felt like a brand, but her mind exploded in white-hot agony. The rune burned straight through flesh and into something deeper, something she hadn’t known could hurt. She screamed until her voice cracked, until she tasted blood, until she was certain the sound had torn itself out of her lungs forever. Her body arched violently and then collapsed, shaking, trembling, pulled under wave after wave of blinding pain.
When it finally subsided, she barely knew where she was.
They dragged her inside without ceremony, through corridors thick with damp stone, rusting bars, the metallic tang of old blood and new, of swear and squalor, the thick scents so suffocating she thought she might vomit in her hood. Jeers echoed from the cells they passed, growls and snarls and harsh laughter, voices warped by pain or madness. She caught scents she didn’t want to understand: other wolves, despair, rage simmering like acid, the metallic sting of silver drifting from every direction.
A lock turned. Iron creaked open.
“Enjoy your stay, mutt,” one guard muttered, shoving her forward and punctuating the word with a sharp kick to the back of her legs that sent her to her knees. Her manacles were unclasped, the hood yanked off, and the cell door was slammed behind her, the sound rattling through her a knell.
But that was when she noticed their weapons. Not steel. Silver. Chains and blades of it. Hooks meant for flesh. Shackles that hissed simply from their nearness.
Wardens. And she was far too late to run.
They came at her in a single, seamless movement, trained hands catching her arms, her hair, her throat, dragging her down before she could fully shift her weight. She managed to draw some blood, at least, before someone slapped a silver cuff against her wrist and the metal seared through her skin like a brand, her own pitiful blade falling uselessly to the dirt. A scream tore itself from her throat before she could swallow it down, incensed and animalistic, and she fought harder, cursing them, snapping at them, lashing out with every shred of fury she had left. Her defiance earned her a fist to the jaw, another to the ribs and stomach, and still she didn’t stop. It took a boot between her shoulder blades to force her to the ground.
A heavy bag was shoved over her head, swallowing the world in suffocating darkness.
They hauled her like luggage, half-conscious and kicking weakly, and threw her into a carriage lined with silver. The moment she hit the floor, the burn sank deeper, worming into flesh and bone. She curled instinctively to escape it, but the silver was everywhere; beneath her, around her, close enough that her skin felt flayed simply by breathing. Manacles bit into her wrists, and the scent of her own scorched flesh filled the air. She kept screaming anyway, hurling insults, promising their deaths with a violence she meant from the marrow.
Someone finally grew tired of her voice. A blunt strike cracked against the back of her skull, shattering her thoughts like glass. Darkness swallowed her whole.
When she came to, rain was hitting her face, cold and relentless, drenching her through her clothes and the hood still tied over her head. She thrashed instinctively, her throat raw, but the Wardens who held her moved with practiced ease, restraining her as if handling nothing more than a rabid dog. They forced her to her knees in the mud, their weight grinding her into the earth. She tried to twist free, but the hands pinning her were merciless, and exhaustion dragged heavily through her limbs.
Avalyn had no idea what they pressed into the back of her neck, it felt like a brand, but her mind exploded in white-hot agony. The rune burned straight through flesh and into something deeper, something she hadn’t known could hurt. She screamed until her voice cracked, until she tasted blood, until she was certain the sound had torn itself out of her lungs forever. Her body arched violently and then collapsed, shaking, trembling, pulled under wave after wave of blinding pain.
When it finally subsided, she barely knew where she was.
They dragged her inside without ceremony, through corridors thick with damp stone, rusting bars, the metallic tang of old blood and new, of swear and squalor, the thick scents so suffocating she thought she might vomit in her hood. Jeers echoed from the cells they passed, growls and snarls and harsh laughter, voices warped by pain or madness. She caught scents she didn’t want to understand: other wolves, despair, rage simmering like acid, the metallic sting of silver drifting from every direction.
A lock turned. Iron creaked open.
“Enjoy your stay, mutt,” one guard muttered, shoving her forward and punctuating the word with a sharp kick to the back of her legs that sent her to her knees. Her manacles were unclasped, the hood yanked off, and the cell door was slammed behind her, the sound rattling through her a knell.
