The wind clawed at the tent’s remains, shredding smoke and memory into the endless gray. I knelt in the snow, retching until my throat burned raw. Yrsa’s blood had frozen midair, crimson icicles littering the ground like broken glass. The stew pot lay on its side, carrots scattered—tiny, accusing eyes.Pathetic, Vorath snarled. Not in my mind. In my teeth.Mara emerged from the blizzard, her pelt crusted with ice. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t smirk. Just stared, her scarred face a cliffside eroded by storms. “Crying?”I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. “Frost.”“Frost doesn’t stink of shame.” She kicked the stew pot, sending it clattering into the dark. “You killed her. Now live with it.”Behind her, the Unbound picked Yrsa’s tent clean. A man with a split lip yanked the raven feather from its string, tucked it behind his ear. A woman with frost-rotted fingers hacked off Yrsa’s braid, stuffing it into a leather pouch. No ceremony. No words. Just the wet snick of blades and the creak
The Scholar’s Gambit (Viktor, Age: 28)The lab stank of antiseptic and thawing rot. I pressed my palm to the observation window, fogging the glass with my breath as I watched Dr. Elena Voss slice into the dead wolf’s chest. Her scalpel peeled back ribs like she was opening a gift. Too slow. Too careful. Humans always hesitated. “Femoral artery’s thicker than normal,” she said, gloved fingers prodding rubbery muscle. Her German accent sharpened every word, like she was lecturing a child. “Reinforced, almost. Like it evolved to withstand—” “Blood loss during shifts,” I cut in. My reflection grinned back at me in the glass—pale, gaunt, eyes too bright. “You’re wasting time. Cut deeper.” She stiffened, goggles flashing as she glanced up. “This isn’t a butcher shop. If you want progress, let me work properly.” I laughed. The sound bounced off the lab’s steel walls, harsh and hollow. “Proper? You think wolves die properly out here?” I descended the metal stairs, boots clanging. The
The Silver Claw (Viktor Age; 35)The trapper’s blood steamed in the cold, pooling around my boots like molten copper. I crouched over his corpse, fingers buried in his ribcage, prying loose the liver. The forest reeked of iron and pine sap. A twig snapped. I froze, knife slick in my grip. A girl stood at the tree line, her breath fogging the air. Sixteen, maybe. Skinny. Eyes sunken, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her parka was patched with wolf fur, her boots caked in mud. Blood Moon colors. “I know what you are,” she said, voice trembling. Not from fear—from hunger. I tossed the liver into the snow. It landed with a wet thud. “Then you know what happens to pups who wander too far.” She didn’t flinch. “They say you turn people into monsters.” I wiped the blade on my sleeve. “They say a lot of things.” “I want you to make me one.” I laughed. The sound startled a raven from the trees. “You don’t want what I am.” She stepped closer. The trapper’s blood soaked into her
The ruins swallowed me whole. Ice clawed up the pillars like frostbitten fingers, their jagged edges scraping a starless sky. My breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale a cloud of frost that hung in the air like a ghost. The bone dagger trembled in my grip—surgeon’s hands, steady once, now betraying me. The blade’s edge bit colder than the wind gnawing through my coat, colder than the void where Lira’s laugh used to live.Rot.It hit me first as a stench. My knuckles wept flesh, black veins spidering up my arms like cracks in a shattered window. Vorath writhed inside me, a thousand teeth grinding my bones to dust. I hadn’t eaten in days. Didn’t need to. The parasite feasted well.“You’re dying.”Angela’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as the dagger’s edge. She stood at the rim of the ruins, her silhouette warped by the thing festering inside her—claws too long, spine arched like a wolf mid-leap, eyes glowing sulfur-bright. But her voice… her voice was still hers. Soft. Human.
The blade bit deeper into my wrist. Blood spilling blood onto the ice with a hiss. The ritual circle flared acid-green. My bones snapping, fingers stretching into talons. Angela slammed against the barrier again with enough force to make it rattle from its foundation, her claws leaving smears of her own blood on the shimmering air.“You think this makes you strong?” she shouted, voice raw. “You’re just its tool now!”I tried to answer, but my jaw cracked, tendons snapping as it unhinged. Venom dripped from fangs that hadn’t been there seconds ago. The taste burned my tongue—rot and iron. Vorath’s laughter vibrated in my chest, louder than my own heartbeat.Angela lunged sideways, hunting for a weak spot in the barrier. Her mutated arm lashed out, talons raking the ice near the edge of the circle. The green light flickered.“Clever,” I rasped, the words slurred around too many teeth. My left eye was gone, replaced by a wet, bulging orb that saw in heat and shadows. “But you’re too late
The wind clawed at the tent’s remains, shredding smoke and memory into the endless gray. I knelt in the snow, retching until my throat burned raw. Yrsa’s blood had frozen midair, crimson icicles littering the ground like broken glass. The stew pot lay on its side, carrots scattered—tiny, accusing eyes.Pathetic, Vorath snarled. Not in my mind. In my teeth.Mara emerged from the blizzard, her pelt crusted with ice. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t smirk. Just stared, her scarred face a cliffside eroded by storms. “Crying?”I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. “Frost.”“Frost doesn’t stink of shame.” She kicked the stew pot, sending it clattering into the dark. “You killed her. Now live with it.”Behind her, the Unbound picked Yrsa’s tent clean. A man with a split lip yanked the raven feather from its string, tucked it behind his ear. A woman with frost-rotted fingers hacked off Yrsa’s braid, stuffing it into a leather pouch. No ceremony. No words. Just the wet snick of blades and the creak
I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans as I walked toward my father's office. I was all nerves. My father had given me five years, and the deadline was almost up. My heart felt like it was beating outside my chest.I reached the office and hesitated before knocking."Come in," he called.I took a deep breath and opened the door. I slipped inside and waited for more orders. My father's green eyes were on me, hard and unfriendly."Sit," he allowed.I did as he asked.My father's voice always raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Today was no different. "Tomorrow night is the winter solstice," he stated.I swallowed nervously. "I know, Beta." My father never allowed me to call him 'Dad.' Only my sister, Angela, had the right to call him that. I was the murderer and disgrace; she was his pride and joy."You do know what that means, do you not?" he asked."I know.""Today is your final year of grace—not that you deserved it—but Andrea would have wanted me to be merciful."My heart skipped
You will definitely shift," Bella assured me enthusiastically.I wanted to hope, but each failed year flashed in my memory like a bad dream. What if it didn’t happen? My stomach flipped at the thought of being sold to those creepy middle-aged men my father called friends.It was the day, and we were heading out to the woods. The Shifting Grounds were the highest land in the pack. It was where the Solstice full moon was the biggest and brightest, and where the Alpha would guide new shifters through their first shift. I just hoped I would be one of them this year.I got dressed as Bella went on. “You have the best odds this year.”“Why is that?” I asked.“You’re twenty-two this year. The Moon Goddess’s daughter was twenty-two when she shifted. They say she was a late shifter, but her wolf was the most powerful. Almost as powerful as the Moon Goddess herself.”Bella adjusted her glasses as she continued to fill me in on the werewolf mythology she loved to read. Bella, my geeky friend, wa
The wind clawed at the tent’s remains, shredding smoke and memory into the endless gray. I knelt in the snow, retching until my throat burned raw. Yrsa’s blood had frozen midair, crimson icicles littering the ground like broken glass. The stew pot lay on its side, carrots scattered—tiny, accusing eyes.Pathetic, Vorath snarled. Not in my mind. In my teeth.Mara emerged from the blizzard, her pelt crusted with ice. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t smirk. Just stared, her scarred face a cliffside eroded by storms. “Crying?”I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. “Frost.”“Frost doesn’t stink of shame.” She kicked the stew pot, sending it clattering into the dark. “You killed her. Now live with it.”Behind her, the Unbound picked Yrsa’s tent clean. A man with a split lip yanked the raven feather from its string, tucked it behind his ear. A woman with frost-rotted fingers hacked off Yrsa’s braid, stuffing it into a leather pouch. No ceremony. No words. Just the wet snick of blades and the creak
The blade bit deeper into my wrist. Blood spilling blood onto the ice with a hiss. The ritual circle flared acid-green. My bones snapping, fingers stretching into talons. Angela slammed against the barrier again with enough force to make it rattle from its foundation, her claws leaving smears of her own blood on the shimmering air.“You think this makes you strong?” she shouted, voice raw. “You’re just its tool now!”I tried to answer, but my jaw cracked, tendons snapping as it unhinged. Venom dripped from fangs that hadn’t been there seconds ago. The taste burned my tongue—rot and iron. Vorath’s laughter vibrated in my chest, louder than my own heartbeat.Angela lunged sideways, hunting for a weak spot in the barrier. Her mutated arm lashed out, talons raking the ice near the edge of the circle. The green light flickered.“Clever,” I rasped, the words slurred around too many teeth. My left eye was gone, replaced by a wet, bulging orb that saw in heat and shadows. “But you’re too late
The ruins swallowed me whole. Ice clawed up the pillars like frostbitten fingers, their jagged edges scraping a starless sky. My breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale a cloud of frost that hung in the air like a ghost. The bone dagger trembled in my grip—surgeon’s hands, steady once, now betraying me. The blade’s edge bit colder than the wind gnawing through my coat, colder than the void where Lira’s laugh used to live.Rot.It hit me first as a stench. My knuckles wept flesh, black veins spidering up my arms like cracks in a shattered window. Vorath writhed inside me, a thousand teeth grinding my bones to dust. I hadn’t eaten in days. Didn’t need to. The parasite feasted well.“You’re dying.”Angela’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as the dagger’s edge. She stood at the rim of the ruins, her silhouette warped by the thing festering inside her—claws too long, spine arched like a wolf mid-leap, eyes glowing sulfur-bright. But her voice… her voice was still hers. Soft. Human.
The Silver Claw (Viktor Age; 35)The trapper’s blood steamed in the cold, pooling around my boots like molten copper. I crouched over his corpse, fingers buried in his ribcage, prying loose the liver. The forest reeked of iron and pine sap. A twig snapped. I froze, knife slick in my grip. A girl stood at the tree line, her breath fogging the air. Sixteen, maybe. Skinny. Eyes sunken, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her parka was patched with wolf fur, her boots caked in mud. Blood Moon colors. “I know what you are,” she said, voice trembling. Not from fear—from hunger. I tossed the liver into the snow. It landed with a wet thud. “Then you know what happens to pups who wander too far.” She didn’t flinch. “They say you turn people into monsters.” I wiped the blade on my sleeve. “They say a lot of things.” “I want you to make me one.” I laughed. The sound startled a raven from the trees. “You don’t want what I am.” She stepped closer. The trapper’s blood soaked into her
The Scholar’s Gambit (Viktor, Age: 28)The lab stank of antiseptic and thawing rot. I pressed my palm to the observation window, fogging the glass with my breath as I watched Dr. Elena Voss slice into the dead wolf’s chest. Her scalpel peeled back ribs like she was opening a gift. Too slow. Too careful. Humans always hesitated. “Femoral artery’s thicker than normal,” she said, gloved fingers prodding rubbery muscle. Her German accent sharpened every word, like she was lecturing a child. “Reinforced, almost. Like it evolved to withstand—” “Blood loss during shifts,” I cut in. My reflection grinned back at me in the glass—pale, gaunt, eyes too bright. “You’re wasting time. Cut deeper.” She stiffened, goggles flashing as she glanced up. “This isn’t a butcher shop. If you want progress, let me work properly.” I laughed. The sound bounced off the lab’s steel walls, harsh and hollow. “Proper? You think wolves die properly out here?” I descended the metal stairs, boots clanging. The
The wind clawed at the tent’s remains, shredding smoke and memory into the endless gray. I knelt in the snow, retching until my throat burned raw. Yrsa’s blood had frozen midair, crimson icicles littering the ground like broken glass. The stew pot lay on its side, carrots scattered—tiny, accusing eyes.Pathetic, Vorath snarled. Not in my mind. In my teeth.Mara emerged from the blizzard, her pelt crusted with ice. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t smirk. Just stared, her scarred face a cliffside eroded by storms. “Crying?”I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. “Frost.”“Frost doesn’t stink of shame.” She kicked the stew pot, sending it clattering into the dark. “You killed her. Now live with it.”Behind her, the Unbound picked Yrsa’s tent clean. A man with a split lip yanked the raven feather from its string, tucked it behind his ear. A woman with frost-rotted fingers hacked off Yrsa’s braid, stuffing it into a leather pouch. No ceremony. No words. Just the wet snick of blades and the creak
The wind screamed through the whale’s ribs, a banshee’s wail that drowned the scrape of my blade against stone. Three nights in the Unbound’s belly had taught me this: ash choked the stew, lies choked the air, and Mara’s eyes never left my back.She found me in the skull’s shadow, sharpening a stolen dagger. The obsidian edge caught the firelight, fracturing her reflection into shards.“Elder Yrsa,” she said, flipping her own blade in her hand. The name was a knife.I kept sharpening. “What about her?”“Kill her.”The stone slipped. The dagger bit my palm. Blood welled, black in the dim light. Vorath hissed, a serpent coiling tighter. Yrsa. The singer. The liar.I forced my voice flat. “Why?”Mara’s boot crunched ice as she circled me. “You don’t ask why. You obey.”I laughed, bitter. “You’re not my Alpha.”“No.” She crouched, her scarred lips inches from my ear. “I’m worse.”Her dagger slammed into the ice between my legs. The hilt vibrated, humming like a struck chord.“Yrsa’s the l
The tundra is a liar. It promises nothing but takes everything—your warmth, your voice, your name. By the time the Unbound found me, seven years had hardened into ice inside my chest. Seven years of chewing leather belts until my gums bled, licking frost off jagged rocks just to wet my tongue. Seven years of listening to Vorath’s voice coil around my thoughts like smoke, whispering things that made the cold feel like a lover. I didn’t care if I lived. I didn’t care if I died. But then Mara stepped out of the snow, her scarred lips twisted into a grin, and something inside me cracked. A sliver of curiosity, sharp and cold, like the edge of a blade pressed to a thawing vein.She stood taller than the others, her shoulders draped in a pelt stitched from wolf hides and something darker—bear, maybe, or human. The scar splitting her lips gleamed in the weak light, a pale thread weaving through weathered skin. Her eyes were flint, sharp enough to spark.“Viktor Frostfang,” she said, her voic
Age 15. The Ice Cave. The wind is a living thing here—a feral, snarling beast that gnaws at the edges of the world. It claws through layers of sealskin and caribou hide, needling my bones with a cold so sharp it feels like betrayal. My breath crystallizes before it leaves my lips, and the snow underfoot groans like a dying animal. The meat strapped to my chest is a furnace, its warmth leaching through my furs, a guilty secret pressed against my ribs. Rabbit. Fresh-killed. Stolen. The ice cave is a jagged scar in the glacier’s flank, its entrance half-buried under drifts. I dig with bare hands, the cold searing my fingertips raw. Inside, the walls glisten like the throat of some primordial creature, veins of cobalt and iron ore threading through the ice. Lira huddles in the deepest recess, her body swallowed by a nest of mangy pelts. Fox, maybe. Wolf. Discards. “Viktor?” Her voice is a moth’s wing, brittle and fraying. I toss the rabbit at her feet. The meat thuds dully, steam