Kaleb
“We’re out of wood for the pyres,” Otto, an elder wolf, says as he smoothes a withered hand down the length of a log. It’s leaning precariously against the others–against stacks upon stacks of logs given to the Glade last week in anticipation for the dead. It’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
I turn to look at the funeral pyres, at the rows of log structures that will soon house five or six men to a pyre. Fathers. Brothers. Sons. They should each have their own. The fae know what they’re doing by purposefully giving us less than we need. They always do.
“I’ll find more.”
Otto gives me a grim smile before turning back to the pyre that will soon be a beacon of light to guide his son, two of his nephews, and his eldest grandson home to the Goddess. He’s not the only man wandering through the darkness tonight adjusting logs and bringing handfuls of wood taken from tables and chairs–anything they can find.
It’s a quiet night. Mothers wail silently into pillows. Wives tuck children in tight, drying tears in utter silence. I tried to prepare them the best I could. I tried to make it sound like dying this way was some kind of honor for the pack, but the reality of it is that they had no choice.
“Word is our victor is now in the Glade,” Otto says under his breath, his voice obstructed by hammers pounding in the distance.
“She is,” I murmur, tucking my hands in my pockets as the cool night air finally cuts through the thick heat. I let it fan over my body, enjoying it while it lasts. Tomorrow night, when the pyres are lit, it will be stifling. The heat will be felt in the highest reaches of the Glade, even the guards that walk along the peak of the wall that traps us inside a hell of the fae’s design will sweat.
Otto goes back to his work. I already know he’ll be up all night. He’ll be joined by his family at some point–by the men who weren’t rounded up like cattle and forced to fight to their deaths for sport.
I move through the darkness, stopping to murmur more condolences, to lend a helping hand where I can, until I reach the empty courtyard where my house, the house my great-grandfather begin building when the shifters were finally rounded up and enslaved here, rises into the stars–four stories tall and narrow, like the rest.
Chastan meets me at the center of the courtyard, his face obstructed by shadow. He looks beaten, but I expected that. He spent the evening in the palace standing as my second. He’s several inches shorter than me, but our familial ties are clear–the rich curl in our hair, the amber-hazel eyes. The broad shoulders, the taller than average height.
But we’re different. His father and my father were brothers. We shared a grandfather. Great-grandparents, so on, and so forth. His mother, however, was a shifter.
Mine was not.
“She’s inside eating… again. She’s on her fourth bowl of soup and third loaf of bread. Lis keeps feeding her. I don’t think she realizes she can say no.”
“I’ll deal with it.” My tone is guarded but uninterested. I don’t have the energy for anything else after watching each round of the Culling, each round that claimed the lives of hundreds of men–shifter and fae alike. Halflings, too. So many halflings. That’s what they were bred for, after all.
I run my fingers through my hair before tying it back away from my face. I’m filthy, coated in dried sweat and ash–likely blood, too–from going to claim the bodies of the fallen from the Glade.
“Where is she from, exactly? Her accent is strange,” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
Chastan shifts his weight from foot to foot. “She’s really fucking tall, too.”
“I’m aware.”
I can feel his gaze boring into my profile. He’s waiting for an explanation; I know that much. Why would I choose a female shifter over the halfings and fae who have a better chance of surviving past the first trial?
“She’s–”
“She has a shot,” I tell him, turning to hold his gaze, “of surviving, and that’s enough for now.”
“Silas chose one of the other females,” he says quietly, a whisper through his teeth. “I’m assuming that was your doing.”
“The blonde one?”
He nods, and I feel a knot of tension untangle somewhere in my chest. Yes, the tiny blonde shifter who’d fought tooth and nail against aggressors three times her size. I’d watched her with interest but especially watched the way her comrades treated her, particularly Lexa. I know their names. The king boasted about them, excited for their downfall but especially about the idea of throwing a few women into the mix. He didn’t say where they were from, but they’re definitely not from the Glade. They’re likely from one of the free packs that roam in hiding beyond the reach of Pantharas.
Lexa was a force in the arena. Smooth, calculated movements, full trust in her body. Chessie, the smallest, is a skilled fighter, but her stature is going to be a disadvantage. She’s cunning from what I’ve seen, however, and that’s an important trait to the fae. The other one wasn’t of interest to me. I sensed a beat of distrust between Lexa, the obvious leader, and the red-haired woman during their round of the Culling. I took that to heart when making my decision.
“Silas owes me,” I explain, turning back toward the house.
“You’re really not going to explain any of this? She’s staying with us, right? How are we supposed to feed her?”
“As a victor, she gets a daily ration–the same as the men in the Trials. It’ll be enough for her and then some. Don’t worry about that aspect.”
I take a single step toward the door, but Chastan says, “He wants to see you in the morning. The king. The trainers are meeting at the palace to discuss the first game.”
I close my eyes for a few seconds before answering, “Thank you, Chastan. Lexa’s training starts tomorrow, and I need you, Colin, and Avery to help her in my absence.”
“What are we supposed to do with her?”
“Prepare her for what’s coming.” I meet his eyes, holding. “Throw everything you have at her, and see how she reacts. No mercy. No softness. She might be a woman, but based on what I witnessed during her Culling, she is–” I can’t find the word. There’s nothing in the world that can describe the moment she turned her arrow on the king, her eyes wide and unafraid. “She’s going to be a problem. Keep her in check. I don’t care if she gets injured. Hurt her, if you must.”
Chastan swallows hard but nods before turning back to the night, his shadow stretching through the moonlight until he disappears from view. I hear Felicity’s soft footsteps a floor above, followed by her voice as she speaks in low tones to Lexa, I assume. I wait until I hear a door shut somewhere above my head, and Felicity appears on the stairs, her owl-like eyes shining in the darkness as she tucks her leather healing satchel under arm, throwing me an impatient look.
“There’s a single bowl of soup left, if you’re hungry, which I know you are. It’s just cabbage. We have nothing else.”
“There will be another hunt soon, I assure you.” I pull my weapons’ belt through the loops and hang it on a hook near the door. She looks behind me and walks down the last steps. “Chastan has gone to help with the pyres–”
“How many dead?” she interrupts with heartbreaking quiet.
I step deeper into the house, walking past her to the kitchen, where there is indeed a single scoop of thin broth left and no bread. “Four hundred from the Glade.”
“That’s–that’s everyone that was taken–” She bites back her words, looking down at her worn shoes.
“You were told–”
“I know what I was told,” she says tearfully. “It’s not right, Kaleb. What’s happening–it isn’t right.”
“You are old enough to remember the last Trials that took place. Your own father and brother–”
She turns from me and moves out of sight, but her footsteps on the stairs are sharp and determined. I scrub my hand over my face, forgoing the idea of a meal, and follow her into the darkness, but instead of stopping on the second floor, I climb to my room. I shower–cold. I dress in whatever’s clean and leave again, but my feet halt on the first floor landing, refusing to move.
I can smell the healing salves. The air’s scented with alcohol. Felicity is tending to Lexa’s wounds. I’m sure Lexa will wake to fresh clothes and a few bites of food, which is more than she was offered in the depths of the arena–in the holding cells I know so well.
Felicity’s feelings aren’t misplaced. Death hangs from every doorway and window in the Glade and has for decades. I’m responsible for everyone here. Ten years ago, at the age of twenty, I became Alpha King, finishing the work my father, his brothers, and their own father began decades ago, when the enslaved packs united out of the sheer need to survive against the odds stacked against us.
I can keep them fed. It’s never much, but it’s enough that our children and mothers won’t starve. I can ensure the young are educated, that the traditions of our ancestors thrive in an environment where we are the lesser crowd, the pets, the disposable help and the warriors who have no choices.
Just like the men the fae rounded to compete in the Culling, even though the victors have been picked out for weeks now.
Every victor but Lexa and the other girls.
They weren’t supposed to survive.
Neither was I.
I leave the house, moving back through the city under a cloak of darkness now waning to the first inklings of morning. The air shifts, already warming significantly. People leave homes carrying canvas bags, some wearing their required uniforms for their work within the palace or the fine homes of the regal, high-ranking fae who live in the city beyond.
The sun will shine on Pantharas, the capital of the fae kingdom, like it always does.
But the moon shines for us, even if we can’t feel Her gifts anymore.
I walk to the far gate, the doorway that opens to the forests and plains beyond the Glade, a place some within the walled-off city have never seen. Avery, a shifter male who leads the small group of enforcers under my commander here in the Glade, looks up from a list of what I know are names–names of the dead. Names of the warriors he trained over the years. Names of our friends, our family.
His icy blue eyes hold mine in greeting.
“I need you to choose five men and prepare them for a hunt. I’m going to try to get the king to open the gate and drop his wards tomorrow night, during the funerals. They need to be the best, the most skilled.”
He nods. “And the victor? Is she settled?”
Word travels fast here.
“You’ll meet her tomorrow. Chastan will be training her in the sparring ring in my stead. I’ll join them once I’ve met with the king.”
Avery runs his tongue along his lower lip then tilts his head to where the palace towers peak over the wall. “Any news?”
“I was only able to speak to Silas briefly during the Cullings, and we were not alone, so no.” An undercurrent of unease runs between us. Words left unsaid. Silent understanding.
The seeds of rebellion were planted long ago, when our people were torn from their homelands and forced into servitude by the fae.
Now, some of the fae are turning on their own kind–and turning to us for help.
Lexa has no idea what she’s walked into, but it’s not like she ever had a choice.
“Where is she from?” Avery asks.
They don’t trust her. She’s not from here. She’s not like us. She doesn’t understand what she’s now fighting for because it’s so much more than her life.
“I’ll find out.”
“A man came to the palace gate earlier looking for you. No one recognized him, but he’s some kind of fae, I believe.”
I’m turning from him but edge back in his direction. “Who?”
“He didn’t give his name to the guards on our side. He spoke through the door, actually. No one saw him.”
“What did he want?”
“He was asking for you. He needed to speak to the Alpha King. It was during the final rounds of the Culling. The guards told him you weren’t here, and he said he’d come to you when it’s time. I don’t know what that means.”
Neither do I. “If he returns, find me.”