Direbound (The Wolves of Ruin #1)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I ’m jolted awake.

At first, my scattered brain thinks the ceiling is caving in. The sound that rattles through my skull is so loud and deep that it’s borderline apocalyptic. But as I bolt upright, mouth dry and hair a mess, I realize it’s a horn meant to wake us. The resonating note of it lingers in my ears even as the brutal sound fades, and alongside the low note, a high-pitched hiss.

Lumina .

I swallow, trying to combat the dryness of my mouth. My head is pounding. My muscles are horribly sore. It’s barely brightening outside, yet the room is a flurry of activity all around me. From my perch atop my bunk, I can see that all the other Rawbonds are already dressed and done up, their bunks tidied, their hair wet from their baths.

They move with a practiced efficiency. I watch blearily as the beautiful blonde woman in the next bunk over cinches the leather straps across her uniform with ease, like her hands have been repeating that complicated maneuver her entire life. In moments, the uniform leathers are snug, buckled tight as if they were made for her body.

Then again, maybe they were. They’ve been readying themselves for this their entire lives, I recall suddenly. They knew that horn blast was coming. They all know precisely how to wear their uniforms and how much time they’d have this morning to prepare for the day.

“Meryn,” Izabel says, smacking the side of our bed. “Hurry up. Come on.”

I scramble into motion, tearing my blanket away and stiffly descending the slats of the bed.

“What is all this?” I ask, hurrying to my dresser to grab my things.

“We’re already supposed to be assembling in the common lounge for breakfast. You need to get ready.” Her eyes move over me. “Tidy your hair, maybe. Looks matter around here.”

Looks matter , whatever that means. I tug my hair out of its ties, nearly scaring myself shitless when the silver-white of it flashes across my eyes.

Right. That.

Apparently, I don’t have time to bathe because Izabel half-drags me out of the room the moment I return in uniform. I’m still struggling with the stiff leather jacket and the various straps and buckles when we pass through the Strategos antechamber and enter the common lounge.

Most of the Rawbonds have made it here before us, including Venna, so we snag the only remaining spot big enough for the two of us to sit side-by-side.

Izabel grumbles under her breath as we approach. “Just ignore him,” she warns.

“Well, well, well.” It’s the redhead I noticed chattering loudly in the courtyard before. There are eyes on him always, like people are looking to him as an example. “How are you two this fine morning?”

Izabel slides in beside him. “Fine,” she grunts out and pats the seat beside her. I sit, studying the man she seems to have no patience for. He’s stereotypically handsome, slightly older than the other Rawbonds, with pale eyelashes and a few freckles on the tip of his nose. “This is Tomison.”

He leans around Izabel to smile at me. It’s a smile that screams, I’m likeable, and you’re meant to like me . I’m pretty sure it usually works on people.

“I’m Tomison Thorne. Future Alpha of the Strategos Pa?—”

“His ego is compensating for something,” Izabel interrupts, making me snort.

Tomison just chuckles good heartedly. “Eat up, Izabel. We’ve probably only got a few minutes before we’re heading out.”

The atmosphere between them is unexpectedly easy, and I realize that they already know each other. They’re both from Bonded families. They likely grew up together or at the very least crossed paths.

The list of ways I don’t fit in here is growing long enough that I’m going to start tripping on it soon.

It doesn’t matter. I won’t be here much longer, anyway.

Shoving my worries aside, I turn my attention to the food before me. It’s just as extravagant as it was last night, so this is just how they always eat here—at a table covered in enough food to feed a family of four for a week.

I try to sample different foods. A flaky pastry with chocolate in the center. A flat cake dusted in powdered sugar. Succulent sausage links. Actual fucking fresh strawberries. Coffee , for goddess’s sake. There are even some delicate boiled eggs with blue shells, right next to the platter of greasy bacon and a bowl with some sort of crisp fried bread I’ve never seen before.

I’m halfway through eating when my stomach begins to churn. This much rich food is actually starting to make me nauseous. How do they eat this every day?

“Okay?” Izabel asks, apparently noticing my discomfort.

I sip my coffee and nod. “Fine.”

She slides a small cup over to me; there’s one for every Rawbond. “Don’t forget this.”

“What is it?” I say, eying the viscous green liquid inside.

“Contraceptive draught. Everyone takes it. You don’t want to ruin your chances of passing the Trials by, you know… getting in the family way.”

The draught looks identical to the one I take from the apothecary at home, I realize. I knock it back without arguments. I won’t be here long enough to let anyone touch me like that, but I’m not about to raise eyebrows by refusing.

The door to Strategos quarters swings open. In strides Egith Hartsfeld, looking fresh and well-rested. “It’s orientation day! The one and only!” she booms, wasting zero time.

The other Rawbonds are already standing, chairs screeching and silverware clattering. I’m really just longing for a stupid bath.

“Strategos Rawbonds, follow me,” Egith says. I noticed that instructors have emerged from the other pack quarters and are rounding up the other Rawbonds accordingly. “You’ll be touring the facilities today. Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

Touring the facilities. Thank the goddess. I might be able to come up with a potential exit strategy if the straightforward method doesn’t work for me.

Egith doesn’t say anything else before turning on her heel and striding back out of the room.

“Woman of few words,” I remark as Izabel and I head for the door with the rest of the Rawbonds.

“If only some people could be just like her when they grow up,” Izabel replies, glancing at Tomison who’s already chattering away with his group of followers.

As we trail Egith through the castle, she talks about the various wings we’re passing through and their purposes. Something about kitchens and larders, medrooms, guardrooms, a tunnel to an undercroft.

But my eyes are carefully scanning for routes and noting landmarks so that I might navigate my ass out of here at the drop of a hat.

There are a few obvious servant passages that I could use. They’re marked by narrow, short doorways too small for even an unbonded to pass through without bending over. A direwolf wouldn’t fit one paw through, so there’s no way they’re used by anyone the Bonded consider consequential.

Our group steps into a wide hall with blazing braziers lining the walls. High above us, there’s a mural on the ceiling depicting two stylized wolves, one white and one black, spinning around each other in an impressively lifelike dance.

I’m staring at it, neck craned, when one of the Rawbonds next to me whispers. Footsteps slow. A hush moves over them.

They’re staring down the hall towards a set of wide open double doors four times taller than I am. Beyond those doors, there’s an expansive space with a floor of packed dirt. It looks like daylight out there, but there’s no frigid rush of air, so it’s likely a large enclosed space with glass ceilings. I can make out a line where the smooth edges of carved architecture meet the jagged stone of the natural rock of the mountain.

“As many of you have obviously already noticed, yes . Down that way is the arena where your remaining Trials will take place.” Remaining Trials, plural?! “Moving on.”

What the fuck? How many more times do we trainees have to face death and dismemberment?

We’re hurtling down the halls again, passing by various training areas dedicated to each pack. They’re labeled just as the quarters were. I only catch brief glimpses as we pass by.

The Kryptos training yard is basically just an obstacle course with high guard towers. Daemos has several practice dummies lined up and weapons lining the walls, the dirt gouged with claw marks and what looks like the charred remnants of vicious magic. Phylax is equipped with a massive, odd device that looks like a series of swinging pendulums, as well as some more dummies and sets of heavy weights.

Strategos is by far the most boring looking, filled with tactical gear like harnesses and hooks, as well as several strategy tables and maybe two dozen maps covering the walls. Exciting stuff, peering at maps all day.

We linger briefly at the entrance to the Strategos training area as Egith explains that we’re going to be spending a fair amount of our time here. My eyes wander beyond the dismal space. There are two tall doors on either side of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which snow slowly drifts.

I squint through the snow and realize suddenly what I’m seeing.

The mountainside looms tall. Embedded in the rocky cliff face, there are massive caves and outcroppings of stone. Lounging above are our wolves, staring down at us or minding their own business.

The wolf terraces, I realize, where they stay while we’re in training.

I spot Anassa almost immediately. She’s a shimmering silver-white that stands out against the darker stone, and she’s reclined as far from the other direwolves as physically possible. Anassa’s eyes meet mine briefly, and she immediately looks away from me, tail flicking in agitation. I curl my fingers into tight fists, hissing a breath through my nose.

Fine. Fuck her. I don’t need her. She can disappear back to the mountain, for all I care. She forced me into this bond against my will, and then abandoned me.

As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to talk to Egith and get myself out of this screwed up situation, whatever it takes.

Our happy little tour ends in what looks like an auditorium. It’s set up so that a semicircle of maybe a hundred seats funnels down towards a central raised dais. Like the rest of the castle, the walls are intricately carved wood and the ceilings are vaulted, with circular skylights between the supporting beams. The acoustics make our footsteps echo as we’re all herded inside.

The other packs are here, too, joining from different doors across the rows of seats.

“Sit,” Egith orders, and then strides down the rows to join the other people standing in center-stage.

We were the last to arrive, so we file into the back rows. I absently follow Izabel, studying the people waiting for us to find our seats so they can start talking.

There are five of them total, including Egith. Four of them are younger and one of them is a very obviously ancient relic, seventies at the youngest.

Stark is the tallest of them, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and several feet apart from the others. He’s scowling again, his jaw ticking like he doesn’t want to be on that stage and hates all of us for having the audacity to take more than thirty seconds to sit down.

In the more generous lighting, I can make out the dark ink of his tattoos more clearly, especially now that he’s in a short-sleeved shirt. They twist around his arms and up to his neck in intricate designs. On his arms, they look runic, naturally inspired—geometric shapes hidden between chaotically elegant lines that make me think of fir forests and heavy antlers. They climb up the side of his neck and disappear beneath the curl of his dark hair behind his ear. Up higher, they almost start to look like claw marks around his throat, a collar of pain.

He’s just too… careful . Honed. Attuned.

His eyes track movement like a predator does prey. His body remains tense enough for instantaneous response to threats.

Being in his presence is like standing with a knife at my throat, and I find myself settling very slowly into my seat so that I don’t risk his attention slicing my skin open.

They’re to be our instructors, I assume. One from each pack, maybe? Egith takes her place beside them, and the shuffling of the Strategos Rawbonds falls quiet just in time for me to hear the tail end of a hushed conversation from the row in front of me.

“—still can’t believe they spared the Alpha of Daemos for this,” one woman is saying. “He’s the Sovereign Alpha’s son, too, you know.”

“Look at his tattoos,” the other whispers back. “He’s killed so many. And he’s not even thirty yet. I heard he Bonded at eighteen and was the Daemos Alpha by the time he was twenty-one.”

“ Fuck , Stark is so hot,” the first woman chokes out, slumping in her seat.

I raise a brow and study Stark again. I… guess?

Or, yes .

It’s obvious. It’s really obvious. He’s probably six and a half feet of bulky, toned muscle with a perfect jawline, and eyelashes prettier than mine. His lips are full and his perpetually messy dark hair is actually artfully tousled and thick, the kind of hair that you’d want to pull when you’re?—

No, not going there.

And there’s that way he holds himself. Not condescending like the other Bonded. More… challenging. Like he’s daring the world to test his strength because he knows he’ll come out on top.

The idea of all that strength and precision homed in on you, on your needs and wants and desires?—

No! I shake my head. None of that matters. He may as well have “murderous psycho” carved into his forehead. He actually does have that tattooed across his hands, arms and neck.

The brief spark of interest I felt studying him—I’m only human —extinguishes instantly when I remember the things he’s done and said.

You don’t let someone that dangerous close to you. Not even just for sex.

“I would do criminal things to get that man between my legs,” the second woman whispers.

Huh. Guess I’m alone in that opinion.

“Good morning, Rawbonds!” the older man says, stepping forward. He’s wearing casual robes, a far cry from the tight-fitting, leather uniforms we wear.

“I am the former Alpha of Strategos, Aldrich Gnosis. You can refer to me as Leader Aldrich. I am to be the head of Rawbond training this season,” he says, stroking his beard. “I want to welcome you to this process. The turnout this year is wonderful, and it has been a promising start to your four months here.”

Four months ?

I glance at Izabel beside me in shock, but she sits facing forward, inadequately alarmed.

Four fucking months. There’s no way Saela can wait that long. Riding this nonsense out to reach the front isn’t an option, then.

“These following months will prove whether you are fit to be in a pack and call yourselves Bonded. Many will survive the process, but make no mistake, many will not,” he tells us. “Your training begins with the Forging, a two-month process with your own pack’s Rawbonds. This period is intended for you to get to know your future packmates and ensure you are able to work together. Does anyone know what Trials occur during the Forging period?”

Izabel’s hand shoots up instantaneously into the air, and she’s practically vibrating on the edge of her seat. Ah, she’s that kind of student, then. I’m not surprised, and it honestly endears her to me more—Saela’s like this, too.

“Yes, in the back,” says Leader Aldrich.

“In a month, we’ll have the Voice Trial,” Izabel recites as if from a book, “where we prove that we can communicate well with our direwolves.”

Good thing I’m getting out of here; I’d never pass something like that.

“Indeed. And at the end of Forging?”

“The Purge Trial,” Izabel says confidently. “Where the packs have a chance to cull their own numbers and remove any riders and direwolves that are not fit to join them.”

My stomach freefalls from beneath me. The packs are going to kill their own?! No one else seems to so much as blink at this.

“Followed by the Forging Ball, of course,” Izabel adds on quickly.

Sure, because who wouldn’t follow a brutal massacre with a fancy ball?

“Precisely. Then we move onto Proving period, where?—”

Izabel’s hand shoots back up into the air, and Leader Aldrich chuckles.

“Yes, Miss…?”

“Izabel Brooks, sir.”

“Oh, I know your father, Conrad Brooks! Great warrior. There was a moment in the Battle of Grunfall ten years ago, when he—ah, look at me, getting carried away with reminiscing.” Leader Aldrich beams out at the crowd of Rawbonds. “Before you know it, you’ll all be retired soldiers, too, thinking back on the thrilling days of war.”

Thrilling. Definitely. If we don’t die a vicious, painful death in training first.

“Anyway, carry on, Rawbond Brooks. Tell us what happens in the Proving period.”

Izabel straightens in her seat. “The Proving is a two-month period where packs learn to work together in coordination. There are no additional Trials during the period, but it culminates in the Unity Trial, a mock-battle between all the packs, and then graduation.”

Aldrich nods, clearly impressed. “Thank you, yes. The Unity Trial is the final culling to weed out the weak.”

My eyes catch on Stark again only to find him already staring at me. Right at me. I tense in my seat, heart rate picking up speed. The back of my neck tingles and my hair rises. I resist the stupid instinct to turn and see if there’s someone behind me who he might be staring at. I’m in the back row.

Which means that glower is for me, then, with that slight curl of his upper lip and those narrowed eyes.

Disdain. That’s what it looks like. The words just spoken echo around the room’s perfect acoustics.

Culling . He doesn’t think I’ll survive.

But I have no intention of suffering through their meaningless Trials. This place isn’t for me, so he can sheathe his glower or point it at someone else more deserving. He’s wasting it on me, honestly.

Leader Aldrich goes on to introduce the rest of the instructors. “Alpha Stark Therion of Daemos was spared from the front to train you all to be the best fighters you can possibly be. Respect his wisdom and learn everything you can from him.”

He turns.

“Beta Egith Hartsfeld of Strategos is here to teach you battle strategy.” I can’t help but notice that her introduction was significantly shorter and without flair.

Guess Stark’s ass is the only one he’s interested in kissing.

He gestures to a pale man with a shock of blonde hair in his thirties. “Samson Whyte, Gamma of Kryptos, will teach you communication and concealment.” Finally, he nods to a middle-aged woman with olive skin and dark hair. “And Elinoor Gardner, Gamma of Phylax, will instruct you in history and pack dynamics.”

Aldrich continues his speech. “Now, as you all already know,” I’ve learned that this means I should expect him to say something absolutely insane, “this will be bloody.” Yep. “And though many of you will die in training exercises and in healthy competition, we do not condone violence in the pack quarters.”

So I won’t be murdered in my bunk at night. In theory.

“Believe it or not, you are valuable to us and to the king. Our goal is for as many of you to survive this process as is possible. So behave yourselves outside of class. Violations will be harshly penalized.”

There’s a swell of murmurs in response to Aldrich’s admonishment.

Not killing each other every chance we get? The horror!

It all quickly hushes, though, when Stark steps forward, powerful arms dropping to his sides. He doesn’t have to say a word for Aldrich to step aside and bow his head, a show of unusual deference. I thought Aldrich was in charge?

My skin prickles with terror and awareness as Stark’s night-black direwolf pads into the room from a wide door behind him. He doesn’t turn as the beast joins him on the stage, his wolf coming to stand behind him like his shadow.

The two of them swallow up the space. Stark’s presence is palpable, the entire auditorium growing heavier as his eyes move over the crowd and his wolf’s ears twitch forward.

“Your training has already started. It began the moment you touched that mountain. Your mistakes and your… weaknesses … have already been noted,” he says.

There he goes again, staring directly at me. He must have seen me struggle with Anassa. Or maybe he considers my messed-up hair a mark of failure. I checked again at breakfast—no one else has a full head of hair in their pack’s color. That dubious honor falls only to me.

I try to separate myself from his glare, but it’s like trying to read a book while sitting under a guillotine.

“Those of you not fit to run with a pack will die. Without question. Without mercy.”

I suppress my wince. Izabel’s hand smooths over my wrist in my lap. She’s not looking at me, but she’s clearly also noticed how obviously he’s glowering at me. Her touch does basically nothing to shield me from his hatred.

“But you know that. You’ve been practicing your entire lives for this… haven’t you?” he says, quirking a dark brow at me. I clench my jaw tightly. “You understand that these halls demand respect. Generations of your ancestors have walked the same path as Rawbonds, have fought the same battles, have practiced the same drills. They understood, every step they took to becoming true Bonded, that this is survival of the fittest.”

He strides forward on the stage. “You’ve bonded with a direwolf now, and there is no going back. Hesitation and fear are out of the question. Cowardice will get you killed.”

Is there anything in this place that won’t get us killed?

“We dress you in thick leather, but make no mistake—if a wolf decides to tear you open, it’ll do nothing to stop their claws. If you want to keep your intestines where they belong, if you’re sentimentally attached to your limbs, step up . Fight to the top, because those struggling on the bottom end up in direwolf bellies.”

He makes a show of looking at the rest of the Rawbonds, but his eyes keep snapping back to me. His comments about survival of the fittest and generations of ancestors didn’t escape my notice.

He thinks I’m weak for my common blood, then.

It fills me with the sort of spitting, hissing fury that could get me killed if I don’t manage to wrangle it and direct it towards something useful rather than the classist, cruel man in front of me.

Still, something rises up in me at the sight of him and at those harsh words.

Rebellion . That’s what it is. A need to prove him wrong. A need to break his will before he can break mine. It’s that air of competition he projects. I breathe it in and my muscles buzz with the need to show the world that it can’t break me.

“You will have two months to prove pack loyalty, then two more months of combat training, and you will be watched every step of the way. Do everything in your power to prepare yourselves and your wolves for the Trials ahead.” He straightens. “Dismissed.”

The room erupts into motion. Rawbonds flood from their seats, fires lit under their asses by all the talk of disembowelment, no doubt. The instructors disband, too, heading out through different doors.

I grab Izabel’s arm. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“What? You’re leaving? We’re not going to talk about the Alpha of Daemos staring at you like?—”

“We’re not talking about it. My plan is to crush it down and repress the memory for the rest of time. Later,” I say, releasing her and shoving my way through the stream of Rawbonds.

Egith disappears through the lower door on the right side of the room, the same one Stark’s wolf came through. I make sure not to glance back towards the stage where I’m sure he’s still standing, probably glaring at me. I swear I can sense his piercing eyes on me even as I flee after Hartsfeld.

In the Strategos quarters, I finally catch up to her. Egith ducks into one of the four side rooms off of the pack common area. We beat all the other Rawbonds back here, the path Egith took turning out to be a shortcut. I push past the knot of fizzling anxiety in my stomach and knock on the open door.

Egith turns and stares at me. This room is hers, I realize.

It’s sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a side table, a dresser just like the ones we have, and a small table and chairs. Despite that, there are hidden luxuries everywhere. A heavenly-looking throw blanket draped over one of the chairs. Exorbitantly expensive-looking weapons hanging on the walls. Oil lamps instead of candles. Even a few stacks of personal books on her windowsill.

She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring at me, a brow lifting and the corners of her mouth dragging downward. The look screams, what the fuck are you doing here?

“I don’t belong here,” I blurt.

“Excuse me?”

“I need to get out of here. My sister was taken by Nabbers and I have to get to the front to find her.”

Egith crosses her arms. “What are you talking about? Nabbers?”

I shift my weight. “You know? Nabbers?”

“I don’t know, actually,” she says dryly. Which lights the same rage I felt earlier again.

The spark of it catches and spreads, and my cheeks heat. Of course , she doesn’t know. I just thought… she’s important, right? Everyone’s always known that the king doesn’t give a shit about the commoners, but even such a high-ranking Bonded doesn’t know? Doesn’t care to know?

“The Siphons have been kidnapping kids from the commoner side of Sturmfrost,” I tell her, unable to keep acid out of my voice. Egith’s eyes widen. “For generations, actually. That’s why I enlisted, to find Saela.”

Egith stares at me again. She does that a lot. When she speaks, there’s no pity in her voice. “There’s no leaving.”

“Why?” I ask her point-blank.

Egith’s eyes narrow. “It’s not done, Rawbond.”

My blood pressure rises at that complete and total non-answer. “But I can’t even communicate with my wolf! She doesn’t want me, so why do you?! Just let me go!”

Egith is suddenly right in front of me, moving so fast my eyes hardly catch it. “ Shut up ,” she hisses, glancing over my shoulder. “You need to keep that to yourself.”

“Wha—”

“You’re already drawing attention, what with,” she gestures to my hair, “all that. That’s fucking strange enough. If anyone else finds out that your wolf isn’t communicating with you at this stage, they’d take you out immediately.”

“But they can’t,” I reply weakly. “Not in the quarters.”

“They’ll find a way,” she says gravely. “Survival here is binary. You live or you die, and I can tell you right now which it’s going to be if you keep this shit attitude going forward. The only way out is through, and the packs do not tolerate weakness amongst their ranks. If you want any chance of finding your sister, you need to keep your head down and fight for it.”

So Egith is not going to help me leave, and if I draw any more attention to myself, someone will gut me before long.

Shit.

Shit .

Egith takes a step back. “I’ll look into this Nabbers issue. It’s…” Her brows pinch. I think she’s upset this was the first she’d heard of it. “I’ll find out more.”

“Why do you even care?” I ask.

“Excuse me?” she growls out.

“You could just let me be… culled , or whatever it is you do here,” I say.

“Whatever it is we do, Rawbond. And the answer is simple,” she says, hands on her hips. I care about you , I muse cynically. Not . “We have a bet going.”

I nearly snort. “A bet.”

“There’s a betting pool amongst the instructors on which pack will lose the fewest recruits. I really don’t want to lose to that fucking asshole Stark, so stay alive. Please.” She moves to her table and sits. “I have money riding on it.”

Yeah. Seems about right.

She gives me a look that clearly says, you’re excused , so I take a deep, deep breath through my nose and then turn on my heel, a plan already percolating in my mind.

If she’s not going to help me, I’m going to find my own way out of this mess.