Zovara Morkh’s head snapped up. Her ears, barely visible beneath her dark braids, twitched, zeroing in on the source of the strange, unearthly noise. Danava pressed her hands flat against the fur rug beneath her knees. Luken. Always Luken. She had to think, had to act. Now. Harzog, still cradling her on his lap, shifted. His gaze, previously fixed on the raucous feasting, sharpened, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His gaze darted to Zovara, then down to Danava, dark with an unvoiced warning. He knew. Of course, he knew. He’d recognized her in the city; he’d likely known about the burner phone before she’d even cleared the city gates. “My… my corset’s vibrating,” Danava blurted out, her voice a little too high, a little too strained. She grabbed at the lacings near her ribs, a desperate charade. “It’s that infernal new city trend, the ‘silent chime.’ Half the socialites are wearing them now. Drives me mad.” She forced a pained grimace, a convincing flutter of her lashes. “Perhaps I should have opted for the feather trim after all.” Harzog’s jawline softened infinitesimally. A trace of wry amusement creased his mouth before his expression hardened again, meeting Zovara’s across the hall. The she-wolf’s eyes narrowed, her head cocked, clearly unconvinced. She remained still, a predator scenting prey, her gaze flicking between Danava’s flustered face and the subtle tremor beneath her corseted ribcage. The chirping stopped, leaving only the hall's rowdy clatter in its wake. “A peculiar city custom,” Zovara purred, her voice dripping with venom, “to be so… connected.” She rose, her movements fluid and deadly. “Perhaps a tour of the Keep, ‘milady,’ would remind you of the more… primal connections one truly needs.” “A tour is an excellent idea,” Harzog declared, his voice cutting through the tension, claiming the suggestion as his own. He rose, pulling Danava effortlessly with him. “The morning mist is breaking. The training pits will be alive.” His heavy hand clamped onto her waist, pulling her flush against his ribs. *** The Skalvador Keep was less a castle and more a colossal, fortified wound carved into the icy face of Mount Ryn. Its interior was a labyrinth of echoing stone, raw timber, and the constant, biting cold that seeped from the mountain’s heart. The morning tour felt less like an aristocratic promenade and more like a tactical reconnaissance mission, with Harzog leading Danava through a series of cavernous armories, frigid barracks, and, finally, the infamous training pits. These pits were a series of sunken arenas blasted into the permafrost, each surrounded by jagged rock walls and heavy iron gates. Steam rose from the struggling breath of the fighters in the mud, their forms blurring as they sparred with iron-banded clubs or wrestled in partial-wolf forms. The air thrummed with grunts, snarls, and the sharp clang of steel, all underscored by the relentless mountain wind. Danava kept her face carefully neutral, but her mind was a whirlwind. Every glint of ancient ice-forged steel, every ripple of muscle on the bare-chested warriors, every gleam of bestial eyes was a detail for her article. This wasn't just a scoop; it was a deep dive into the primal heart of a world most city-dwellers only whispered about. Harzog, striding ahead, occasionally pointed out a particularly brutal sparring match or a unique carving on a stone archway, his voice a low rumble. He hadn't mentioned the phone call again, but Danava felt his eyes on her, assessing, probing. She clutched her small, waterproof camera—a discreet, palm-sized device with a silent shutter—hidden in her sleeve. They reached a smaller, more isolated pit, its gates thicker, its walls higher. Unlike the others, this one stood empty, a frozen silence hanging over its snow-dusted floor. Zovara, who had joined their tour with two hulking guards in tow, stopped beside them, her smile thin and predatory. “This is the solitude pit,” Zovara explained, her gaze fixed on Danava. “For those who require… focused training. Or perhaps, a moment of quiet reflection.” Her hand gestured toward the rusted iron lever that controlled the gate, a thin, almost invisible smile playing on her lips. Harzog stepped between them, his posture rigid. “It’s not in use today. The winter wolves are being…” Before he could finish, Zovara’s shoulder brushed past Danava, a seemingly accidental nudge that sent the journalist stumbling forward. Her foot slipped on a patch of ice, and she pitched headlong, not into the pit, but into the narrow, frozen alcove just beside the gate, a section normally used for observation. The heavy iron gate, with a groan of stressed metal, swung shut. The rusted lever, which Zovara had been standing beside, clanged into place, the mechanism locking with a heavy thud. Danava found herself trapped between the gate and the rough stone wall, the cold breath of the empty pit washing over her. She pushed against the iron, but it was solid, unyielding. “My apologies, little bride,” Zovara called out, her voice laced with mock concern. “Such a clumsy mistake. The latch sticks sometimes. These old mechanisms are so… unpredictable.” She didn't move to open it. Then, a low, guttural snarl echoed from the shadows under the catwalk. It was a sound that prickled the skin, a sound of raw hunger. A shadow detached itself from the far wall, pacing forward. It was a wolf, massive and gaunt, its fur matted and dull, its eyes a malevolent yellow in the dim light. Saliva dripped from its bared fangs, glistening on the ice. This was no winter wolf from the pack; this was a beast starved to a feral edge, its ribs stark beneath its pelt. “The ‘solitude pit’ is clearly not as empty as you claimed, Zovara,” Harzog’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, thick with suppressed rage. He moved towards the gate, his hands flexing. His guards tensed, ready. Danava did not retreat. Her journalistic instincts, always overriding her self-preservation, flared to life. This was it. Proof. Evidence of the horrors. She fumbled in her sleeve, pulling out her camera. The beast was monstrous in its squalor, a raw, undeniable visual. *Click. Click. Click.* The silent shutter whirred, capturing the wolf as it stalked closer, its snarl growing louder, more menacing. Its eyes, fixed on her, promised a swift, brutal end. She aimed, focusing on the yellow gleam, the foam on its jaws. This was the scoop of a lifetime. The wolf lunged, slamming into the gate, its claws scrabbling at the iron, its fangs snapping inches from Danava's face. The gate shuddered, but held. For now. A roar ripped through the icy air, a sound so primal, so utterly devoid of humanity, that the very stones of the Keep seemed to vibrate. Harzog Vargen launched himself at the gate. With a savage surge of strength, he seized the heavy iron bars in his bare hands. Muscles bunched and corded in his arms, his knuckles white as bone. The metal shrieked, protesting. Then, with a deafening *CRACK*, the entire gate tore free from its hinges, ripped from the ancient stone as if it were mere parchment. It crumpled to the ground, a twisted wreck of iron. Harzog didn't pause. His eyes, now burning with an incandescent, uncontrolled ruby light, were fixed solely on the wolf. He moved with a speed that blurred, a feral whirlwind of rage. The starved beast, momentarily stunned by the gate's destruction, lunged again. But Harzog was faster. He met the wolf mid-air, a devastating blow to its flank sending it sprawling. The wolf yelped, a sound of pain and surprise, scrambling to its feet, only to be met by another savage strike. Harzog was a blur of motion, a force of nature unleashed. He didn't just fight; he brutalized. He tore at the beast, his hands, already wet and red, moved with shocking efficiency, breaking bone, rending flesh. The wolf's desperate howls were cut short, replaced by sickening wet thuds. Blood splattered across the snow, a dark, spreading stain against the white. His breathing was ragged, harsh, his chest heaving. The glow in his eyes intensified, a feral, unfocused inferno. He stood over the mangled corpse of the wolf, his shoulders shuddering with murderous momentum. Zovara and her guards stood frozen, their faces pale, paralyzed by the sheer ferocity of their Alpha. This wasn't just a leader; this was a primordial engine of destruction. Danava, despite the lingering terror, felt a strange pull. He had saved her. He was still lost in the red haze of his rage. Instinctively, she reached out, her hand tentatively resting on his forearm, a small, warm anchor against the raw power that still vibrated through him. Her touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it was enough. The scarlet glow in Harzog’s eyes wavered, then slowly, hesitantly, began to recede. His ragged breathing softened, his shoulders relaxing, though still tense. The terrifying aura around him began to recede, leaving behind only the scent of blood and frost. As the last vestiges of the feral rage subsided, Danava’s eyes fell to the wolf’s collar, now half-buried in the blood-drenched snow. It was a crude, leather band, but embedded within it, near the clasp, was a small, flat, hexagonal scale. It was neither bone nor metal nor any material she recognized. It pulsed with a faint, sickly green light, an eerie, unnatural luminescence against the dead beast’s dark fur. A primeval horror scale. Someone within the Keep was smuggling monsters.

Blood in the Pits