Chapter Two
The collar chafed against Casteel's neck, its metal edges digging into tender skin rubbed raw over the past two lunar cycles.
Casteel kept his eyes lowered as the priests led him through the marble corridors, their sandaled feet slapping against the polished floor in perfect rhythm.
The sound echoed in his skull like a death knell.
"Head up," hissed a guard, yanking on the chain. "You are a blessing to these people. Act like it."
Casteel wanted to laugh. A blessing. As if being dragged from the stables where he'd lived contentedly among animals had been some divine favor. As if the weeks of "preparation" that followed had been anything but torture.
Torture that had broken him.
Sunlight slashed through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes that swirled in their passage.
Just beyond those walls, he could hear them—thousands of people gathered in the courtyard, their excited murmurs rising like the buzzing of insects.
All of them waiting to see the miracle. The prophesied one. The Silver Wolf.
"Remember what happens if you fail us today," High Priest Doran whispered, his breath hot against Casteel's ear. "The people need their savior. You will shift. You will display your mark. Or tonight's session will make the previous ones seem like gentle caresses."
Casteel's back burned at the memory—the lash, the brands, the strange herbs they'd forced down his throat that made his blood feel like liquid fire. All to make him shift again. All to make him become what they needed.
"I can't," he said, the words barely audible. "Not since that first time."
Doran's face twisted with contempt. "You will. Or we'll find someone who can."
The threat hung between them. Casteel knew what it meant. They'd find someone else to torture. Someone else to break. His failure would simply condemn another. Guilt swirled in his insides sickly.
Two palace guards pulled open the heavy oak doors that led to the balcony. The roar of the crowd hit him like a physical blow. Casteel stumbled, only to be roughly hauled forward by the chain.
"Smile," Father Enoch commanded through clenched teeth, his own face a rictus of false benevolence as they emerged into the sunlight as he quickly removed the collar before it was seen, then arranged Casteel's robes so no one would see the mark.
The crowd erupted at the sight of him. Faces—thousands of them—turned upward, eyes hungry, hands reaching as if to touch a piece of divinity. Casteel fought the urge to recoil.
"Citizens of Abergenny!" Doran’s voice boomed across the courtyard. "Behold your hope! The Silver Wolf has returned to us in our desperate time!"
Casteel's gaze swept over the sea of faces.
Some wept openly. Others looked skeptical.
Many bore crude marks on their foreheads—desperate attempts to mimic the crown-shaped birthmark that would supposedly match his own when in wolf form.
The animal that had appeared only once, that first terrifying day when his body had betrayed him, transforming before the farmhands and the guards.
"The time has come," Doran announced, his hand gripping Casteel's shoulder with bruising force. "Today, we seek the one who bears the matching mark—the one destined to complete our savior's power!"
The crowd roared again. Casteel's vision swam. The sun was too bright, the noise too much after weeks in the darkness of the preparation chambers.
Casteel closed his eyes, trying to summon the wolf within, even if only to save another from this torture.
He'd done it once before, unwittingly, when startled by a snake in the hay.
The shift had been effortless then—a ripple of energy, a moment of disorientation, and suddenly he'd been standing on four paws, his senses heightened, his body light and powerful.
And familiar. As if the wolf had been in him all his life.
Now, nothing happened. His body remained stubbornly human, despite the commands, despite the expectant silence that had fallen over the crowd. Despite the growing pressure of Father Enoch's fingers digging into his flesh.
Casteel tried again, desperately searching for that elusive thread of magic that had transformed him before.
He thought of the pain that awaited him if he failed—the dark room, the smell of burning herbs, and worse the smell of his own burning flesh.
The priests' disappointment morphing into cruel determination.
He thought of the innocent who would take his place if he couldn't perform.
Still nothing.
"And now we search for the Silver Wolf's mate. Come forward and receive your blessing."
The announcement seemed to spur everyone, their excitement building once more. But Casteel felt the subtle shift in the priests' demeanor, the tension in their bodies.
"Begin the procession," High Priest Doran commanded.
Casteel knew there was supposed to be one person in this crowd that could bring forward his wolf with a simple touch.
The initial change was merely to prove his valid claim, even though the priests had done their best to make him perform at their will so as not to involve another, despite what the prophecies said about a divine pair.
He supposed on his own he was easier to control. Shame settled on Casteel's shoulders. After weeks of constant pain he would have done anything to escape it.
Palace guards herded the first group of citizens forward—young men and women of varying ages, all bearing marks on their foreheads.
Some were clearly painted, others looked like burns or cuts deliberately inflicted.
All of them stared at Casteel with a mixture of hope and fear as they filed past, presenting themselves one by one.
Casteel sat motionless, his body refusing to transform despite his terror, despite his silent pleas.
He couldn't stop picturing the preparation chamber—the strange symbols painted on the floor, the acrid smoke that made his lungs burn, the priests' chanting growing louder as they forced him to drink concoctions that left him retching and delirious.
Doran stepped forward, his benevolent mask slipping to reveal the cold fury beneath. His fingers curled around Casteel's forearm with punishing force, nails digging half-moons into the flesh.
"I don't care who you choose for a mate.
We both know it's simply for show. Perhaps you need a reminder of what's at stake to force the shift," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Casteel could hear the venom in it.
"Tonight, we'll try the northern herbs. The ones that made you scream for three days straight. "
The threat froze Casteel's blood. He remembered those herbs—the way they'd made his bones feel like they were splintering from within, how his skin had seemed to crawl with invisible insects. He'd begged for death then, thrashing against his restraints until his wrists bled.
But as Doran's grip tightened further, Casteel saw it—a flash of light from the far tower, like sunlight glinting off metal. His eyes focused on the source, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to slow.
An arrow. The unmistakable silhouette of a bow drawn taut.
Someone was aiming at him.
The realization should have terrified him. Instead, a profound calm washed over Casteel, soothing his frayed nerves like cool water on burned skin. His shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his body for the first time in weeks.
Death. Freedom. An end to the preparation chambers, the chanting, the herbs, the pain. An end to being paraded before desperate masses who needed him to be something he wasn't, that he couldn't be.
Casteel lifted his chin and straightened his spine. If death was coming for him, he would meet it with dignity—the one thing the priests hadn't managed to strip from him entirely.
A smile, small but genuine, curved his lips. Father Doran's eyes widened at the unexpected expression, his grip faltering in confusion.
Casteel kept his gaze fixed on that distant glint of metal, willing the archer to release, to end this charade once and for all.
He took a deep breath, savoring what he believed would be his last moments of consciousness.
Maybe if he was really lucky and there was an afterlife he would find horses there.
The crowd's murmurs faded to a distant hum. The sun felt warmer on his face. Even the pain of his raw skin seemed to recede as he waited for the arrow to find its mark.
"Thank you," he whispered to whoever was watching from that tower, gratitude flooding his heart even as his pulse quickened with anticipation.
Father Enoch frowned, following Casteel's line of sight. His eyes narrowed, scanning the towers with sudden alertness.
"Guards!" he shouted, but his voice seemed to come from very far away.
Casteel nearly cried in relief. Any moment now. Any moment, and he would be free.