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.

PEARL'S POV

Overwhelming warmth swept over me as I slowly came to consciousness. It was so profound that I briefly questioned whether I was truly dead or if the dark river had carried me away to a peaceful place, a world away from the Pandara.

I stayed perfectly still, fearing that any movement would cause this feeling to disappear. The warmth enveloped me, the comforting hush of a fire surrounded me, and the weight of fur was draped across my shoulders, like a promise I wasn't quite ready to trust.

It was all blurry when I opened my eyes for the first time, and I could just make out a heavy, dark beam above me, like the spine of some giant beast lying there. Firelight flickered languidly, and shadows danced across it, glimmers of gray and gold. I shut my eyes again, taking in the scents around me: pine pitch, hearth smoke, and damp fur.

Beneath those, there was a sharp, clean smell of iron, unlike the stale hay and sour straw that lingered in the orchard kennels they referred to as my 'cell.' The warmth penetrated deeper, reaching the bruises hidden under the guard's stolen cloak; no, that was gone now. Instead, I felt the soft rub of thick wool against my ribs, almost itchy in its gentleness.

My wrists itched as well, recalling where the shackles had dug into my skin and my hope.

I started to drift, and my mind started to open up against my will in that place; I saw Bisca's smile, white and bright like bone, as she leaned in to braid my hair with orchard blossoms that smelled sweeter than my fear; I remembered Kaela's hands, adorned and delicate, the same hands that had clapped mockingly when they forced my head down in the banquet hall so that everyone could see the stray 'in her stable daughter's skin. I felt the cold grip me, heard the horn, and tasted the river's black tongue on my ribs as I crawled. I jolted, a whimper escaping before I could swallow it back.

The warmth nearly escaped me, and then I almost broke free from it. Yet something held me back; not a chain of iron, but something heavier and softer-fur.

I forced my eyes open again, and this time, my vision settled. The roof beam was still there, steady as a heartbeat. Below it, a wide shuttered window was crusted with frost, moonlight filtering through the wooden slats in faint glimmers.

Now, there was a stronger pine scent that blended with something else, something warm and alive.

"Animal."

I turned my head just enough to see a wolf curled up like a shadow at the foot of the bed, its breath puffing tiny clouds into the chill. It was massive and silver-furred, its flank rising and falling slowly like the tide; one ear twitched at my movement, and its eyes cracked open, golden and alert; they were now watching me, making my breath catch in my throat.

This wolf didn't lunge or flash its fangs, unlike the wolves of Pandara, who wore iron collars and only bared their teeth when ordered. If they were allowed to roam freely, it was a sign of a hunt or sport. It just watched me as if waiting for something. I didn't dare move too much. My wrists ached, but I cautiously lifted one hand, palm facing up, fingers trembling.

The wolf's ears flicked once more, but it didn't back away. Instead, it edged closer, its breath warming my open hand.

The warmth from its nose tickled the raw welt left by Kaela's ring when she slapped me in the orchard courtyard. A sound lodged in my throat, not quite a sob, more like a question that lacked words.

The door creaked, and then the sound of boots and leather scuffing against wood broke the stillness. The wolf did not growl but instead lifted its head and stepped aside to allow the man to enter.

The man's shadow loomed in the doorway, tall and broad, bearing winter on his shoulders like an additional cloak; the firelight caught the edge of the fur at his collar and the glint of iron at his hip, a blade, simple yet well-maintained, not for display, but for action.

He carefully shut the door behind him, making sure not to slam it shut against the draft howling through the wall's cracks. Snow caked his boots, thick and crusted white. As he moved closer to the hearth, the wolf leaned against his thigh, a gesture I'd only seen the orchard hounds share with their master.

But this man didn't shove it away or praise it; he rested a gloved hand on the beast's shoulder for a brief moment before moving on as he crossed the room towards me. I froze beneath the cloak, the wolf's breath still ghosting my palm.

Fear seized me as my mouth opened, causing dry, cracked words to bubble to the surface. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Firelight sharpened the contours of his face: a defined jaw and a scar at his temple partially hidden under black hair tied back with a leather cord. His eyes locked with mine, pale and glacial, but not devoid of emotion.

There was something in his eyes that scrutinized, weighed, and judged. For a fleeting moment, I braced myself for a slap or a sneer; perhaps the iron chain to drag me back. Yet, none of that came. Instead, his voice broke through the silence, low, not soft, but not unkind either.

"You're awake."

It wasn't a question but more like a truth he'd waited hours to voice.

I tried to reply, but my throat resisted, feeling scratchy and raw. I coughed, pain flaring through my ribs where Aleric's boot had crushed them against the orchard stones. The wolf moved in closer, feeling warm against my leg once more.

The man, whose name I have not yet learned, knelt in front of me, steady and firm. He didn't flinch at my shaking, nor did he grab me.

He picked up a bowl from beside the hearth, steam curling like thin fingers from the rim.

"Drink."

His command was soft, not a threat, but also not an option. When my hands faltered, he brought the bowl to my lips, rough yet gentle, tilting it slowly. The first sip burned my tongue: herbs, marrow, and salt. I coughed again, broth dripping down my chin.

Before shame could gnaw at me, he caught it with his thumb, wiping it away like he'd tended to pups or half-dead strays that the forest had spat out.

"Slow," he instructed again.

His thumb lingered at my jaw, calloused, scratching at the tender skin beneath my chin.

His touch was neither harsh nor soft, but rather genuine and firm.

I drank more, breathless. Each swallow drew warmth back into my ribs, pushing the orchard's cold a little further away. When I finished the bowl, he set it down by the fire. He didn't speak yet, his gaze tracing my wrists, the new linen bindings, and the purple shadows beneath. He also observed the raw line on my throat, where Kaela's ribbon had penetrated too deeply during an incomplete ceremony.

With his hands resting on his thighs, he finally sat back on his heels. The wolf, a second shadow, curled up next to him.

"You crossed the border," he said, a truth laid bare between us.

I couldn't lie about it; the chill of the river still clung to my ribs like frost. I nodded. My voice came out raspy, "Ran." The word felt small against the weight of his gaze. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more of something colder.

"Ran," he repeated. "And you made it this far?"

His eyes flicked to the wolf.

"Ghost picked up your trail before the frost wolves could." Ghost. I glanced at the beast resting against my foot, its soft breaths warming my numbed toes. Its eyes fluttered shut, as if my heartbeat was no longer a threat. "You're under Ironhold's roof," Mendel stated. His hand rose, hovering above my wrist without touching. My skin yearned for the warmth but flinched nonetheless. "My house. My land. My watch."

He hesitated, lowering his voice. "You've been asleep for almost three days, Girl. Lucky you didn't slip away for good."

His eyes narrowed slightly, searching mine.

"I'm Mendel of Ironhold, brother to Vartun's Alpha. You crossed into my forest, which makes you my responsibility, at least for now." His head tilted, wolfish.

"So tell me the truth, your real name. Who are you, stray?"

I swallowed hard. My lips said my name, the only one they had left me. "Pearl." It came out softly, delicate as breath. I braced myself for him to laugh, to sneer, but he didn't. He allowed it to settle between us like a solemn promise.

"Pearl."

I felt a deep chord in my ribs when he called my name, as though he were trying it for the first time and determining whether it was worth keeping. A thick silence fell, broken only by the crackling fire.

Mendel moved closer, shadows shifting with him.

"Do you know what they'll do if they cross that river to drag you back?" His voice rumbled low, vibrating in my bones.

"Do you know what Pandara's orchard pays for runaways who survive?"

I gasped when I recalled Kaela's fingers twirling in my hair and pulling my head back to hiss threats in my ear. Bisca's soft mouth promised salvation while sharpening the knife for my ribs. I shook my head.

The truth burned on my tongue: "Better the river than Kaela's rope." Something sharp flashed in Mendel's eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, once, twice-before he hid it away.

"Rest," he commanded. "Eat and heal."

His hand hovered over my wrist again, and I flinched, but this time he didn't recoil. His palm landed on mine, warmth sinking into my bones like sunlight through ice.

"When you can stand, you'll tell me everything." My chest tightened. I wanted to laugh, but the sound wouldn't come.

"Everything?"

He didn't realize there was no end to it; the orchard's roots ran too deep. The ghosts that were chained to my ribs had existed longer than his Ironhold stones, but I nodded anyway, because I felt I had no other choice.

As Mendel stood, the wolf lifted its head, golden eyes catching the firelight like embers. Before stepping back to the door, Mendel glanced over his shoulder. His gaze pinned me where I lay, wrapped in warmth I still didn't fully trust.

"Sleep, Pearl," he said.

The wolf huffed once, a sound almost like a promise.

"You're Ironhold's now, for as long as your truth holds up."

The door creaked shut behind him.

The fire crackled.

The wolf sighed against my ankle.

My eyelids were heavy and fluttered. The orchard howled behind them. Kaela's laughter intertwined with Bisca's braid, grabbing too tightly.

Aleric's arrows hummed through the trees, but underneath it all was warmth.

When I eventually fell asleep, I had dreams about old stones humming beneath my ribs, about frost melting into pine roots, and about a voice whispering, "No more chains."

"Not here."

"Not tonight."