"Irritation is a feeling that can destroy one's mood."
Athel's POV
The morning air in the Silver Citadel was a sharp, biting blade that tasted of frost and old stone. I stood in the center of our family's temporary armory, my arms outstretched as two Thorne squires tightened the buckles of my leather gambeson. The room smelled of whetstones, gun oil, and the heavy, musky scent of my kinsmen, a scent of dominance that I had been bred to embody from the moment I could hold a dagger.
"Tighten the left shoulder," my father's voice rang out, vibrating with the authority of a man who ruled through fear and iron.
Lord Garrick Thorne stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale, fractured light of the broken sun. He wasn't looking at the courtyard below, where the royal vanity was on full display; he was looking at me like a master examining a hound for a flaw. His presence was a suffocating weight, a reminder that in the Thorne lineage, there was no room for anything but steel. We were the foundation of Athelgard, the grim reality beneath the Vanes' gilded fantasy.
"You're stiff, Athel," he noted, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face me. "If you go into the Wild-Zones with that much tension in your spine, a Vampire will have your head before we clear the first ravine. A Thorne is a predator, and predators do not hesitate, and they certainly do not carry the stench of doubt."
"I don't hesitate, Father," I snapped, my voice cold and devoid of warmth. I shoved the squire away, finished with the buckling myself. My fingers were steady, but the wolf beneath my skin was pacing, agitated by the sheer amount of pompous, royal air I'd been forced to breathe since we arrived. "I'm just waiting for the kill, and the Citadel's air is soft; it makes the senses sluggish. I want to be out where the blood is cold."
"Yesterday, in the ring, you looked like a pup chasing its tail," Garrick countered, stepping forward to grip my jaw with a gauntleted hand. It was a painful, controlling hold, forcing me to meet his iron-grey gaze. He squeezed until my teeth ground together. "You let the Vane boy dictate the pace and let that 'Golden Prince' humiliate the Iron Marches in front of the entire court. If you let a Vane look down on a Thorne again, I will personally strip you of your rank and send you to the vanguard of the border-walls to rot among the common conscripts."
I pulled away, my lip curling in a sneer that mirrored his own. "He didn't win. He survived a lucky stumble. There's a difference between skill and a momentary lapse in my focus. "
"Excuses are for the weak," my father whispered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that promised violence. "The King has ordered the scouts into the Blackwood Ravine. You will lead the Thorne Sentinels and stick to the shadows like a burr in a wolf's coat. I've seen the way you've been sniffing the air, Athel. You sense something. Your mother's curse of a gift is twitching. Find the rot in this palace. Find the crack in the Vane's perfection and wedge your blade into it. I want a reason to topple that throne, and I want you to provide the lever."
"Consider it done," I said, the words feeling like a blood oath.
As we walked through the halls, my boots rang out against the stone, a heavy, rhythmic sound of a man who owned the ground he walked on. I didn't care for the beauty of the Citadel or the divinity of the Vane lineage. To me, everything was either prey or a weapon. The tapestries were just kindling; the stained glass was just shards waiting to be cut.
I stepped into the courtyard, my presence a dark cloud amidst the silver finery of the Royal Guard. I ignored the bowing servants and the fluttering noblewomen who whispered behind their fans. My focus was purely on the horizon, on the dark, jagged treelined of the Blackwood where the laws of men were replaced by the laws of the fang.
The Royal Vanguard was already mounting up. I saw the Vane colours, white and gold, flying high. It disgusted me. In the Wild-Zones, white was just a target.
"Athel," my sister Lyra whispered, riding up beside me as we mounted our heavy chargers. Her eyes were wide, taking in the sheer, toxic coldness of my expression. "You're scaring the horses. You look like you're going to murder the first thing that moves. Can't you take a notch back? We're supposed to be allies today."
"Mind your own business, Lyra," I barked, checking the seal on my silver-tipped arrows. "This isn't a parade for the commoners. It's a sweep. If you can't handle the edge, stay behind the supply wagons with the cooks. I don't have time to play nursemaid to a girl who's forgotten why we carry iron."
She recoiled as if I'd struck her, her face hardening, but I didn't care. Empathy was a weakness I couldn't afford to have today, not ever. I needed to be a vacuum, a hollow vessel for my father's ambitions and my own predatory instincts.
The horn sounded, a mournful, jarring note that echoed off the white stone walls of the Citadel. We rode out in a column of black steel, the iron shoes of our horses sparking against the frozen cobblestones, and as we cleared the outer gates and began the descent into the valley, the civilization of the Citadel fell away, replaced by the gnarled, twisted trees of the borderlands.
The air grew colder, and the scent of the forest began to rise: damp earth, ancient pine, and the faint, copper tang of old blood. My wolf was screaming in my ears; its predatory instincts heightened to a fever pitch. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel the fatigue of the sleepless night I'd spent stalking the palace perimeter. I only felt the simmering, domineering need to find something to break.
I led the Sentinels deeper into the gloom of the Blackwood, leaving the Royal Guard to puff their chests on the main road. I wanted the thickets. I wanted the places where the light failed to reach.
"Stay sharp!" I commanded my men, my voice cutting through the fog like a whip. "If I see one of you dragging your feet or missing a trail, I'll leave you out here for the scavengers. We are Thorne wolves. We don't miss, and we don't show mercy."
We moved in silence for hours, the only sound the muffled thud of hooves and the creak of leather. My senses were expanded, searching for the "sweetness" that had haunted me, but the deeper we went, the more that scent was replaced by the honest, brutal smell of the wild.
"Sir," one of my scouts, a veteran named Hakan, whispered, pointing toward a darkened ravine. "Movement in the brush about three hundred yards out. It's not a wolf. Too quiet. Vampires, by the smell of it and fresh blood."
I drew my blade, the silver singing a high, murderous note as it left the scabbard. My sneer deepened, a rush of adrenaline hitting my system like a drug. Finally. A target that didn't hide behind a crown or a smirk.
"Surround them," I commanded, my voice a low growl that made the horses shift uneasily. "I want the Thorne Sentinels to take the high ground. No survivors. I don't want prisoners to interrogate; I want the dirt of this forest-stained red before the King even reaches the clearing. Show them what happens when you enter Thorne territory."
Hakan nodded, signalling the others, and we moved like ghosts, circling the ravine. I could see them now, three vampires, low-level scavengers by the look of their ragged cloaks, feeding on a mountain goat, and they looked pathetic. I spurred my horse forward, leaping the ridge and crashing into the center of their little circle.
The first one didn't even have time to scream before my silver blade took its head. The spray of cold, dead blood across my face felt like a benediction, and I didn't wipe it off.
The second vampire lunged, its fangs bared, its eyes glowing with a desperate hunger. I met its charge with a brutal kick to the chest, feeling the ribs shatter beneath my boot. I didn't kill it instantly. I stepped on its throat, leaning down until our faces were inches apart.
"You smell like rot," I hissed, my eyes flashing with a domineering fire. "Is this all the Wild-Zones have to offer? Garbage like you?"
The creature hissed, clawing at my leg, and I drove my Shriven Stake Iron blade through its heart with a slow, deliberate pressure, watching the light fade from its eyes. I felt a surge of power, a toxic satisfaction in the absolute control I held over its life.
The third one tried to flee, but Lyra's arrow caught it in the back of the knee, and it tumbled into the dirt, howling. I walked over to it, my boots heavy and final. Lyra approached, her bow still drawn, her face pale. "Athel, we should take this one back. The King might want to know why they're this close to the border."
"The King is an old man who likes to talk," I said, standing over the wounded creature. I looked at Lyra, my gaze so cold she actually stepped back. "I am a hunter, and I don't bring back trash. I dispose of it."
I didn't wait for her to argue. I brought my blade down in a clean, hateful arc.
"Clean your swords," I told the men, my voice flat. "This was just a warm-up. There's something bigger in these woods, something that thinks it can hide from us."
I looked back toward the direction of the Citadel, thinking of the prince, thinking of his scent that was currently safe behind palace walls. He thought he was the apex predator because of his bloodline and thought he was untouchable. He had no idea that I was coming for him, and when I found him, I wouldn't be as merciful as I was to these scavengers. I would be the Iron Wolf, and I would make him crawl.
"Move out!" I shouted, the sound echoing through the Blackwood like a threat. I didn't care if the whole forest heard me. Let them know who was coming and that the Thorne had arrived, and we weren't looking for a treaty; we were looking for a massacre.