MENDEL'S POV
When a wolf catches a whiff of decay, it doesn't just stroll on by, It digs in until its claws wear down and its nose gets bloodied from the hunt.
That's where I find myself now, alone in Ironhold's high chamber, the old stone vault where my father stored the Silver-Bound Chronicles. It's been three nights since I sent my trackers to scour every back trail through Pandara and beyond. It's been three nights since they came back, chests heaving with frost, clutching pages torn from old trade ledgers and scribbled testimonies from border folk who mentioned a child who remained nameless, one who didn't quite fit the Pandara's venom.
I light a lone, iron-lipped lantern, letting its glow illuminate the pages scattered across the war table. I make myself read each word three times. Under the weight of the mountain's breath, I press my palm to an ancient scrap, the last census list from the long-lost Silvershade Brood, dated before Kaela's father rose from the Pandara orchard soil.
One baby is reported missing.
"No name."
"No grave."
Only one lead was found: a midwife who vanished that winter, and so the orchard spins its web of lies. Pandara's orchard has never really borne fruit; it consumed what it couldn't control. They thought they buried the Silvershade line in ashes and howls, but here she is, warm and alive, breathing under my roof.
Ghost paces behind me, claws clicking against the slate floor. I lower my head, rolling my tongue over a dry fang. With every full moon, Alpha King Ronan, my brother, breaks out of his hide. His ribs tremble from within when the beast claws its way out. If Pearl's marrow is what I think it is, the remedy for the Unbalanced Hide, then she's more than a stray. She's the keystone that holds Vartun's Alpha line together, or she could tear it down.
The wind howls through the arrow-slit windows, carrying the scents of pine, wolf, and old stone. Ghost lifts his nose, brushing against my hip. He senses it too, a shift in the pack's bloodline, a tremor that makes my knuckles ache for a fight or a vow.
I gather every scrap of paper, roll them up in leather, and step into the corridor. Outside, the hall hums with warm torchlight and the distant clash of steel in the training yard.
My people, born wolves, bred warriors, keep their distance as I pass, bowing their heads low, sniffing at my sleeve to catch my mood. They smell change and secret, but don't yet realize it's all tucked inside the ribs of a girl they call Ghost-Blooded.
PEARL'S POV
My palms bleed before my voice does. Unlike Pandara, here my wrists are bound with leather strips that are wrapped tightly to keep the staff from slipping from my grasp when my arms shake.
Every morning I rise while the frost still clings to the courtyard's throat, and the Vartun warriors circle me like silent hounds. They don't mock; they watch. I hate that even more.
Back in Pandara, they spat at me openly, but here, they study me like a beast being weighed for slaughter or a crown.
"A clash."
The staff slams into my side, sending fire coursing through my ribs. I stagger, teeth bared, swallowing a growl. The guard, his name's Bryn, broad-shouldered with frost dusting his beard, swings again. I duck, but I'm too slow.
Pain licks up my spine as the staff cracks against my shoulder.
I want to crumple, but I don't.
I straighten. My breath fogs the air. My heart races in its cage.
Something beneath my ribs responds to the ache, that old orchard voice, coiled tight like a root around my marrow, but this time, it doesn't whisper surrender. It spits frost and dares me to stand again.
Another swing.
Another block.
My boot slides through the churned snow, pushing me backward against the ring's boundary. I taste rust on my tongue, not just blood, but something deeper.
When I move again, it's not fear that lifts the staff.
It's something older.
Something that beats in time with my pulse, humming beneath my skin. I turn around and ram the butt of the staff into Bryn's knee.
He grunts.
Good.
I push forward.
But the power isn't tame; it snarls too wide. I feel heat flickering through my veins, pooling in my fingertips until the staff vibrates with it. Bryn's eyes widen; he feels it too, that wrongness that isn't Vartun-born but carries the river's chill along with something darker.
Excessive power surges, and my legs fold like branches that have been frozen.
I avoid hitting the snow.
Mendel catches me. I can smell the iron, pine pitch, and wolfhide in his scent. His arm locks around my waist, hot and heavy against my sweat-drenched tunic. His other hand cradles the back of my head, shielding it from the frozen stones.
His eyes find mine. They don't flinch at the flicker of wildness I know he just caught a glimpse of.
"You're holding back," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only the wind and my racing heart can hear. "But your blood doesn't lie, does it?"
I want to snap, "I don't know what's inside me!"
But the Pandara orchard's ghosts have my throat in their grip; instead, I just breathe in and out, hot frost between us.
MENDEL'S POV
I signal for the warriors to clear the ring; they bow and scatter like ravens before a storm. I hold her there, her ribs fluttering under my palm. Ghost pads behind me, ears twitching as if he too waits for this girl's marrow to speak the truth.
"Do you know," I say, keeping my voice steady but edged with intensity, "how long it took me to uncover your truth?"
Her lashes flutter.
A trickle of sweat slides down her temple.
"I know what you've told me: The orchard father who discovered you weren't his, the mother who hid you, Kaela's whips, Aleric's arrows."
My thumb brushes the side of her pulse. "But there's a piece missing, Pearl; a howl that you haven't heard yet."
She stiffens, but I keep her steady.
"You were never truly their daughter. The Pandara orchard buried your truth in shallow dirt, but here?"
I lean in, inhaling her scent, that faint spark of old blood magic humming beneath her fear.
"Here we dig until the frost breaks."
She flinches as if my voice struck a bone.
PANDARA'S POV — KAELA
In the heart of Pandara, Kaela reclines on a velvet couch, fingers trailing through Aleric's hair as he kneels obediently at her feet. The orchard's lanterns flicker, casting shadows on walls that remember every lie ever whispered within them.
A sound at the entrance.
A messenger boy, no older than twelve winters, skinny wrists bound with a silver ring, bows so low his nose brushes the floor.
"My Lady," he stammers, voice breaking like dry twigs, "word from the frostline. Pearl, the orchard's stray, made it through the river alive. They say she breathes Vartun air now. Mendel's hold."
Kaela's nails still. Aleric tenses under her touch.
"And?" she drawls, her voice soft as poisoned wine.
The boy trembles. There is no threat there, my lady; she is merely a stray and a half-blood. The wolves will break her."
Kaela's smile sparkles like the edge of a blade. "Clearly, they will."
By flicking her fingers, she dismisses him, but watch her closely and slit her throat before the Pandara sees her shadow if she crosses the line or even tries to crawl back here.
Aleric's eyes sparkle as his smile is entwined with hatred and hunger.
PEARL'S POV
At night. In my room. My muscles scream from the exercises of the day; if I don't allow the wildness within me to surface, those same exercises will shatter me tomorrow.
I drape a thin wolf pelt over my shoulders and kneel in front of the fireplace. Beyond the pain in my ribs, something hums beneath my skin and scars, coiled tight as a frost storm. I press my palm to my belly. It feels warm. Almost… alive.
"Was I ever truly the Pandara's? Or did it just keep me warm long enough to rip my truth away from me?"
There's a knock on the door.
I stand, my throat tight, my spine rigid.
Mendel steps in without waiting. His shadow, wolf, and iron crown all simultaneously fill the stone chamber. He gives me a very close look, as if the pelt doesn't cover me at all. His gaze follows each scar that Vartun's frost hasn't yet absorbed, each bruise the orchard left behind.
He steps closer. His gloved hand tilts my chin up until our gazes lock.
"You're done hiding," he says. His voice is soft, but I feel the wolf's growl beneath it.
"Tomorrow, you and I will talk about everything: the Pandara'a rot, the river's secret, the truth buried in your blood, and you will train not as a stray, but as one of Ironhold's own."
My question is, "Why?" "What are you making me?" is what I want to scream.
But the weight of his palm steals my voice. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and my heart cracks its ribs trying to respond to him.
Mendel leans in close. Suddenly, the Alpha's brother, the storm that hunts truth through frost, lowers his lips to my ear, and I can feel the promise of teeth there.
"You will stand before my brother's throne when the Blood Moon calls, and you won't tremble like a chained thing ever again."