PEARL'S POV

The first thing that hit me when I woke up was the smell: stale urine mixed with damp stone and something rotten lurking in the corners. My eyes flicker in the shadows, and I realize I'm chained up just high enough that my shoulders ache from holding my weight. The iron cuffs are biting into my wrists, cold and heavy, while the rough shackles on my ankles add to the discomfort.

Above me, there's a drip echoing like water seeping through a rock, or maybe it's just my mind slowly emptying.

Pain throbs behind my eyes, dull and nauseating. I can taste old blood in my mouth. A part of me wishes I had just stayed asleep, dead even, but that's just not my luck. I always wake up.

I wiggle my arms, testing the chains, which scrape against my skin like iron. My breath fogs the air in front of my lips. I shut my eyes for a moment and see him again-the boy who was meant to be my mate, but he mocked my heart and chose my half-sister as his mate inside of me, which was three nights ago.

The room was packed with wolves from all over Pandara, excitedly snarling, laughing, and snapping their teeth. The Mating Ceremony is the night when bonds are made-or broken-in front of everyone who matters.

I stood at the edge of the dais, head down. The hem of my borrowed silk dress was torn. Kaela, in a crimson lace so sheer it glimmered like blood, stood beside me, glowing in the torchlight.

Then, they called his name: Aleric, son of Beta Janos. He was strong and broad-shouldered, with golden eyes that slid over me like I was just a stain on his boots. Even though the old seer had hinted that he wouldn't choose me anymore, I still held onto a secret hope that he would honor the longstanding agreement that I would be his mate someday.

I wanted to believe that if he chose me, I'd be with someone who wouldn't look down on me, and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to endure these endless humiliations.

When the drums stopped, a hush fell over the hall. He stepped forward and looked at me intently, just as we had when we were puppies chasing fireflies in the orchard. Back then, he'd smile and share stolen pears with me behind the old fence.

But just like that, his gaze shifted to Kaela, and he beamed at her even wider.

Then, he spat at my feet.

"You?" he laughed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You think I'd tie myself to that?"

A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the crowd, hitting my skin like boiling oil.

I tried to speak; my mouth opened, but my tongue felt like stone.

Aleric stepped closer, brushing my cheek with his fingers like he was wiping dirt off his knife. I could see Kaela behind him, hiding her smile behind her hand, pretending to be shocked.

"You're not worth the dirt under my claws, Pearl. Kaela is powerful. I'll have sons with her who won't crawl like you."

He turned and lifted Kaela's hand high for everyone to see. The pack roared their approval, and the sound rang in my ears like the last remnants of my shattered dreams burning to ash.

I remember Kaela leaning in close, her lips brushing against his ear while her eyes darted to me-bright, cruel, and victorious.

That night, I lay awake in the corner of the servants' hall, staring up at the black beams overhead as Kaela and Aleric celebrated somewhere deep in the Alpha's wing. Their laughter echoed through the empty corridors like knives scraping against bone.

I didn't sleep. I didn't cry. I just lay there, counting my breaths as I stared at the rotten beam above me.

By dawn, I knew what I had to do.

I couldn't stay here... I had to escape before Kaela decided I was too filthy to breathe her air or just a ghost crawling on the floor.

If I ran, I might die, starve in the wild, or freeze by the river. Maybe, just maybe-I'd make it to Vartun. They say the Alpha King is a beast, and no woman who enters his chambers ever comes out the same or alive. Our entire pack never sets foot in his territory.

But I would rather face death at the hands of a monster than rot under Kaela's heel.

The memory tears through me like claws as I hang here now, chained up, blood dried on my lip, and my wrists rubbed raw. I almost laugh, but it would come out as a sob, so I swallow it down.

Kaela, this is what you wanted. A spectacle. A lesson. The aim is to instill a sense of self-awareness in everyone and inspire a girl to humble herself.

But I'm not defeated yet.

With a moan, the cell door creaks open. Harsh golden light spills in. I blink against it. Aleric stands there, his eyes filled with the same disdain that stung me three nights ago, while Kaela glides in like a velvet-draped wraith, her new partner following closely behind.

She approaches me, her skirts brushing the floor, crouching down to make sure we're eye-to-eye-just to make me feel small.

"You should see yourself," she purrs. "So pitiful." "Did you think you'd be chosen over me?"

With a low, sarcastic laugh, Aleric drapes his arm over her shoulders as if she's already fulfilled all his desires.

Maybe she has.

Kaela leans in, her voice dripping with venom. "You owe me your gratitude, little sister. If you'd left, Vartun's king would've devoured you before you even learned to beg."

My skin splits and stings, and I curl my lip. "Better his fangs than your lies."

She freezes for a moment, then her smile returns, brighter than ever. "Tomorrow, you'll burn where Mother burned. And I'll wear white silk while they scatter your ashes."

Behind her, Aleric chuckles, a sound that curdles my blood.

"Sweet dreams, worthless thing," Kaela whispers, her perfume choking the stale air one last time. Then, the cell door slams shut, stealing the light before the iron bolts engulf it.

A few moments later...

It's darker than before, but I sense the presence of another person; heavy boots shuffle in the stillness, and for a brief second, I'm convinced Aleric is returning to hurl another insult before my bones freeze.

But the steps stop at the jingling metal keys just outside the bars, and when I look up, a faint lantern flickers, casting gold over the scarred face of a man I vaguely remember from my childhood, back when I was still too small to matter. His shoulders slump as if the chains around my wrists weigh him down too.

For the first time, I'm not referred to as a slave or a thing or a useless one, as he whispers my name, "Pearl."

I blink at him, the torchlight blinding me. I want to speak, but the words just won't come.

He kneels by the bars, trembling as he grips the iron ring of keys. "I knew your mother. Saria. She once hid my family when the old Alpha was hunting down rebels. She fed my boy when there was no bread left for herself."

He gasps, half in sorrow, half in regret. "I should've done something sooner. I'm sorry."

He nods toward my cuffs. "Hurry. Take these off. When you're free, put this cloak on."

He tosses me a bundle of rough cloth-a prison guard's cloak, too big for my frame but thick enough to conceal the blood and chains.

My lips tremble. I want to say thank you. Why now? What about you?

But all I manage to say is, "How do I get out?"

He speaks in a trembling whisper, like a dying flame: "There's an old drain tunnel under the orchard wall. Don't turn; just crawl straight. You'll know you're close when you see the roots above. Don't stop."

He rises, heavy with regret, and disappears down the hall without waiting for thanks-perhaps he knows I don't have any left to give.

I don't waste another breath. My fingers slip the key into the left shackle; it clicks open with a sigh that sounds like freedom.

The metal scrapes against my raw skin, tearing it wider, but pain is the price of freedom. I encounter one shackle after another. They cling to the stone like the last heartbeat of my cage.

I wrap the guard's cloak tightly around me. It smells of old sweat and stale oil, but at least it's better than Aleric's mockery or Kaela's sweet poison.

I slip through the half-hidden crack, my shoulders scraping against stone, cold wind biting at my torn wrists; the drain tunnel engulfs me, frost prickling my ankles, roots scratching my scalp, one foot in front of the other.

As I press my forehead against the wet stone at the mouth beneath the orchard wall, I let go of the last of my fear.

I pull the cloak tighter around me, ready to bolt into the orchard's quiet embrace, but something freezes my pulse.

Torchlight flickers beyond the courtyard stones above. A lithe figure passes through the golden spill, with delicate shoulders, perfectly brushed hair, and that silver chain glinting at her wrist.

Bisca.

I barely manage to catch my breath before biting my tongue to keep silent.

She pauses, tilting her head just enough that her silhouette cuts through the torchlight.

"Is she looking for me?"

"Did she come to check if I'm still chained, helpless, waiting for the mercy of morning?"

Or did she come because some corner of her heart still remembers orchard trees and whispered promises in the dark?

I tuck my fingers into the folds of the cloak tightly. I'm certain she can hear the loud thump of my heartbeat.

Bisca lingers, her face turned toward the dungeon door as the torch flickers again, taking a step closer, and then another.

I can't see her eyes or her smile, but I know if she opens that cell door now and finds nothing but cold shackles and my blood staining the stones, the alarm will echo through Pandara before I even reach the path to the dark river.

She pauses-so close I swear I can feel her warmth through the wall.

Is she coming in?

I cover my mouth with my palm to smother the sob that's pushing up my throat, hoping the stillness of the courtyard holds its breath above me.

"Did Bisca notice the open lock? Did she hear the chain slip? Did she feel my shadow brushing past hers?"

My only prayer: "Don't open that door. Don't see. Don't betray me twice."

The silence above cracks; a hinge creaks.

A lantern hisses.

"Is she opening the cell?"

My heart is screaming in my head. Now or never, I ready myself to flee.

In the dark beneath Pandara's orchard, I wait, breath held between freedom and a blade.

PEARL'S POV

I spot Bisca's shadow shifting, her boots whispering against the gravel in the courtyard.

She's about to open it.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, even though my skin feels frozen. I slide my fingers under the guard's cloak, gripping the key he put in my palm moments ago; it feels cold now. Everything feels cold.

The orchard will erupt with hunting horns long before my feet touch the river, and if Bisca catches sight of the blood on the bracket and the empty shackles, she'll either call Aleric or scream for Kaela.

For a moment, I think about crawling back and hiding my raw wrists in iron, giving in to the chain, because I'd rather be chained than shot by Aleric's arrows or even remain broken instead of turning to ashes by sunrise.

Then I remember her voice whispering in me like poisoned wine. "Pearl, I'll always stand by you." Behind that door, Kaela listened intently as she whispered orchard secrets near my ear. Her soft hands brushed my hair while she counted my bruises, which she would later share with Kaela, turning my weakness into gossip for her gain.

Stupid, I hiss at myself. Blind. I let her braid my hair before the mating ceremony, wrap me in ribbons, and feed me the hope that Aleric would choose me, that someone, anyone, might see beyond the dirt they threw on my name.

Now, I can see it from my cell, tucked beneath the orchard wall, while Bisca's boots pause above me. I see her tilt her head, her hair perfectly groomed, while mine reeks of the stables. "Don't worry," she'd say. "When he sees you, he'll know you're special. He'll see you're the real Luna."

Lies. I remember the twist of her mouth when she pulled the ribbon tight enough to choke me. I can see the sparkle in Kaela's eyes when Bisca shared my foolish daydreams with her.

In the hallway outside the banquet, I watched them laugh together, and Bisca leaned in close to my sister as if they'd both been betrayed by the same person.

A sound that could be either a snarl or a sob clamps down on my throat. The hinge above me groans again. Is it open or closed? Has she realized the cuffs are empty? She might have slipped in to check the stone corner where my hope died.

Inside, I growl, No more chains and no more sweet poison.

With my knees scraping against the tunnel roots and my palms burning from the frost, I push forward.

Whether she discovers it or not, I won't give in now.

At the mouth of the tunnel, the raw wind bites my skin. I climb as Frost cracks the stones in the far corner.

Blood drips from my torn wrists and seeps through the guard's borrowed cloak as I scramble towards the opening.

Halfway up, my forehead slams into a cold stone, and my mother's words echo in my mind:

"Run so far, they can't drag you back," pierced the ice.

Bisca's ghost chuckles: "Too late."

As I swing my leg over at the top, my cloak catches on a rusty nail, and roots scratch my calf before I tumble to the other side. My hands sink into frost-burned moss while my knees hit the frozen ground hard. It tears away from me as I land.

Then I hear footsteps behind me, followed by a voice that sends a chill through my bones. "Pearl," Aleric says, his tone as welcoming as grave soil, and steel slides free from its sheath. "Keep running," Kaela urges. "The dogs want a taste of you."

My ribs crack like old ice as I push myself up.

Flashback: Gullible Pearl

That night, under the white blossom tree in the orchard, with Bisca's head resting on my lap and the stars seeming to whisper above, it all floods back.

"Promise me you'll never leave me alone here, Bisca." She patiently braided my hair, her fingers cool against my scalp.

"Never. I'd die before I betrayed you, Pearl. You're my family, too."

I believed her, like a starving pup licking the hand that feeds it poison.

When Kaela's punishments started seeping under my skin, and the whip cut into my back for the first time, Bisca was there at the foot of my bed, her hands cold on my fevered brow and worry in her eyes.

"If only you'd listen better, Pearl. Then Kaela wouldn't have to be so harsh."

I allowed that rot to envelop me like a cozy blanket. I was fooled into thinking my secrets and hers were safe. I shared every bruise and dream with her, and she handed them back with a smile-Kaela's smile.

Now I see it clearly, like Aleric's arrow being pulled back behind me.

I should've picked up on it, but I was so desperate for voices that didn't spit poison and hands that didn't strike.

The edge of the orchard, the mist of the black river curling like ghostly fingers, and the border stones are so close I can taste the iron of Vartun's woods as the frost cracks under my boots.

My palms sink into the cold muck as I stumble and fall to my knees again.

Aleric's voice gets closer, and it makes me feel sick.

"Pearl!" His bow creaks; the string is a promise of death.

I can't look back. Blood trails down my wrists like a broken promise, and muck covers my fingers as I crawl ahead.

I throw myself to the left; behind me, the arrow slams into the tree, narrowly missing my ear. Pain blooms behind my eyes, bright and exhilarating, and I crash into frozen reeds.

"I'm alive! I'm still alive."

The ancient granite, covered in moss and engraved with Vartun's wolf crest, looms as I struggle on. My knees burn raw against the ground, and my cloak drags through the mud.

Aleric's footsteps shatter the stillness behind me, and his growl shakes the trees:

"You're mine, Pearl. Run, crawl; it won't matter!"

The black river coughs mist as I drag my ribs over the first stone. The hiss of the arrow slices through the silence, indicating that it is getting closer-too close-

I move on. In the muck where my throat should've bled, the arrow buries itself.

I let out a ragged breath that might be a laugh. I give it one last push. My stomach rubs against granite; my lips sting from the frost. I'm crossing over.

At the edge of Vartun, the hounds from the orchard are choking, and I can feel Pandara's silence fading behind me.

Aleric's shout echoes through the trees, but he's forced to stop. The rules of Vartun demand blood from those who trespass. These stones are beyond Kaela's reach.

I feel dizzy.

[Pearl collapses].

Mud swallows my face, and frost nips at my ears. It's the black lullaby of the river.

"I'm out! I'm finally free."

A shadow blocks the moon, broad shoulders and fur-lined leather; the wolf beside him perks up and opens its yellow eyes like twin lanterns.

He kneels, and for the first time in ages, I feel the warmth of a living creature.

His gloved hand gently brushes the frost from my temple.

His breath, tasting of winter and iron, lingers in my ear.

"Not dead yet, are you, little stray?" His voice carries the weight of old woods and quiet wildness. "Good."

As the wolf sniffs at the blood on my wrists, its muzzle dips, and steam rises from its nostrils. It exposes its fangs, not towards me, but towards the shadows lurking behind me.

I swear I can hear the orchard sigh somewhere, Kaela's scream muffled by trees that will never care for her.

The man's rough, bark-calloused fingers lift my chin. He tilts my face toward the moon. I can see his eyes; they're alive but just as cold as the river.

"He murmurs, 'Looks like Pandara lost something precious tonight.'" His smile is more menacing than soothing.

"Or maybe it finally spit out what it couldn't kill."

I wish I could ask, "Who are you?"

But before I can speak, the silence slips down my throat.

The last thing I see is his grin, sharp like fresh bone, and the wolf's eyes darting back toward the orchard.

"Sleep, stray," he whispers. "You're ours now."

And just like that, the orchard crumbles behind me like a dream I no longer belong to as the darkness wraps around me.

MENDEL'S POV

I can still smell her blood on my gloves. It's stronger than the smoke from the curing racks outside my cabin or the pine pitch I used to scrub them at the hearth, even stronger than the bite of frost that settles over the upper ridges of Vartun when the sun hides behind the tip of the mountains.

I stand by the window, watching the snow blow off the branches. Behind me, sleeping, is the girl from the river, whose name I have yet to learn.

The term "sleeping" may not be quite accurate; it seems more like she is drowning, torn between two realities. I've seen enough hurt wolves in my time to recognize when the body is ready to let go. But hers? She appears to be grappling with an internal conflict, snarling against the darkness and resisting the urge to extinguish her life.

I should've either left her behind or disposed of her body in the river, blaming it on the frost wolves that prowl the borders. That's exactly what any sensible second son of the royal line, the Alpha's brother, would do.

But when I knelt by that dark river and pressed my fingers to her throat, something shifted. There is something different about her.

When I was a kid, my father used to take me hunting through the red pine forests that sit in the heart of Vartun. He would share with me the ancient legends of the First Brood, the Shadowborn mothers who gave birth to sons who, with a single growl, could shift, heal, and bind wounds. Next came the "Lost Daughters," an ancient myth so old that real warriors scoff if you mention it at the fire: a woman once had the power to seal the Alpha's wound from the inside out. She was capable of carrying more than just fur and fang.

The old priests called it Bloodbonded before they all disappeared with their secrets in the moonlight.

That story is merely superstition; it's a pleasant one for puppies who dream of queens and heirs powerful enough to topple mountains.

But tonight, by that river, I could feel the girl's pulse, and my bones echoed. The bond spoke through my bone marrow as if it were living.

I turn away from the window, forcing myself to step softly over the rush mat. She is curled up beneath my brother's wolfskin cloak, which nearly engulfs her petite frame with its thick black pelt. The moonlight coming in through the shutters makes her face look ghostly pale.

In the silver light, the scars on her skin stand out: a new lattice on her wrists where the iron sank the deepest, and thin, white lines on her collarbone and temple.

Wolves can heal marks like these in a matter of days. Our blood clears infections faster than any herb-witch ever could. We mend bones within hours if the marrow's hot enough, but this girl's wounds cling like shadows. They close, but not quickly enough, as they are desperate for warmth that she doesn't have. The priests used to whisper that the first sign was a Half-Wraith, with one foot in the world where the Moon Mother conceals her secrets and whose flesh lies halfway between the mortal coil and the outside world.

"Power or poison?" "I say," gazing at the girl; the way her breath curls feebly against the fur makes me wonder if it's both.

I approach the brazier, sift through the coals, and sprinkle fresh pinecones on the embers, making the air heavy with the pungent, warm scent of pitch and resin, which is believed to be beneficial for preventing sickness. I learned that traditional method of avoiding illness from my mother, before she succumbed to my father's teeth in the last ceremony. We don't bury queens in Vartun. We keep them in our blood forever.

As I look back at the Pandara girl, I tighten my grip on the iron poker.

My brother, the Alpha King, has no idea how close he is to tragedy. Not even half of the court is aware of it; they talk about his strength, how he can control the storms when he shifts, and how the border packs shudder when he howls in the Blood Moon; however, such power always comes with a cost.

Only I have seen him at dawn, when he is unable to change back, when his bones are trapped between man and wolf, flesh and bone, until he tastes iron in his lungs. The ancient name for it is the Curse of the Unbalanced Hide, a flaw that should never show up in a bloodline as ancient as ours.

The Alpha King needs an heir, a child of a mate who can tame the poison and bind the wild back into him, in addition to carrying the pup; furthermore, no she-wolf has ever made it through mating long enough to bear a child past the first moon's turn under these spears of frost and pine.

I kneel by the bedside now. "I shouldn't be here." "Under Vartun's crest, I am Mendel of Ironhold, Third Sub-Kingdom, and if any of my adversaries saw me bowing over a fugitive Pandara scrap, they would slit my throat and call it good wolf work."

However, her coarse, neglected hair rubs against my wrist, and when I push a lock aside, I feel a spark of heat beneath my palm, not the warmth of flesh, but something more profound, like a pulse beneath the ribs of the earth.

Knowing the old signs, I clench my jaw. During the rise and fall of the Shadowborn cults, my father's scribes destroyed the majority of the scrolls, but I continued to listen to my grandmother's voice crackling by the fireplace night after night.

You protect her throat and belly as though they were your own, and if you find her, she will hiss and weave bramble crowns into my hair because it is her womb that restores kings to wholeness.

Pulling my hand back, I get to my feet and make myself stop telling the old stories.

This girl might be a fraud or simply a sick stray whose heartbeat echoes false promises through veins that have been frozen. Pandara creates too many false impressions of shattered girls who appear naive enough to gain a wolf's trust before destroying you in your sleep.

But my instincts don't lie. Neither does Ghost, the wolf who never allows a stranger to approach him. When I brought her in, half-frozen and bleeding, he licked her wounds before I could bandage them. He curled up at her feet, choosing her.

A chill pricks at my spine.

I straighten up. "Enough wondering; I need the truth, not scraps of stories clawing at my ribs in the dead of night."

I stomp toward the door, flinging it open. The night wind bites at my face, sharp with pine sap. I see two guards standing stiff in the snow, their thick cloaks pulled tight against the cold.

"Bring the Silver-Fur Physicians," I yell. "All of them, and the Bone-Seers from Hollow Glen-tell them Ironhold demands their haste; if any question it, tear out their tongues and feed them to the frost hounds."

The younger guard's eyes widen. "All of them, my lord? That's-"

"All," I growl. "Right now. Before her heart stops dancing with the shadows."

Snow swirls beneath boot and paw as they hasten away, and I take a breath. Like an ancient ghost, the wind creeps up my throat and snakes inside my collar.

"Six months-that's all the moon grants before the Choosing at the High Stone, where the Alpha King's mate will be named." Under Vartun's crest, twelve sub-kingdoms are entrusted with delivering a daughter for the mate-blood binding. Only one she-wolf, who has been pampered and blessed, is presented to the Alpha King to either be claimed or killed.

Ironhold does not have a noble she-wolf, a daughter, or any bloodline worthy of this cycle. That is, until tonight, when the Black River brought a broken girl with secrets older than any vow.

My gaze returns to the fireplace. With his head raised, Ghost touches Pearl's palm where his nose slipped from the fur. Her flinch shows no dreamy tremor at all.

"Good. Let the healers tend to her marrow and soothe the bruised veins, and let her skin mend faster under the Moon Mother's hush."

When she wakes, I'll ask her name again, the real one this time. I'll peel back every lie Pandara buried in her tongue. I'll taste the truth of her blood.

Ironhold will either lift her from mud to the queen's chain or break her in the process if the old tales run through her womb, as I believe they will, and if her power can restore my brother's hide to its fullest.

I head for the cabinet by the fireplace. To relieve bone pain in wolves that shift too young, midwives mixed silverthorn draught and pulled the stopper from an iron flask. I pour a capful and gently press it to her lip; her throat functions weakly as the bitter liquid slides down, preventing her from choking.

"Good girl," I think. Good ghost. Hold on."

I call for the servants as I see silent shapes in the doorway, and they bring bowls of rosemary smoke, hot water, and fresh linens to prevent infection. I point out that her clothes are now tattered rags, and they carefully remove them to avoid new scabs. They wash her slowly while whispering half-blessings older than any priest's scroll, and then they dress her in a soft wool shift dyed Ironhold blue, the color of my house, and lay her on the guest inn's wide bed, which is covered in fox furs and wolf pelts.

They leave bowls of meat broth on the hearth after they're done; I stayed there for a long time after the servants had gone.

Snow snatches at the shutters. Ghost raises his muzzle, his ears quivering in the wind as if it were whispering a secret.

I cast a glance at the girl, the lost ghost of Pandara, or perhaps Vartun's next storm.

Despite the howling wind, I swear I can hear the Blood Moon reacting tonight.