Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
T he Strategos anteroom is heavy with shared grief as we return from the Purge Trial. There isn’t a lot of talking, but everyone clusters together. Even those who usually stand apart, like Nevah, seek the comfort of the group. I find myself drawn in as well.
All twenty of us sit around the roaring fireplace, soaking in its glow. Low conversation ensues—discussions of how we each might spend our day off, which family members we’ll visit, what news we’ll share. But the excitement is muted.
Overshadowed by the choice we made as a pack to execute three of our fellow Rawbonds. At the moment, caught up in the Trial, it felt like the right decision, despite its brutality. But now…
Eventually, people start to drift toward the bunkroom. No parties tonight, it seems. I’m grateful for that.
I retreat to my own room with a bone-weary sense of relief, thinking of my bed. Something tells me I won’t be finding sleep quickly, though. The blood on the arena floor stains my mind every time I close my eyes.
It was hard dealing the death, but it was just as hard watching the other packs engage in it. Daemos culled five of their own; Jonah was on a tear after watching his direwolf’s mate die. What got Perielle killed in Strategos—arrogance and cruelty—is apparently an asset for Daemos. I’m going to need to watch my back more than ever around him.
I’ve just finished changing into a clean shirt and pants when there’s a sharp knock at the door.
Dammit, what now?
I open the door impatiently.
Stark stands on the other side.
Fear darts up my spine in a hot rush and I instinctively let out a small gasp. Why is he here at this hour? Did he finally come to make good on all his threats?
Does he want to confront me about the moment he saw between Killian and me in the arena?
“Princess,” he says by way of greeting, his voice more frigid than the snowstorm outside.
Before I can speak, he forces his way inside, crowding me back from the doorway.
I stiffen as he invades my personal space, my heart thumping. He slams the door behind him, then looks at me, his expression is unreadable in the dim lamplight. There’s something different about his posture than usual. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Every instinct tells me to back away, get out, but I hold my ground. The room is suffocatingly small with his huge frame in it. He towers over me, all chest and shoulders and unforgiving muscle.
The scent of amber and musk tickles my nose, faint, but rich.
“Why are you—” I start.
At the same moment, he pulls something out of his pocket. A familiar needle and a small pot of ink.
Oh .
Perielle’s blonde hair, matted in blood. The command to kill her coming out of my own mouth as shadows urged me toward murder.
The one death from today that is definitely on my hands more than anyone else’s.
Stark seems to read the memory on my face. His expression turns somber, and he gestures to the chair beside my little desk.
Right .
I pull the chair into the center of the room and sit, unbuttoning the top of my shirt to give him access to my neck.
This feels… Fuck, I don’t even know. I’ve never been alone with him before. I’ve never seen him so gloomy, either. There’s no aura of impending violence around him—none of the usual malice in his eyes.
He looks almost… mournful.
It sets everything inside me on edge and the discomfort bubbles up into words.
“This must thrill you. I didn’t die today but you still get a chance to hurt me,” I say, my voice biting. His eyes flash dangerously, confirming my suspicion. “Do I alone get the good fortune of a tattoo?”
The faint tremble in my voice belies the flippant tone but his jaw ticks at my antagonization.
“Everyone who made the final call on a death, whose direwolf killed one of their pack members, is receiving their marks,” he says tersely. He steps closer beside me, needle in hand, one knee brushing my leg. “You’re my fourth visit tonight.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” I joke as he grabs my jaw with rough fingers, pushing my head to one side.
“You’re special , all right,” he mutters darkly. For some reason, his responding joke makes the faint tremble inside me grow stronger, radiating outwards.
As the needle bites into my skin, I realize what that feeling is.
I survived. I survived .
I might make it through this. I might save my sister.
But at what cost? Her life matters to me. It’s all that matters to me. Yet is it worth so many other lives in exchange? This is the second person I’ve killed since I’ve been here—third, actually, counting the Nabber.
Three deaths on my hands. Who am I to say that she matters more?
My own eyes blur slowly with tears and I try to sink into the sweet sting of the pain, with no success.
“This doesn’t seem like an achievement,” I hear myself whisper.
The needle pauses against my throat. “Achievement?” Stark’s laugh is harsh, devoid of humor. “Is that what you think these are?”
Confused, I turn my head to look up at him. “They’re not?”
His expression darkens, one hand rising to the intricate patterns that decorate his own neck. “These aren’t trophies, princess,” he says, “they’re reminders.”
Stark’s eyes are pitch black in the dim chamber, but they gleam with emotion, reflecting the lamplight like banked coals.
“We cannot afford to forget the sacrifices we must make,” he says, voice dropping to a rumble that prickles along my skin. “Every life we’ve had to take to maintain the pack’s strength. Every person who didn’t make it. Every loss is recorded in our flesh so we never forget the price of survival.”
His fingers fall away from the marks on his neck, and for the first time, I really look at them.
Not trophies, I muse, a little ashamed that I ever made such an assumption. Reminders.
Stark’s voice drops lower as I silently count the losses ingrained on his skin like claw marks.
“No one wants these tattoos, princess,” he murmurs. “There is no place for pride in war.”
My throat tightens as he bends over me once more. The needle returns to my skin. The pain is a distant burn now, dulled by grim revelation. It’s a balm, in a way, knowing that the tattoos aren’t worn as badges of honor—the trophies of heartless killers.
The knowledge casts Stark in a new light. It casts all the Bonded in a new light. Every mark on their bodies represents a day like today. A death like Perielle’s.
A cruel necessity made unavoidable by war.
It’s right that they—that we—should be marked forever by them. That the inner scars of pain and loss should show outwardly for all to see. For all to remember.
“You should give me a third,” I say quietly, and Stark stills above me. His jaw tightens, making that scar alongside it jump underneath his light scruff.
His eyes slide slowly down to mine, his hand still clenched on my chin. “Who?” he says, his voice low and carrying an edge.
“Not—not another Rawbond,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry, trying not to cower at the intense look he’s giving me. “Just… someone else. But I should remember it.”
He stares at me, hard, for another silent moment and then nods, going back to the needle.
Relief rushes through me when he doesn’t ask questions. No part of me mourns the man I killed in the dungeon, but I refuse to forget the high cost of finding my sister.
The price of survival .
A strange and unexpected sense of comfort blossoms inside me, though it does little to dispel the grief.
When Stark is done, he leans down to lick the wound clean as custom dictates. His hair brushes my cheek, then the wet heat of his tongue traces the marks he made in blood and ink.
My body responds with a fierce rush of arousal, like before, even as my mind reels in denial. I clench my teeth against it, terrified Stark will read it in my face or posture.
I tell myself it’s just exhaustion—a physiological reaction triggered by vulnerability in the aftermath of today’s violence and loss.
It feels like a lie, though.
I can sense Anassa listening. I almost expect her to call me out—to challenge the thought—but she doesn’t. She’s been silent through all of this.
His work done, Stark leaves my room without a word, closing the door quietly behind him.
I rise and go to the little mirror on the wall, peering at the new tattoos. They blend perfectly with the first one, creating a shadowed band with three points that makes me think again of a collar.
When I touch the swollen skin, my fingers come away smeared with blood and saliva.
The next morning, as I prepare for the trip home, I’m vividly aware of the new tattoo. It stings even now, a constant reminder of yesterday’s events.
It’s strange to think of going back to my neighborhood. My old clothes are gone—disposed of in the aftermath of the Ascent. I’ll have to go home dressed in the clothes of a Strategos Rawbond recruit.
The uniform is simple and unadorned, especially compared to what the Bonded wear, but I’m going to stand out in the quarters, even so.
What will everyone back home think, seeing me like this?
I’ve gotten used to fine fabrics tailored perfectly to my body, I realize. That gives me a spurt of shame, but it’s short-lived.
I know now what being Bonded really means.
My hand rises unconsciously to the tattoo, which has already begun to scab over.
I can’t be ashamed of what I’ve become, even if I’m still not sure I like it. Being ashamed would cheapen everything I’ve been through. Every death I’ve witnessed.
Every life I’ve taken.
It’s all for Saela , I remind myself. It’s worth it, so long as I get her back .
In the Rawbond common lounge, yesterday’s mournful mood has dispersed. There’s an excited energy from all the other Rawbonds who are heading home to see their families. I spot Henrey sitting by himself, picking at a plate of breakfast cakes, and make my way toward him.
“Hey,” he says, looking up as I sit down across from him. I notice there’s a new reddened tattoo on his own neck this morning. “Congrats on, you know, not dying.”
“Yet,” I remind him. “Not dying yet . But thanks, you too. What are you going to do today?”
Henrey shrugs. He’s from Blumenfall, which is a seaside fiefdom leagues away. It would take at least a week for him to journey there normally, though likely he could make it in only a couple days on the back of his wolf.
Still, he won’t be going home for a visit. Guess us commoners who aren’t from Bonded City weren’t really considered when this special treat was devised.
“I might go into the city, to the commoner side,” he says. “I don’t really have much money to shop, but we have that ball tonight. For Presentation, I borrowed a formal jacket from my packmate Olivier but…”
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. Four wolves tore Olivier to pieces last night. One of them was Henrey’s.
Can’t borrow clothes from a dead man.
“There’s a second-hand clothes shop in the Northern Quarter that carries formal wear,” I tell him, explaining where it is. We never could afford anything from there, but I liked to look through the window when I’d take Mother to her medic.
It’s silly to have to worry about dressing appropriately when we just witnessed so much bloodshed, but Henrey and I both know that tonight’s ball is just another Trial in a beautiful costume.
It’s another opportunity for the two of us to blend in… or draw a target.
We chat for a few more minutes about shops I like, supplies Henrey hopes to pick up in the day off, and then I grab a couple of buttered rolls from the breakfast table and retreat back to my room. I don’t have much appetite.
A few minutes later, Izabel bursts in without knocking, dressed in a deep purple riding suit that screams of Bonded wealth. Her long hair has been artfully arranged like usual, the silver streak prominently displayed.
“Meryn!” she exclaims, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. “I’m ready to go, what about you? Before we left for the Trials, my parents said they’d throw me and Venna a big luncheon if we made it through to today, with our whole extended family—well, everyone who’s not at the front, that is. They’re all dying to hear about training, I’m sure. Are you going to see anyone other than your mother?”
“Probably not,” I mutter, lifting my collar to make sure it covers my fresh tattoo. I don’t want to draw attention to it at home. “I’ll just check on her. Maybe visit with my neighbor, Igor.”
She brightens. “Oh, you mean the one who trained you to fight?”
I nod, thinking of Igor’s familiar scowl. Funny how the idea of his sour old face can make me so warm. So that’s one good thing about going home, I guess.
The rest of it is going to be just plain weird.
Izabel seems to sense my sober mood. She perches on the end of my bed and tilts her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
We’ve spent so much time together over the past two months that she’s collected all of my history, in pieces here and there. She knows that my mother is mentally ill, that I had to raise Saela practically on my own.
Izabel must be able to see that I’m dreading this little family visit, even after all the darkness we’ve been through.
Killian has continued to check in with Mother regularly and says she’s doing fine, but I’m terrified of finding her lost to her delusions again, talking to people that aren’t there. I don’t even have a good update for her about Saela.
I shake my head and Izabel takes that in stride.
“Well, don’t forget about tonight,” she says. “You need to be back by sundown to get ready for the Forging Ball. It’s important! All the nobles will be there. Maybe you’ll even meet someone, like I hope I will.”
Despite the gross implications—I still can’t get over the fact that the nobles treat the Rawbonds like a meat market—my face heats.
I bend down, futzing with the laces of my boots so Izabel can’t see that I’m flustered. I still haven’t told her about Killian, though I know she suspects I’m seeing my “castle heartbreaker” again, since I haven’t been around as much. She’s been a good friend in not pressuring me about it.
He’ll be there tonight, of course. Will everyone be able to tell by the way that we look at each other?
Would I want that, even?
I think back to his words two nights ago. “Give me permission to claim you in front of the whole world, and I will.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, finally straightening. “I’ll be there. I don’t have anything to wear, though.”
“Just pick something up from home,” Izabel says.
I snort. “Izabel, we don’t typically have ball gowns hanging around in the commoner neighborhoods. The closest I had was a nameday dress that got so worn down over the years that we eventually turned it into a pillowcase.”
“Oh. Right.” She pauses. “Well, that’s no problem! Venna and I will bring back something for you, so don’t worry about it.”
I give her a lopsided smile, hoping it doesn’t look pained. I’m grateful to have her help, even if it makes me feel like a charity case. But I’m not looking forward to being the twins’ dress-up doll again, particularly since the Bonded try to wear as little clothes as possible for these functions.
“Nothing too skimpy, please?” I ask.
Izabel laughs like I made a joke and bounces up off my bed. “No promises!” she calls as she sails out the door with a wave.
Well, that’s ominous.
Anassa meets me at the castle gates for the trip home. We don’t talk. There’s no room in my brain for conversation while I grapple with the experience of riding her through the quarters.
There was never a question in my mind about whether I’d bring her. Riding her will get me home and back faster, letting me have more time with my mom. But it’s more than that. It feels important that my mother meets her, this being who has become a part of me.
We head through the Northern Quarter, then onward to the Central Market, the same place I watched Stark execute that deserter.
Anassa ignores the people we pass, though I can sense her awareness of them—of their fear. They leap out the way when they see us coming, pressing themselves to the walls and yanking their children back as though afraid the wolf will devour them. Even the merchants posted at the sides of the road abandon their carts to shrink away from Anassa’s bulk.
Most of them don’t even look at me. Not that I mind—it’s actually kind of a relief. The fear and awe in the eyes of those that do leaves me queasy with discomfort.
And here I was worried what people would think seeing me in my Rawbond uniform.
We take a turn from Central toward Eastern, finally back to my own quarter.
Anassa’s massive paws leave deep prints in the muddy snow that chokes the streets where I played as a child. Where I picked fights with bigger boys after my father died at war. Where I carried loads of other people’s laundry to pay for my mother’s medicine.
The same streets where my sister walked to school and back.
Everything seems smaller and dirtier than it did before. Surreal after the weeks I’ve spent in luxury.
Much to my dismay, I feel even more out of place here than I did at the castle.
Shit. The fucking irony .
Just two months ago, I was one of these people, cursing under my breath as Bonded riders invaded my streets. Bristling with indignation that we should all be forced to scatter because some uppity Bonded deigned to walk by. Back then, it seemed the big wolves were willing to trample anyone who got in their way.
Now, from Anassa’s back, I see the truth.
She’s aware of every one of them, every movement, every possible point of interaction. She adjusts her stride to avoid collision, to give people the time to move away. Yet she doesn’t look directly at any one of them, knowing that even a moment of eye contact could cause a panic.
There’s no empathy in her actions, per se. But there is a sort of kindness—under the usual hard-edged lupine pragmatism, that is. These people are innocent, and they’re not a threat to her. She has no desire to frighten them.
I’m grateful for that. And a little ashamed again, too, for all the assumptions I made about the Bonded.
Yes, they’ve led privileged lives. They have all the luxuries they could ever dream of. But in exchange, they live on the constant edge of death.
In exchange, they are treated like entertainment for the king and his nobles—in more ways than one. I shudder again, thinking about the excitement in Izabel’s eyes as she talked about meeting someone tonight.
And Audelie, perched on the king’s lap during the Purge with that vacant smile pasted on her face.
All along, my neighbors and I have resented the Bonded. But they’re not the enemy. In the end, they are— we are—also just toys for the king to use and then throw away. Toy soldiers, to throw against the Siphons. Toy gladiators, to fight for the rich nobles’ amusement.
Toy companions, to sleep with and discard.
The commoners shouldn’t resent the Bonded. They should resent the nobles… and the king.
The thought is disloyal. Treasonous, even. I push it out of my mind the moment it occurs, worried that if I prod it for too long, it will expand and blossom in my chest like some sort of carnivorous plant.
Our people can’t even win a war; we’d never survive a revolution.
We turn onto the street where I was born and raised. I almost don’t want to see it through my new eyes. At the same time, the familiar details draw me in.
The ramshackle houses with their rotting wood and muddy walkways. The gutted storefronts and crumbling walls of homes long abandoned. The children scuttling through the streets dressed in lovingly patched rags.
Fuck. It hurts to see this, knowing there’s nothing I can do to change it right now.
When this day is over, I’ll return to my clean bed and my soft sheets. I’ll have all the food I could ever want. All the warmth and comfort these people have never known.
Killian could do something about it, though, when he takes his father’s place. We’ve talked about it, these past weeks. He’d spread out the resources more evenly between the Bonded and the rest of Nocturna’s populace. He’d stop hosting lavish parties for the nobles, and force those lords who have never worked a day in their lives to stop plundering from their people.
That treasonous voice is back. Why wait for the king’s natural death, when there’s someone more fit to rule the throne?
“There is,” Anassa agrees, hearing my thoughts.
“Stop,” I tell her. “We are not planning a mutiny on our day off.”
By the time we arrive at my mother’s house, I’m sick with dread. There it is—that tiny, drab house.
But… the sagging roof is no longer sagging. The walls have been properly patched up for once and finished with new stucco. The crooked front gate has been installed upright. And there aren’t any holes in the porch awning anymore.
Killian. He hasn’t been just checking in on my mother; he’s been putting her world back together, piece by piece, in my absence.
Heat builds behind my eyes and I take a deep breath of the cold air, clearing my throat. I am not going to weep in the streets like a child.
As Anassa halts outside the gate, her bulk casting one long shadow that swallows the whole front of the house, the neighbors stare from their windows.
I don’t look as I dismount and head for the door. I don’t want to see the awe in their faces—or the resentment. I don’t want to see myself reflected as a stranger in their gazes.
My heart thrums in my ears as I approach the door. I pause on the stoop, gripped by a sudden confusion.
Should I knock? Or just walk in? This is my home, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
Before I can make up my mind, the knob turns. The door opens.
And I close my eyes, terrified to find out which version of my mother I’m going to get today.