Prologue #2
“Wolf, I vouched for you.” His voice drops lower. “Do you have any idea what position that puts me in if you fail again?”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Another step closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re waiting for them to put you down.”
“I haven’t given up.”
“Then what’s wrong with you?” His frustration comes out harsh. “You were one of the best blades we had. Now you can’t finish a simple kill.”
I want to tell him that something broke inside me during that torture mission. I can’t separate the screams of my mark from the screams I heard when the hunters came for my clan. Every time I raise my blade now, I see my grandfather falling, the Sylverin pack dying.
But the guild doesn’t care about broken assassins.
“I’m worried about Shade,” I say instead, deflecting. “Sending him to Aelfheim—”
“Shade will be fine,” Shepherd cuts me off. “Shade will do whatever it takes to free his mother. He won’t let anything get in the way of that goal.”
“But—”
“Worry about your own missions, Wolf.” The words are sharp and final. “Shade can take care of himself. You need to focus on staying alive.”
The reprimand stings worse than a slap. I know he’s right, but I can’t help the unease that coils in my gut when I think about Shade.
Shepherd watches me for a long moment, then sighs. Some of the hardness leaves his expression, replaced by something that might be concern.
“Another batch of Grimsbane is headed to Aelfheim tomorrow at dawn,” he says quietly. “War is brewing between the courts. They’re requesting guild protection for more noble houses. The Judges are assembling contracts now.”
My pulse quickens. “Am I part of—”
“I don’t know yet.” He straightens, brushing off his coat. “But if you are, Wolf, you need to do your best. No more hesitation.”
I nod at the Arbiter.
Shepherd reaches into his coat and pulls out a plain black mask, featureless except for the eyeholes. He wears it before moving toward the door. “I can’t protect you if you fail again. No one can.”
He disappears into the tunnel’s mouth. I’m left alone with the echo of his voice and the taste of my own shame. I look at my hands. I can see the stains that won’t wash out. The smell of blood is permanent now, soaked into my skin like ink.
My grandfather would be disgusted to see what I’ve become.
He was the last alpha of the Sylverin Clan.
They ruled the Slagtown Quarter for thirty years before the other packs tore them apart.
I was seven when it happened. I hid in a drainage pipe, listening to my grandfather’s defiant roar until his voice gave out.
The Sylverins scattered that night. Most were dead within a month. Pack wolves don’t survive alone.
But I did.
The guild found me three weeks later, eating garbage behind one of their safe houses.
They saw the sapphire eyes and knew what I was.
I couldn’t shift because of my half-elven lineage, but I’m still of the Sylverin wolf clan.
My senses and reflexes are faster than most mortals.
With training I would be perfect for their work.
Except now I’m failing. I remember what my grandfather said the night before he died.
We are the Sylverins, descendants of the Fenrir Aeternus. We protect the weak as guardians of the night.
But I’ve protected nothing. I’ve only taken and taken until my hands are so full of blood I can’t hold anything else.
I wait.
Time crawls. Each breath feels like an hour. Past midnight, the iron door finally opens.
I jerk my head up. I didn’t hear anyone approach. A figure stands before me, wrapped in the black robes of a Judge.
His mask is blank, polished silver with no features at all. Looking at it is like staring into the void.
I scramble to my feet, breath catching.
“The Arbiter has spoken on your behalf.” The voice is neither male nor female, distorted by whatever mechanism hides behind that mask.
“Your third assignment.” A gloved hand extends, holding a scroll sealed with black wax. The guild’s mark pressed deep into it. “Succeed and your record is cleared.”
The Judge doesn’t wait for a response. The door closes. I’m alone again.
I move deeper into the sanctum, finding a corner where the shadows are thickest. My hands shake as I break the seal. The wax crumbles like dried blood, revealing the crisp parchment inside. I inhale the fresh smell of ink. This was written today, perhaps hours ago.
Please.
I don’t know who I’m praying to. The old wolf gods are dead. The new ones are ruthless. Perhaps the seventy-seven gods that my elven father worshipped?
Please, not another kill order. Not another merchant or lord or—
The words swim into focus.
Protection.
Duration: Fifty days.
The relief hits so hard my knees actually buckle. I slide down the wall.
Protection.
Thank fuck it’s not assassination or murder. I keep reading, desperate for details.
Subject: Lord Gerailt Clayborne, second son of House Clayborne from Aelfheim.
Aelfheim.
It’s the same elven kingdom where Shade is heading. The Claybornes are one of the wealthiest noble houses in Aelfheim with fingers in the silk trade and harvest.
Threat Assessment: High.
Recent attempts on subject’s life by unknown parties. Previous protection detail deceased.
That’s not encouraging. Still, it’s protection. I’ll be keeping someone alive instead of taking a life.
This is my last chance. Protect this lordling for fifty days and I’m clear. My failures will be erased. Maybe then I can figure out what comes next once my standing is restored. I look at the assignment again.
Lord Gerailt Clayborne.
They call him Garrett in the shorthand notes at the bottom. Some nickname, probably. The nobility loves their pet names.
I have only a few hours before dawn to pack whatever I can carry.
Shit.
My cell is seven floors up from the sanctum.
The climb is murder on my bad knee, the one that never healed right after one of the guild’s punishments.
A dwarf lord shattered it with a warhammer three winters back and it has only gotten worse since then.
Each step sends a dull ache radiating up my leg.
My boots echo in the narrow stairwell alongside the steady drip of water that’s worn a groove in the stone.
I pass other assassins on the way up. Rooster descends with his gaudy bird mask catching what little light filters through the grime-covered windows.
Fresh scalps hang from his belt, still dripping blood that leaves a trail on the stairs.
I press myself against the wall to let him pass. He clicks his tongue at me.
“Walking dead,” he whispers. The Asterdust on his breath is sweet and chemical, making my nose burn.
Catnip lounges in an alcove on the fifth floor. Her mask is a delicate thing of flowers and thorns that doesn’t match the cruelty in her eyes. She’s cleaning her nails with a dagger, humming something that sounds like a lullaby. There’s blood on her robe.
“Heard you got a protection job,” she says without looking up. “How boring. I was hoping to watch you fail something more interesting.”
By the time I reach my cell, my chest is tight. The pollution is worse up here. I can taste the chemicals in the air, feel them coating my lungs like tar. Another gift of my wolf lineage. I experience the poison more intensely but it takes longer to kill me. A cruel joke.
My cell is exactly as I left it this morning. The narrow cot dominates one wall with its mattress reeking of mold. Everything I own fits into the trunk sitting beneath the grimy window on the opposite wall.
I open it and sort through the contents. Three sets of leather armor, carefully maintained despite their age. My weapons rest beneath them. I select two daggers, a short sword, throwing knives, and a garrote wire. They’re the tools of my trade, each one intimate with death.
At the bottom of the trunk lies the only thing that truly matters.
I pull the small pouch out carefully. Inside are three silver canines, filed sharp and capped in precious metal.
They’re all that remains of my grandfather.
He was a pure-blooded wolf and could shift between forms like breathing, something I never inherited.
The elf blood from my father saw to that.
I barely remember my parents. They were both killed when I was too young to understand what death meant. My grandfather took me in after that, raised me in the Slagtown Quarter among the Sylverin pack.
“You need to watch him.”
Kitty stands in my doorway. I hadn’t heard her approach. She’s the only one in the guild who can still surprise me.
Her face is soft and youthful. But she’s Dunethar like Rowan, so her real age is anyone’s guess. She could be twenty or two hundred. Tonight her feline mask hangs from her belt instead of covering her face.
“You mean Shade?” I ask.
Kitty steps into the room, closing the door behind her. “Didn’t Rowan tell you?”
She and Shade are the only ones who call Shepherd by his first name so casually. Everyone else calls him Master Rowan or Shepherd with the kind of fear and respect an Arbiter demands.
He’s too soft on the three of us. I’ve always thought so. We get away with things that would see other assassins in the crypts.
I stand slowly, reading the tension in every line of her face. “Tell me what?”
“Shade’s mission in Aelfheim.” Her hands twist together, a nervous gesture I’ve never seen from her before. “It’s not just any protection detail. He’s guarding the Wiolants.”
The leather armor slips from my hands.
“What?”
“Queen Rhianelle Wiolant. A hundred days keeping her safe.” Kitty’s voice cracks. “They’re putting him in the same court as the family who destroyed his.”
Horror crawls up my spine. “He’ll kill her. The first chance he gets, he’ll—”
“I know.” She crosses to me and grabs my arm with both hands. “Wolf, I’m terrified. If Shade breaks, he will kill her and they’ll execute him.”