chapter 19
The next morning started far too early for anyone’s liking.
Ferial and Abdie had barely walked through the factory gates when they saw two enforcers, fully uniformed, waiting near the entrance with clipboards. Their presence alone made half the workers tense up—even though everyone pretended not to stare.
One of the enforcers cleared his throat loudly and addressed the crowd gathering for the morning shift.
“By order of the Alpha,” he announced, “the punishment for public disturbance is officially completed.”
The factory courtyard went absolutely silent.
Then Abdie—dramatic, loud, impossible Abdie—put one hand on his forehead and gasped like a dying aristocrat.
“Oh thank the Goddess,” he exclaimed, staggering backward dramatically. “I thought I was going to die here. I was already planning my funeral.”
Ferial elbowed him hard before he could fall.
Their one supervisor stormed forward.
“ABDIE!” she barked. “If you faint, I’ll drag you by your ear into the factory myself and make you sweep the vents for the next week!”
The entire courtyard burst out laughing.
Even the enforcer cracked a smile.
Abdie straightened instantly like a chastised child.
“I’m fine, ma’am. Very healthy, ma’am. Never been more awake in my life.”
Ferial rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her brain.
At least today is starting off better than yesterday, she thought as the workers filed inside.
---
After Work
The sun was lowering when they reached their building, the shadows long and warm across the cracked pavement. They were both tired, but at least the day hadn’t been terrible.
Except someone was waiting.
Abdie’s mother stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping, eyes blazing.
“Oh no,” Abdie whispered. “No no no. I’m going back to work.”
Too late.
His mother pointed at him like she was summoning lightning.
“You!” she shouted. “Do you know what the neighbors are saying about you? Fighting! Arguing! Throwing bricks! Screaming in the streets like a feral donkey—”
“I DID NOT scream like a donkey—!”
“You screamed EXACTLY like one! Mrs. Dawood’s grandson said he thought someone was slaughtering livestock!”
Ferial bit her lip so hard to stop from laughing she nearly bled.
Abdie threw his hands up. “I was DEFENDING myself from STUPID PEOPLE—!”
His mother marched toward him. “Defending!? Abdie, when will you learn you cannot fight the entire district? Are you the Alpha now? Huh? Are you head of the enforcers?”
“Well—maybe if the Alpha hired me—!”
She smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
“STOP TALKING NONSENSE!”
Ferial stepped forward quickly. “Aunty, it was partially my fault—”
Abdie grabbed her wrist. “Nope. We’re leaving. Bye, Ma!”
“ABDIE—COME BACK HERE!”
“No thank you!” he called over his shoulder as he dragged Ferial into the building.
Up the stairs they went, Abdie muttering the whole way.
“I swear she’s going to bury me alive one day. I’m sorry she yelled at you, Fer. You were just standing there.”
“It’s fine,” Ferial said. “She wasn’t wrong.”
“Whose side are you ON?”
---
At Home
Her grandparents were already home, sitting at the table, the aroma of something simple but warm filling the small apartment.
Her grandmother perked up when they entered.
“Sit, you two. I made tea.”
Abdie instantly relaxed, slumping into his usual seat at the small table.
Ferial sat beside him, her grandfather placing cups in front of them with his slow, steady hands.
“Dinner will be rice and gravy tonight,” her grandmother announced proudly. “We had a good price at the ration stand today.”
Abdie lit up. “Rice? Real rice? Like more than two spoons worth?”
Her grandfather snorted. “Don’t exaggerate. It’s three spoons.”
Abdie sagged. “Luxury.”
They all laughed.
When the rice was finally served, steaming and smelling faintly of pepper and onion, her grandmother spoke again—this time softer.
“You know,” she said, stirring her gravy, “people talk about worship these days like it’s something strange. But for us… the Goddess carried us through much worse times.”
Ferial and her grandfather both paused.
Her grandmother rarely spoke so openly about it.
“Granny,” Ferial asked carefully, “where did you grow up? You always talk about temple worship, but… you never said where.”
Her grandmother’s eyes glistened with memories.
“A small village,” she said quietly. “Far from here.”
Ferial leaned in. “Why have you never told us more?”
Her grandfather cleared his throat loudly.
“Because,” he said, glaring at his wife, “it is not for everyone to know.”
Her grandmother scoffed. “Oh hush, old man. We are talking to family.”
“You overshare,” he retorted. “One day someone will kidnap you for information.”
“I’m seventy-three! Who is kidnapping me?”
“Someone desperate for temple gossip.”
Abdie choked on his rice, laughing so hard he nearly fell from his chair.
But Ferial wasn’t laughing.
She was watching her grandmother’s face—the shadows that passed through her eyes, the story half-spoken.
“Did something happen in that village?” Ferial asked gently.
Her grandmother only smiled, soft and sad.
“That,” she said, touching Ferial’s hand, “is a story for another night.”
Her grandfather nodded firmly.
“Or never,” he muttered.
Ferial exchanged a glance with Abdie—who raised his brows meaningfully.
There was something there.
Something old.
Something her grandparents had been keeping buried.
And for the first time, Ferial wondered if the Goddess, the wolves, and her grandparents’ past were all pieces of a puzzle she had never been allowed to see.