Wolves of Ruin

He has heard some of the other Bonded talk about what it is like to return to Sturmfrost after the front: a feeling of warmth despite the snow. When they cross the forest south of the city and catch sight of the stone castle in the distance, they know they are almost there. Home.

Stark Therion feels none of that as he approaches the dark mass of stone. To him, there is no such thing as returning home. All this place stirs in him is a twisted, poisonous resentment.

At war, he is powerful. He has purpose. He is in his element, allowed to unleash the violence that boils in his veins.

Here, he is an errand boy on an endless mission, passed down through generations of his family. A sacred duty that feels more like a curse.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” Cratos, his wolf, grumbles. “It’s a drag.”

The two of them are almost always in sync, but Cratos will never understand the contempt this city inspires in his rider. The wolf, after all, longs for these rare visits—they mean he can see his mate. If only she would Bond and join them at the front. But everyone knows why she is waiting.

Far from Anassa, the wolf carries a constant, dull ache of longing that passes on to Stark. It is like a deep bruise that never fades. If they forget it is there, it does not bother them; yet the slightest touch is enough to make the pain bring tears to their eyes.

At least that is one good thing about this ridiculous task: Cratos will finally mate.

He jumps from the animal’s back, landing silently in the dirty snow beside the city walls.

At least you’ll be rid of me for a while, then. Fuck you.

The words come out more playful than harsh, and the wolf lowers his black muzzle to rub against his face before turning away and racing towards the mountains.

He takes a deep breath of the icy air, pulls his hood over his head, and heads towards the commoners’ quarters in the capital. The smell of urine and rot rises from the streets like steam. The king does not care about this city or its people—you do not need to know the truth about him, as Stark does, to see that.

He sticks to the shadowy alleyways whenever possible, avoiding being seen. He looks carefully around as he turns the final corner, making sure the eldest daughter is nowhere in sight. Not that she would know who he was anyway.

When they finally meet, it will be on his terms.

The East Quarter looks much like the rest of Sturmfrost. A little more run-down than the North and less wretched than the South, yet surrounded by the same darkened stone, patched roofs, and worn streets, with more missing paving stones than intact ones.

Some houses are well kept, snow carefully cleared from the steps, warm lanterns glowing in the windows, here and there a splash of colour from a handmade curtain. Others look more like the inhabitants of the quarter themselves: worn and grey. He averts his gaze from the worst of them: houses with rubbish scattered across the entrance, broken furniture in the tiny yard, shattered windows covered with jagged boards. Still, he cannot help but notice how many homes reek of desperation.

Resentment begins to simmer again, and his fists clench. This foul, ugly city is a constant reminder of how wrong the world is—and how little he can do to set it right.

He climbs the steps of a house that falls somewhere between well-kept and neglected and knocks on the door. It opens, revealing a woman older, plump, and red-faced. She knew he was coming, and yet her eyes widen slightly with fear before she bows.

“Prina,” he greets.

“Alpha,” the woman replies to the floor, gesturing for him to enter and slamming the door shut behind them.

He has only been inside Prina’s house a few times. Usually, they meet in different places to keep him away from the neighbours’ prying eyes. Especially theirs. However, he is going to the castle tomorrow, and he needs to see the family with his own eyes before then.

Prina drags two chairs from the kitchen table over to the modest fireplace, the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. Stark takes one of them, folding himself into it, his body far too large for the small furniture.

“Report,” he drawls.

Ever since his mother became Sovereign Alpha, it has been his responsibility to keep watch over the Coopers. Since he spends most of his time at the front, leading the Daemos pack’s war effort, he has to rely on a network of informants.

As Meryn’s trainer’s wife, Prina is the best source he has.

She begins with the news, recounting all the comings and goings at the Coopers’ home.

“Frankie said Nathalia is getting worse,” she tells him. “She barely leaves the house. It seems the girls are keeping her hidden. If you want to take her down before she hurts someone, it’ll have to be soon.”

When he hired Prina as his spy, Stark had told her that the authorities were concerned about the family’s sanity, worried that they might pose a danger to others. People love to believe sensationalised things about their neighbours, even when there is only a grain of truth to them.

It helps that the woman has never been a great fan of the Coopers. She does not appreciate her husband constantly trailing after the eldest daughter like a devoted father.

“And the daughters?” he asks.

It is his family’s responsibility to keep all the women of the Sturmfrost bloodline safe—until they begin to hallucinate. It is the lack of a Bond that causes it: their bloodline is more deeply intertwined with the wolves than any other, yet for generations, none of the true heirs have Bonded.

Eventually, they all go mad. It is their fate. And watching, waiting for them to lose themselves without being able to intervene or even say anything… that is his fate.

Stark is accustomed to power, to the weight of authority in practically any room. A single look is usually enough to reverse decisions, bend wills.

The feeling of helplessness, of being unable to help Meryn and her family, is like an emptiness where his heart should be, smouldering embers at the bottom of a fireplace, hidden and dangerous, ready to ignite.

Prina sighs, leaning back in her chair.

“Saela, the youngest, is still a good girl, for the most part. She has her head on straight. But Meryn… I’m not the only one in the neighbourhood who avoids crossing paths with her.”

Irritation flares inside him. He does not care about the woman’s personal opinions. She has made those perfectly clear over the years. He wants information.

“How is her mental state?” he asks evenly.

Prina’s expression darkens.

“Oh, she’s crazy, no doubt about it. What kind of woman behaves like that? I’m always waiting for that royal messenger who’s been courting her to finally decide to marry her or get her pregnant. Then she’d stop fighting and my Igor could have some peace. There he is now, at one of her fights in the South Quarter. Sooner or later, she’s going to get seriously hurt.”

Irritation turns into unease. He leans back, thinking. The log in the fireplace cracks as the wind picks up outside, the windows rattling.

“Where is the fight taking place?”

It is always worth making sure all the Cooper women are safe. That calms something inside him. And although he knows Prina tends to exaggerate, driven by her dislike of Meryn… watching the fight will help.

The woman writes down the address and he pays her, promising to contact her again soon. With his purse lighter, he pauses when the door closes behind him, looking to the right.

Meryn is not home, but the rest of the family should be…

It would not be wise to be seen there, but the late hour and biting wind keep everyone indoors. He carefully leans against the wall between the doorframe and the front window, keeping his posture relaxed in case any neighbour is watching. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks inside.

Through the window, the Cooper household looks bleak.

Nathalia paces back and forth across the small living room, her eyes wild. Her mouth moves, but he cannot hear what she is saying. Her pace quickens, almost frantic, her arms flailing. Her shadow dances wildly in the flickering light of the few oil lamps.

Stark leans forward slightly when Nathalia grabs a plate from the kitchen table and hurls it through the air. He must intervene if Saela needs protection—even if it is from her own mother, the rightful queen. His hand is already on the doorknob, ready to act.

But Saela is already running to her bedroom, entering and locking the door. He holds his position, watching Nathalia for several more long minutes.

His hands clench into fists, his jaw hardening. It is horrible to see her like this. Prina was right. The madness is far worse than it was during his last visit.

How long until it affects Meryn? And her daughter after that? Cycles repeating themselves…

He shakes his head and starts walking towards the South Quarter. There is nothing to do but watch and wait. The same pattern, over and over again.

And nothing changes.

No matter how many enemies he takes down, it makes no difference. Nothing does.

_______________________

The crowd inside the warehouse is dense, sweat thick in the air. The cavernous space was once a hot-wine warehouse, now lit only by torches that spill ash and black smoke. The voices cheer—shouts for drinks, bets being placed, arguments between drunks—all blending into an unpleasant din. The sour smell of the beer the crowd has been drinking mingles with the sharp, sweet aroma of the hot wine that was once stored there, creating something particularly repulsive.

The burly man selling tickets says:

“Just in time. The Vicious Cat is about to fight.”

Stark merely raises an eyebrow.

“The girl,” the man clarifies, accepting his coin for entry. A depraved smile reveals rotten teeth. “Most of the crowd comes for her. You should place your bets before it starts. There are some special ones on how long she’ll take to pass out, and whether she’ll show any skin. With divine luck, maybe we’ll get both.”

His vision goes black for a moment, and he walks past without saying a word, deliberately slamming his shoulder into the man. The man lets out an “ow,” but Stark is already disappearing into the crowd, making his way towards the ring.

Close enough to intervene, should any of those bets begin to come true.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the urge to turn around and rip every rotten tooth from the man’s mouth.

Two drunks in front of him stumble into each other, laughing, and he realises they are talking about Meryn.

“I’d rather collect her winnings, if you know what I mean,” the first one growls, taking another swig.

“You’re right. She’d look real good sprawled out on the floor,” the other agrees, and the two burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Stark begins to calmly, almost disturbingly, consider which part of their bodies he would tear off first.

They are unbelievably lucky he cannot cause a scene here.

Finally, the crowd quiets somewhat in anticipation, and over the heads of the others, he sees someone step into the ring.

She.

Looks different from the last time he saw her. When was that, exactly? Three years ago? More?

She is taller. Thinner and more muscular, although her hips remain more rounded than those of most Bonded women. Her clothes are modest and patched. Her hazel eyes have a playful glint, and her long, dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, cascading down her back like a river.

Heat shoots through his body. He has a sudden urge to wrap his hands around that waterfall of hair, feel its softness, and drag her out of there before she gets hurt.

Fuck, she’s incredible. How inconvenient.

A huge brute enters the ring as well, making her look small by comparison. The crowd begins shouting his name, an overwhelming chorus of support.

“Give her hell!” someone yells, and several others howl in response.

The man charges at Meryn, beginning the fight. Anxiety coils tightly in Stark’s stomach, preparing him to leap into the ring and save her.

But… she dodges. In fact, she toys with her opponent, dancing around him. The knot in his stomach begins to unravel, replaced by astonishment. He immediately understands where the nickname Vicious Cat comes from. She moves with feline grace.

There is never a moment when she loses control—even when she allows him to land a few blows, she keeps her body relaxed to absorb the impact, falling in ways that prevent any real injury.

She’s going to crush this idiot.

Knowing she is in control does not stop Stark from wanting to rip the man’s arms off. His head pounds as he fights to contain the violence, to ignore the dark god inside him urging him to step into the ring and tear the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

A powerful blow splits the skin above Meryn’s eyebrow, blood running down her face. A triumphant smile crosses her full lips before she remembers the trick and hides it behind a grimace.

What a wild creature, taking pleasure in her own pain.

Something clicks into place in Stark’s chest.

Suddenly, he thinks he understands what Cratos feels when he returns to Anassa. It is not the relief of finally getting what he wants. It is as though he has been living with a wound for years and, in a single instant, he stops feeling it.

He wants to crawl over to her on his knees and lick the blood from her face.

Before he can even understand that feeling, someone impatiently pushes past him—a tall man with golden hair and a cleaner appearance than anyone else in this filthy den.

The man’s posture is familiar, so Stark steps back, watching more closely without drawing attention to himself.

When he sees the face, everything inside him goes still.

It is Prince Killian.

He is not surprised that no one there recognises him; the king keeps him inside the castle at all times. But Stark has known him since birth. One day, when Killian is king, Stark will be his Sovereign Alpha.

He was a bastard as a child, and he is still a bastard as an adult.

Killian approaches the ring and stares intently at Meryn. She looks up and notices him.

Something in her expression softens, and the truth hits Stark as though he were the target of that fight.

The air leaves his lungs.

This is the “royal messenger” Meryn has been seeing.

"Do you need me?" Cratos asks through their Bond.

No. I’ll call you if this turns into a bloodbath.

Ignoring the wolf’s deep laugh, he follows Killian, gauging how close he can get without being recognised. One good look is all it will take for the prince to know who he is. His entire body tenses as he watches the prince’s calculated stance.

Meryn finishes the fight, taking down her incompetent opponent exactly as Stark knew she would.

The prince’s expression… is smug.

Stark immediately realises that he is using her for something.

This cannot be a coincidence—the usurping heir courting the rightful heir. It sickens him to think that Killian managed to find her. And the timing is so suspicious, with the Bonding Trials about to begin. Is he going to send her there? Does he want her to Bond for some reason?

He is manipulating her.

Let her, the dark voice inside Stark whispers. Let the princess reclaim the place that belongs to her.

The satisfaction of that thought mixes with the violence boiling inside him, uncontrollable rage threatening to devour any man in that warehouse who dares look at Meryn twice.

She is climbing down, leaving the ring. Her eyes are fixed on Killian’s, and Stark cannot look away. Darkness churns inside him when she wraps her arms around the prince and leans in to kiss him. He feels his teeth grind, his jaw clenching hard. The image of them together etches itself into his mind, relentless.

Before their lips can touch, a drunk forces his way through the crowd and approaches her, threatening her with a knife. Stark moves before he has fully processed what he is seeing, ready to take the man down and skin him alive with his own weapon.

However, she does not need his help. People turn, laughing, as she disarms him with almost insulting ease, mocking the man’s face as she presses the knife to his throat. He wets himself in fear, and the laughter dies down. The crowd backs away, clearly uncertain how far Meryn is willing to go.

The look in her eyes as she faces her attacker is fierce. Pure and simple. Stark allows himself a crooked smile, an involuntary twitch, as he watches her courage.

What he would give to be the target of those wild eyes.

She turns back to Prince Killian, and the Alpha steps away, unable to keep watching her beside him.

It is his fault for not keeping a closer eye on her and her family. For hating Sturmfrost and staying at the front whenever possible.

The bloodlust grows inside him along with the anger—at himself, at the Valtiere, at the promise that bound Stark’s family to Meryn’s. If he does not find a way out, he will do something he will regret.

The drunk who threatened her flees through a side door, and Stark follows him. The cold air is a welcome shock after the stifling humidity of the warehouse. Snow has begun to fall, and the uneven lanterns along the main street cast a gloomy glow over the side alley.

The man tries to pull something from his coat pocket, completely unaware that he is being followed until he is cornered between the end of the alley and the hard wall of the warehouse.

Stark pulls down his hood, letting the tattoos on his neck speak for themselves. The man lets out a scream when he sees them, fear twisting his face. Backing up until he is pressed against the wall, with nowhere left to escape, he trembles and drops to his knees.

“Please, mercy! I know I was wrong to desert. I swear I’ll return to the front tonight, I swear! It’s just that…”

The Alpha’s smile is like a blade. That imbecile who threatened Meryn is a deserter? Even better.

He is going to make a meal of him, and he is going to savour it.

____________________

Egith had been against the idea.

She said they would look like barbarians, dragging that deserter through the city streets to a public execution. She said it would only fuel the fire of the commoners who fear and hate the Bonded, who think we are wild animals.

Doesn’t she understand? That was the point.

Stark needs their fear. He wants to bathe in it, let it erase every memory of the previous night—the way he felt watching Meryn Cooper smile as blood ran down her face. And the knowledge that he had failed her.

He lets the others go ahead, knowing that staying behind with the prisoner in tow will have a greater impact.

“He should have put up a fight,” Cratos grumbles, irritated by the deserter’s passivity as he is dragged along. “He’s ruining our procession.”

Don’t worry. We’ll give them something to remember.

They pass through the narrow stone streets, commoners gasping in shock and stepping out of the way. Finally, they reach the market square in the Central Quarter—the busiest area of the city, bustling with activity in the middle of the afternoon. Sounds of panic and horror echo around them as the pedestrians finally realise the gift Stark has brought.

Look up, the dark voice inside him commands. He scans the crowd and, with a sudden rush of heat, sees Meryn, her protective arms wrapped around her younger sister. The tenderness in that discreet gesture contrasts with the expression on her face, her eyes fixed on him.

Pure hatred.

A sense of pleasure crawls through him, and he feels his face twist into a grimace. She hates him? Fine.

He hates himself too—but not more than he hates her.

She and her family have dictated his entire life, and for what? To throw it all away by getting involved in an utterly idiotic situation with that flesh-eating serpent. To literally go and fuck the enemy.

Daemos power begins to bubble inside him. Cratos growls in anticipation as he feels Stark’s energy expanding through their Bond.

He slides from the wolf’s back, yanking the deserter up by the collar as though he weighs nothing. This never fails to please him—the divine strength in his veins as Daemos power floods through him. He shouts to the crowd about deserters receiving the end they deserve—words he barely hears. He is too focused on the sensation of the man’s throat beneath his palm, his fingers slowly tightening as he lifts the man higher.

The crowd is silent, suspended between fear and anticipation. He is only half-conscious of the fierce smile on his face. The sensation of the knife as he buries it in the man’s gut and twists it gives him a savage pleasure. If that makes him a monster, so be it. It is his calling: to kill those who deserve to die. To soak his hands in their blood. To paint the world red.

Might as well enjoy it.

Stark drops the knife, plunges his hand into the open wound, and pulls until he turns the man’s body inside out.

Cratos senses his Alpha’s violent state and revels in the moment just as much as he does. When Stark throws the still-living body towards the wolf, Cratos catches it in midair, tosses it around like a toy, and smashes it against the ground. Cratos clamps his powerful jaws around the man’s neck, snapping his spine, shaking him once, twice, until he stops moving. He gives the people a true spectacle.

“See what real wolves are like. See what the Bonded do.”

Look at me, Stark thinks to Meryn. This is for you. Everything is for you.

Look at me.

She raises her eyes, her expression filled with disgust and hatred. From one end of the square to the other, their eyes meet, and Stark has that feeling in his chest again—something cracking, shifting, settling back into place. As though he recognises a flame identical to his own.

The fire inside her is breathtaking to behold.

Stark will use every ounce of her hatred to feed it—until she can reduce the entire world to ashes.

Still searching.