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."

PEARL'S POV

I don't dream about the orchard's chains every night anymore. However, when they do appear, they are not always sharp, resembling frozen bone.

But in between those nightmares, there's warmth. There's broth that tastes like marrow and salt. There's the softness of fur pelts pulled up under my chin by gentle hands that don't slap me awake when I whimper, and there's Ghost, the wolf whose breath curls against my ankle at dawn, like a promise that no one here has spoken aloud.

Like snow melting through stone fissures, the days pass by. I lose track after the first couple because the fire never goes out, and outside the shutters, it's always the same quiet scene of snow and pine.

On the third dawn, I try to get up. My knees buckle before my feet even reach the surface of the rush mat. Ironhold women, dressed in thick wool dyed the color of storm clouds, catch me before I fall to the ground; they don't chastise me for being weak or drag me back to the cot by the hair. These women are not like Pandara's maids with sour milk breath and Kaela's ring around their necks.

Instead, they support me between them, murmuring soft words I'm still not sure I understand. One of them brushes my hair back; it's clean now, the orchard oil and stable dust washed away, leaving just the pale strands I used to know. I don't flinch at her touch, not this time.

On the fourth day, they brought the silver-fur doctor back; he's older than any Pandara guard I've ever seen, and his eyes are like wet flint, glinting cold but not cruel. His fingers press against my ribs, and his breath hums softly as I gasp at the sensitive areas where Aleric's boot left a mark.

"Good," he tells the women. "No rot in her bones. Fever's gone." He doesn't speak to me, but when he leaves, he bows, a stiff tilt of the head that no Pandara guard would ever waste on a stray like me.

When they change the linen on my wrists, they do it by the fire, letting the warmth chase away the ache. The scabs are becoming softer every day, and I can see the raw red lines turning pink when the bandages are removed. I'll have scars, thin like thorn scratches, but they'll be mine, not Kaela's.

I rest.

I eat.

I listen.

Ghost never leaves the corner, eyes half-closed, tail flicking when the maids come too close to my bed. Once, as I wake in the quiet dusk, I catch a glimpse of Mendel's shadow standing by the hearth. He says nothing; he just watches while the old physician checks my pulse, pinches my chin, and listens for the rattle of sickness in my breath.

When the physician steps back, Mendel nods once; whether it's approval or a warning, I can't tell. His eyes meet mine, and in them, I see something sharp, something weighing, measuring, and keeping secrets locked away.

On the fifth day, the maids bring warm water scented with crushed pine and something sweet, lavender, maybe, though I've only ever noticed it in scraps of orchard perfume that Bisca wore to cover up the smell of our cellar. They pour it into a basin by the hearth and help me lower my feet into it. I flinch at first; the heat blooms like a blush up my calves, but I don't pull away. They wash the orchard dirt from under my nails and comb the tangles from my hair until it falls smooth around my shoulders.

They speak softly in the Vartun tongue, words I don't yet know how to pronounce, but I swallow them anyway, tasting the shape of this new place that isn't Kaela's orchard.

On the sixth day, they bring clothes, not rags, not a guard's cloak snatched away in the moonlight, but real fabric. Wool dyed the deep blue of Ironhold's banners, stitched with silver threads that catch the firelight when I move. When they slip the shift over my shoulders, it brushes my skin like a promise.

"Pretty," one maid murmurs, smoothing the fabric at my collarbone. She catches herself glancing at the wolf in the corner and then at the door, as if she fears being overheard.

I'm not sure what she sees-the girl from the orchard, with wrists still raw and ribs still counting every bruise like beads on a prayer chain, or something more.

On the seventh day, I received the summons.

It's not shouted, not barked, nor delivered with a slap from a ringed hand like Kaela's messengers used to do.

A boy, no older than me, his hair cropped close to his scalp, a silver-fur pin at his throat, kneels by my bedside at dawn.

"My lord Mendel calls for you, lady," he says, bowing his head so I only see the crown of his hair.

"Lady?" The word feels like a stone in my mouth-too big, too smooth, too far from the orchard's cage.

The boy stands before I can respond. Ghost rises with him, the wolf brushing against the boy's hip, as if giving permission. Together, they wait while the maids dress me.

Today, the shift is swapped for something nicer, still Ironhold blue, but lined in soft fur at the collar, with tiny white stitches curling like frost along the sleeves. A sash of darker wool wraps around my waist, pulling the fabric close to skin that hasn't known warmth like this since before I learned to lie to Kaela.

When the maids step back, one lifts a bronze mirror. I don't want it; I want to look away, to pretend this reflection is someone else's story, but the boy is waiting, so I look.

I see the orchard girl first, pale hair loose around a face still bearing the ghost of Kaela's slap.

But beneath that, I notice someone new, cheeks no longer hollow, skin flushed warm from broth and fire. The cloth hugs my ribs and hips, shapes I'd forgotten I owned, buried under layers of stable muck and cold straw.

The maid sets the mirror aside before I can flinch.

"Come," the boy says, and I do.

The hallway is narrow, lined with rough-hewn pine beams that let the resin and winter wind seep through the gaps. My bare feet sink into the rush mats; they're softer than orchard straw and warm underfoot. The boy keeps his pace steady, a step ahead, while the wolf pads behind us like a second shadow.

Doors pass on either side, thick and iron-banded, each marked with a symbol I still can't read. Behind some people, I catch glimpses: the hush of voices too low to overhear, the crack of logs in hearths, and the scent of smoke mixed with herbs I don't yet know.

At the end of the hall, the boy stops. A door larger than the rest, black oak, banded in iron so thick I wonder if it has ever known warmth. Two guards stand on either side, thick cloaks pinned with the same silver-fur crest that gleams at the boy's throat.

He doesn't knock. Instead, he lowers his head, murmuring a word I can't catch.

The door swings open on iron hinges that don't squeak. The warmth that spills out hits me first, heat from a hearth so large it could swallow my old orchard cell whole.

The scent then returns, sharper and tinged with a metallic quality that pricks my tongue.

Ghost nudges my calf gently, like a reminder.

The boy steps aside.

The guards say nothing.

I step through.

Mendel stands behind a heavy table cluttered with maps, old parchment, a blade half-drawn from its sheath, and a bowl of steaming broth that no one seems to be eating.

His eyes lift first; they find my face and don't look away. They slowly trace down, marking the new cloth, the brushed hair, and the raw pink on my wrists, half-hidden by the fur-lined sleeves.

I brace myself for mockery, for a smirk like Bisca's when she tied the orchard ribbons too tightly. But Mendel's mouth doesn't twist. His gaze stays focused on my throat, the place where Kaela's ribbon cut deepest, then slides back to my eyes.

He says, "You clean up nicely," in a voice so low that the sound of the hearth popping drowns out what he says. "Ironhold's colors suit you."

I don't say anything. I stand still, hands folded before me, so he doesn't see how they tremble.

Mendel doesn't wave me closer. Instead, he steps around the table, boots thudding softly on thick fur rugs. The wolf follows, circling me once, its breath steaming against my calves. I stand straighter so I don't flinch when its muzzle brushes my wrist.

When Mendel stands before me, he tilts his head, wolfish, like the orchard hounds used to do before they lunged.

"Seven days," he says. "You've been under my roof for seven days, Pearl. Ate my food. Wore my clothes. Bled on my furs."

I nod, not in shame, but because the truth tastes like frost on my tongue. "Yes."

Mendel's hand lifts, not fast enough to strike, not slow enough to soothe. He catches a strand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger, pale strands against the rough leather of his glove. He twists it gently once, then lets it slip free.

"You're stronger now," he observes. "Strong enough to stand. Strong enough to speak."

I swallow. The wolf's breath curls around my ankle, warm, waiting.

"Tell me," Mendel says. His eyes catch the firelight, glinting sharp as a drawn blade. "Tell me why you ran, Pearl."

So I do.

I speak.

My voice cracks a couple of times before it finds the right shape. I tell him about the orchard walls, stone damp with old moss and older blood. I tell him about Bisca's braid and the poisoned whisper of hope. I talk about Kaela's soft, jeweled hands that could cut a girl's spine. I mention Aleric's name last, the arrow's hum still trapped behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.

Mendel doesn't interrupt. He doesn't move when my breath catches on the word mating. He doesn't flinch when I say blood, bracket, and shackles in the same ragged sentence.

When the last word tumbles from my lips, the wolf sighs. The fire crackles a spark against the hearthstone. For an extended period, Mendel remains motionless.

Then, with a sigh that's almost a growl, he steps closer-too close-and tilts my chin up with two fingers as rough as bark.

"You've come a long way," he murmurs. "Far enough that your Pandara ghosts can't crawl through my walls. Good."

I want to ask, why do you care for me? Why me? But my tongue stays caged behind my teeth.

Mendel drops his hand and turns back to the table, drumming his fingers once on the edge of the map. Then he looks over his shoulder, his eyes colder than the stone under my knees the night I crawled for the river.

"For now," he says, voice pitched low to match the flame's hush, "you stay here. You eat my food. You wear my furs. And you learn."

"Learn?"

The word feels raw on my tongue.

"Vartun's ways," Mendel replies.

He gestures widely, encompassing the timber walls, the hearth, and the snow beyond the shuttered window.

"Ironhold's ways. You'll train with my household, learn our tongue, our hunts, and our prayers. You'll learn how to stand before a king and not flinch."

I want to ask why. I nearly do, but the word "why" curls like smoke behind my teeth.

But his gaze pins me down, sharp and icy. I swallow the question.

"Obey," he commands.

He strikes the final note in a chord that expects no mercy.

"Do this, and you'll live comfortably. Fail, and the orchard won't find enough of you to drag back."

Behind him, the wolf thumps its tail once on the rug, echoing a promise I can't yet name.

Mendel lifts a map, folding it once, twice. When he turns back to me, the boy from the hall slips through the door, the wolf stepping aside.

"Take her," Mendel says.

His voice remains steady, but the boy bows his head as if a shout has cracked the air.

"Begin her training. Tonight."

The boy nods. His eyes dart to me, wide and uncertain, but not cruel.

Ghost gives my hip a gentle prod that says, "Move."

So, I'm moving. I step back through the iron-banded door, down the hall where the torches flicker in the draft.

Don't turn around. Not yet.

I don't see Mendel's eyes following the pale line of my throat, the way his thumb brushes the edge of the map, or the wolf's ears flicking when the door thuds shut.

Mendel whispers to the flame behind that door, in the silence of the Ironhold hearth, in a voice as quiet as the breath of snow:

"Rest well, stray. You will be prepared when the King howls for his mate.

king