The evening light filtered through the small window of Liora's bedroom, painting long shadows across the worn wooden floorboards. She released a slow, deliberate breath, feeling her shoulders drop as tension gradually seeped from her body. Outside, the sun descended toward the horizon in shades of amber and crimson, a beautiful sight that marked the end of the most dangerous day of her life.
It's almost over. The day is almost done.
Every three years, on the eighteenth day of the sixth month, the same ancient ritual unfolded across the empire. The Blood Hunt. A game where Royal wolves and high-ranking predators selected their prey from among the human population. The choosing always occurred during daylight hours, from dawn until dusk. Once evening fell and darkness claimed the sky, you were safe.
At least for another three years.
"It has passed," Liora whispered to the empty room, her voice barely audible above the settling sounds of the house. She pressed one hand against her chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heart beginning to slow after a full day of anxiety. "I shouldn't be worried anymore."
She turned back to the pile of laundry waiting on her bed, a mundane task that suddenly felt like a gift. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the first garment, but she forced them steady. "Maybe this year no one from our family will be chosen. Maybe we've been spared."
The knock came before she could lift the cloth.
Three deliberate raps against the front door echoed through their small home, patient, unhurried, and certain.
Liora's entire body went rigid. The garment slipped from her nerveless fingers and pooled at her feet.
No. No, it's too late. The day is ending. The sun is almost down.
Her mind grasped desperately for rational explanations. A neighbor. A merchant. Someone with a message. Anyone else.
It has to be someone else.
Moving with careful silence, Liora crept to her bedroom door and eased it open just enough to peer through the crack. Their home was modest, just a few rooms connected by narrow hallways, small enough that she could see directly into the sitting area from where she stood.
Her father was already rising from his chair, his newspaper forgotten on the armrest. She watched his spine straighten, observed the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides before he consciously forced them to relax. He smoothed down his shirt with deliberate movements, as if preparing himself for an inspection he knew he couldn't fail.
The tension that had hung over their household all day suddenly intensified, becoming something almost tangible, a weight pressing down on everything, making it difficult to draw a full breath.
Liora knew the bitter reality of their existence. Humans were nothing now apart from being slaves. Property. Barely worth the effort of keeping alive. And yet the wolves still needed them, needed their numbers, their labor, their continued existence. They served some purpose in the empire's grand design, though what purpose exactly, Liora had never fully understood. They were pieces in a game whose rules she couldn't see, moved by hands she couldn't fight.
Her father reached the door and opened it.
The man standing in the doorway was tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled the entrance and blocked out the dying light behind him. At first glance, he could have passed for human. His features were regular, his clothing unremarkable. But the scent that preceded him told a different story entirely. It was wild and ancient, carrying notes of pine forest and something else, something that made every instinct Liora possessed whisper danger in her hindbrain.
And then there was his aura. That invisible pressure that emanated from certain beings, the weight of predatory power that marked him as clearly as a brand. Wolf. Without question.
"We have come to collect one female for the Blood Hunt that will commence at dawn," he announced. His voice was matter-of-fact, professional, as if he were collecting a package from a merchant rather than claiming a human life. "One girl from this household has been selected."
Liora felt her blood turn to ice water in her veins.
Her father's response was barely audible, his voice stripped of anything resembling strength or defiance. "All right."
No. Father, please. Fight. Say something. Refuse.
But she knew he wouldn't. No one refused the wolves. To refuse meant death, not just for the one chosen, but for everyone in the household. Entire families had been slaughtered for less.
She watched as her father partially closed the door, exchanging words with the wolf in tones too low for her to distinguish. The conversation lasted less than a minute. Then her father turned, his face carefully blank, stripped of all emotion, and began walking across the sitting area.
Toward her bedroom.