Chapter 3: Eyes of the Glacier

I didn't move. The cold tip pressed into my flesh, trailing a slow, deliberate path up the side of my calf before hooking under the hem of my slip.

Lady Vane lifted the fabric an inch, her dark eyes evaluating the line of my legs with clinical detachment.

"Turn," she said.

The command was flat, leaving no room for hesitation.

I spun on the sharp gravel, the damp hem brushing my skin. The mountain wind bit at my bare thighs, but I kept my focus locked on the dark line of pines at the edge of the clearing.

"Eight," Lady Vane said to the scribe.

Before the word fully faded, heavy hands seized my arms from behind.

Captain Vanya stepped into my space, yanking my wrists together behind my back. Rough cords wound tight around my skin. The moment the bindings tightened, a vicious, burning heat flared through my wrists.

Wolfsbane.

The poison took hold instantly, dulling my senses and severing my link to Valka. Deep in my mind, she let out a muffled whimper as the haze buried her under a heavy fog.

A blindfold was pulled over my head, plunging the world into blackness.

A shove sent me stumbling forward. My bare toes caught on dirt and rock until rough hands hauled me upward, tossing me onto the splintered floor of the transport.

The tailgate slammed shut with a heavy latch.

The engine roared to life, vibrating through the bench beneath us. The truck lurched forward, throwing my shoulder hard against the girl beside me. In the dark, there were no landmarks. No stars, no road markers, no way to count the turns. The truck swayed sharply, tires chewing through gravel as we were driven deep into uncharted forest.

I was blind, bound, and entirely stripped of leverage.

Minutes bled into each other until the truck finally slowed, tires squelching through thick, sodden moss. The engine died.

The latch clattered open, and freezing mountain air flooded the interior.

Hands hauled me down by the elbows. My bare feet landed in cold mud. A sharp tug ripped the blindfold from my face, and the dim red moonlight stung my eyes.

"Move," Vanya commanded, shoving me toward a set of cracked stone stairs.

My footing slipped on the wet stone. My knee slammed against the edge of a step, and a sharp hiss escaped my lips as I stumbled.

Vanya yanked me back to my feet by my bound arms, her grip bruising over the burns.

In my mind, Valka’s presence flared with venom. That bitch needs to be put down.

Quiet, I fired back through the fog. She's former Crimson Guard. She’ll kill us before you can bare a fang.

Vanya shoved our line past the mossy pillars and into the belly of an old, decaying estate.

This was no sanctuary. The front doors hung on rusted hinges, and the cavernous hall was stripped bare. Wind whipped through jagged, glassless window frames, sending torn sheets swaying from the rafters.

Worse than the cold was the air itself. Beneath the smell of damp rot was the distinct, lingering reek of past Hunts—dried iron, burnt pine, and the sour musk of rutting male wolves. This place was not a shelter; it was an arena.

Vanya steered us into a drafty parlor at the end of the hall.

"Face the wall," she ordered.

She stepped out into the corridor and pulled the heavy door shut. The lock clicked into place with finality.

We stood shoulder to shoulder in the draft, five shivering girls in ruined slips, staring at peeling wallpaper.

The wind rattled the broken panes. Beside me, Gwen’s rapid, shallow breathing grated against the quiet.

Then the floorboards in the far corner groaned.

The air in the room shifted instantly. A heavy, suffocating presence filled the space, thick and impossible to ignore.

It wasn't the arrogant dominance of a pack Alpha. This was ancient, primordial, and absolute.

The instinct hit before my brain could name it. Deep in the dark of my mind, Valka dropped flat to her belly, tucking her tail in immediate submission. The command forced my head down before I could resist, locking my body into an involuntary bow. My nape remained exposed to the predator in the room.

Heavy, measured footsteps circled our formation.

He moved with the silent, unhurried grace of an apex hunter examining trapped game. The floorboards barely creaked beneath his weight.

"Turn," a voice commanded.

It was low, resonant, and chillingly controlled. It held no bluster, no posturing. It carried the calm certainty of a king who had never once been defied.

My body moved on instinct, spinning around on bare heels along with the other girls. We formed a compliant, motionless line, heads kept low.

Beside me, Gwen shifted, her hands clutched behind her back, her breathing ragged.

He paced slowly down our row, stopping inches before each tribute. The silence stretched, suffocating and sharp.

Keep your head down, Valka whimpered, shrinking further into the recesses of my mind. Do not look at him.

Every survival instinct agreed with her. Looking an Alpha in the eye was a challenge; looking at a royal Lycan was a death sentence.

Yet defiance refused to stay down. I had spent eighteen years being told where to look, how to stand, and when to bleed. If this was the monster who held our lives in his hands, I wanted to see his face.

Defying the crushing weight of his aura, I lifted my chin a fraction of an inch.

King Torin stood three feet away, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

His shoulders were broad, clad in tailored black that seemed to swallow the light. But it was his face that rooted me to the floor. Sharp, severe features framed by dark hair, devoid of warmth or cruelty. There was no anger in his expression, no heat.

He met my gaze.

His eyes were colder, darker, and more hollow than a winter glacier.