MENDEL'S POV
I can still smell her blood on my gloves. It's stronger than the smoke from the curing racks outside my cabin or the pine pitch I used to scrub them at the hearth; even stronger than the bite of frost that settles over the upper ridges of Vartun when the sun hides behind the speartip mountains.
I watch the snow being blown from the branches as I stand by the window. Behind me, sleeping, is the girl from the river, whose name I have yet to learn.
The term "sleeping" may not be quite accurate; it seems more like she is drowning, torn between two realities. I've seen enough hurt wolves in my time to recognize when the body is ready to let go. But hers? Seems to be struggling with something inside of her that is snarling at the darkness and refusing to take that last breath.
I should've just left her or tossed her body into the river and blamed it on the frost wolves prowling the borders. That's exactly what any sensible second son of the royal line, the Alpha's brother, would do.
But when I knelt by that dark river and pressed my fingers to her throat, something shifted. Something responded.
When I was a kid, my father used to take me hunting through the red pine forests that sit in the heart of Vartun. He would share with me the ancient legends of the First Brood, the Shadowborn mothers who gave birth to sons who, with a single growl, could shift, heal, and bind wounds. Next came the "Lost Daughters," an ancient myth so old that real warriors scoff if you mention it at the fire: a woman once had the power to seal the Alpha's wound from the inside out. She was capable of carrying more than just fur and fang.
The old priests called it Bloodbonded before they all disappeared with their secrets in the moonlight.
That story is merely superstition; it's a pleasant one for puppies who dream of queens and heirs powerful enough to topple mountains.
But tonight, by that river, I could feel the girl's pulse, and my bones echoed. The bond spoke through my bone marrow as if it were living.
I turn away from the window, forcing myself to step softly over the rush mat. She is curled up beneath my brother's wolfskin cloak, which nearly engulfs her petite frame with its thick black pelt. The moonlight coming in through the shutters makes her face look ghostly pale.
In the silver light, the scars on her skin stand out: a new lattice on her wrists where the iron sunk the deepest, and thin, white lines on her collarbone and temple.
Wolves can heal marks like these in a matter of days. Our blood clears infections faster than any herb-witch ever could. We mend bones within hours if the marrow's hot enough, but this girl's wounds cling like shadows. They close, but not quickly enough, as they are desperate for warmth that she doesn't have. The priests used to whisper that the first sign was a Half-Wraith, with one foot in the world where the Moon Mother conceals her secrets and whose flesh lies halfway between the mortal coil and the outside world.
"Power or poison?" I say, gazing at the girl, the way her breath curls feebly against the fur makes me wonder if it's both.
I approach the brazier, sift through the coals, and sprinkle fresh pinecones on the embers, making the air heavy with the pungent, warm scent of pitch and resin, which is believed to be good for preventing sickness. I learned that from my mother—the traditional method of avoiding illness before she gave in to my father's teeth in the last ceremony. We don't bury Queens in Vartun. We keep them in our blood forever.
As I look back at the Pandara girl, I tighten my grip on the iron poker.
My brother, the Alpha King, has no idea how close he is to tragedy. Not even half of the court is aware of it; they talk about his strength, how he can control the storms when he shifts, and how the border packs shudder when he howls in the Blood Moon; however, such power always comes with a cost.
Only I have seen him at dawn, when he is unable to change back when his bones are trapped between man and wolf, flesh and bone, until he tastes iron in his lungs. The ancient name for it is the Curse of the Unbalanced Hide, a flaw that should never show up in a bloodline as ancient as ours.
The Alpha King needs an heir, a child of a mate who can tame the poison and bind the wild back into him, in addition to carrying the pup; furthermore, no she-wolf has ever made it through mating long enough to bear a child past the first moon's turn under these spears of frost and pine.
I kneel by the bedside now. "I shouldn't be here." "Under Vartun's crest, I am Mendel of Ironhold, Third Sub-Kingdom, and if any of my adversaries saw me bowing over a fugitive Pandara scrap, they would slit my throat and call it good wolf work."
However, her coarse, neglected hair rubs against my wrist, and when I push a lock aside, I feel a spark of heat beneath my palm, not the warmth of flesh, but something more profound, like a pulse beneath the ribs of the earth.
Knowing the old signs, I clench my jaw. During the rise and fall of the Shadowborn cults, my father's scribes destroyed the majority of the scrolls, but I continued to listen to my grandmother's voice crackling by the fireplace night after night.
You protect her throat and belly as though they were your own, and if you find her, she will hiss and weave bramble crowns into my hair because it is her womb that restores Kings to wholeness.
Pulling my hand back, I get to my feet and make myself stop telling the old stories.
This girl might be a fraud or simply a sick stray whose heartbeat echoes false promises through veins that have been frozen. Pandara creates too many false impressions of shattered girls who appear naive enough to gain a wolf's trust before destroying you in your sleep.
But my instincts don't lie. Neither does Ghost, the wolf who never allows a stranger to approach him. When I brought her in, half-frozen and bleeding, he licked her wounds before I could bandage them. He curled up at her feet, choosing her.
A chill pricks at my spine.
I straighten up. "Enough wondering, I need the truth, not scraps of stories clawing at my ribs in the dead of night."
I stomp toward the door, flinging it open. The night wind bites at my face, sharp with pine sap. I see two guards standing stiff in the snow, their thick cloaks pulled tight against the cold.
"Bring the Silver-Fur Physicians," I yell. "All of them, and the Bone-Seers from Hollow Glen, tell them Ironhold demands their haste; if any question it, tear out their tongues and feed them to the frost hounds."
The younger guard's eyes widen. "All of them, my lord? That's—"
"All," I growl. "Right now. Before her heart stops dancing with the shadows."
Snow swirls beneath boot and paw as they hasten away, and I take a breath. Like an ancient ghost, the wind creeps up my throat and snakes inside my collar.
"Six months, that's all the moon grants before the Choosing at the High Stone, where the Alpha King's mate will be named." Under Vartun's crest, twelve Sub-Kingdoms are entrusted with delivering a daughter for the mate-blood binding. Only one she-wolf, who has been pampered and blessed, is presented to the Alpha King to either be claimed or killed.
Ironhold has no noble bitch, no daughter, and no bloodborn worthy this cycle. That is, until tonight, when the Black River brought a broken girl with secrets older than any vow.
My gaze returns to the fireplace. With his head raised, Ghost touches Pearl's palm where his nose slipped from the fur. There's not even a dreamy tremor in her flinch.
"Good. Let the healers tend to her marrow and soothe the bruised veins, and let her skin mend faster under the Moon Mother's hush."
When she wakes, I'll ask her name again, the real one this time. I'll peel back every lie Pandara buried in her tongue. I'll taste the truth of her blood.
Ironhold will either lift her from mud to Queen's chain or break her in the process if the old tales run through her womb, as I believe they will, and if her power can restore my brother's hide to its fullest.
I head for the cabinet by the fireplace. To relieve bone pain in wolves that shift too young, midwives mixed silverthorn draught and pulled the stopper from an iron flask. I pour a capful and gently press it to her lip; her throat functions weakly as the bitter liquid slides down, preventing her from choking.
"Good girl, I think. Good ghost. Hold on."
I call for the servants as I see silent shapes in the doorway, and they bring bowls of rosemary smoke, hot water, and fresh linens to prevent infection. I point out that her clothes are now tattered rags, and they carefully remove them to avoid new scabs. They wash her slowly while whispering half-blessings older than any priest's scroll, and then they dress her in a soft wool shift dyed Ironhold blue, the color of my house, and lay her on the guest inn's wide bed, which is covered in fox furs and wolf pelts.
They leave bowls of meat broth on the hearth after they're done; I stayed there for a long time after the servants had gone.
Snow snatches at the shutters. Ghost raises his muzzle, his ears quivering in the wind as if it were whispering a secret.
I cast a glance at the girl, the lost ghost of Pandara, or perhaps Vartun's next storm.
Despite the howling wind, I swear I can hear the Blood Moon reacting tonight.