Alpha Rend was not surprised by the council's visit. The whispers about the search for a new queen had escalated into an overt display, and his pack was ready. They had been working diligently, engaging in even more rigorous training to prepare for the Queen's arrival. Whoever she was, she would need their protection, for the Silver Bite pack had always maintained a strong alliance with the queen, offering their strength in times of war.
The alpha led the council members through his pack's territory, breathing deeply and taking in the heavy, lingering scent of silver that permeated the air. Microscopic shards of silver, so fine they were almost invisible, glinted on the ground, a constant, low-level irritant that served a purpose. The prolonged, casual exposure to these silver particles was meant to harden and refine the bodies of his people, forcing their systems to constantly fight against the toxic elements and, in doing so, grow stronger. It was a brutal, self-imposed crucible.
Carly, a council member, reached up with nimble fingers to brush the tiny silver shavings from her face. Despite their minuscule size, they left a slight, persistent irritation on her skin. This pack was under her territorial authority, and she had yet to visit all of the packs she was responsible for. However, she had noticed a significant detail when reviewing this pack's statistics: they had an extraordinarily high infant mortality rate. The cause was not immediately clear, but it was high on her list of issues to investigate and resolve.
"My mate, Mattel, will bring you to the
Sunder Hall to wait," Rend said.
Mattel's appearance was a fascinating mix of beauty and horror. Her skin was a beautiful, unmarred golden hue. Her long, brown hair cascaded past her waist in light waves. She wore a charcoal-gray dress with an unfinished hem and a slit that exposed both of her legs just above the thighs. Her arms were bare, and her hair was tied back with a black piece of fabric. Over the dress, she wore a piece of intricately woven silver armor. It was a complex construct that clicked together but was designed to break apart under enough pressure, allowing a wolf to shift. With each movement, the silver brushed against her skin, which was now so accustomed to the contact that it barely reacted.
What was truly captivating and horrific, however, was the silver embedded beneath her skin. It looked as if someone had meticulously woven silver wire into beautiful, ornate patterns that curled around her arms and legs and even around her ears. Her skin had healed and closed around the silver, holding it in place, but it left behind a permanent, obvious red irritation. It was a gruesome mutilation that was, inexplicably, undeniably beautiful.
"Enter," Mattel instructed the group. The three council members entered before her, while the large group of guards remained outside, circling the House of Sunder—the place where the pack trained and refined their physical strength.
The horror on Carly's face was not easily hidden. A wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and she felt a surge of dizziness as her eyes took in the scene. Everywhere she looked, she was confronted with a new obscenity that she felt should have been stopped long ago. Despite the violence permeating the room, there was no sound of screaming or cries of agony. Instead, there was a quiet, almost unsettling focus, as if what was happening was not an abomination but a sacred ritual.
The walls were lined with an endless array of silver weapons—whips, axes, hammers, cudgels, and throwing daggers. A large fire in a central pit breathed heat and light into the space, its flames fed by silver. A wolf, its skin coated with a black tent, hammered away, forging more weapons and tools of torment.
Carly watched as a mother placed her young child in a box surrounded on all sides by silver. The child, with a look of intense resolve on her face, breathed deeply, regulating herself. The purpose of this was lost on Carly.
"She's not even five," Carly said, her voice laced with horror.
Mattel followed Carly's gaze. "It takes time to conquer the fear of silver. We start them young." She watched the mother, who was teaching her daughter not to fear the silver but to conquer it. Unbeknownst to Mattel, Carly was not impressed; she was appalled. "Come, I will show you."
Marina, however, remained completely unfazed. Her face was a perfect mask of composure, her eyes revealing nothing as she observed the rituals. To her, this was simply another pack with a strange set of beliefs, no different from the "honorable" but rustic Hearthstone pack.
The sounds of grunts and sizzling skin created an eerie echo in the ears of those unaccustomed to the cacophony. The group watched as a man lay on his back, while his companion hammered a thick piece of metal through the skin of his back all the way down to his tailbone. He grunted and his fingers clenched into fists and then relaxed, but he did not make a sound. His eyes were steely and determined, and his skin burned with a continuous, low-level pain.
A woman with skin completely embedded with silver wire in the same decorative patterns as Mattel's came over to the man.
She watched attentively as the other man administered the ritual, then stopped him. She pressed the wires inward toward his skin, ensuring that the protruding parts still rubbed against his back. Once she was done, she instructed the man to put on silver stoppers to keep the bar in place. Then she smiled and moved on to her next "patient." Carly watched her walk away with a smile so pure and radiant that she could not comprehend it.
"Who is she?" Carly asked, her voice tight with a desire to confront the seemingly wicked woman.
"The healer."
Carly could not understand. How could a healer help you inflict pain and mutilate yourself? It made no sense. The more she saw, the more she wished she hadn't. There was no need to investigate the hidden cause of the infant mortality rate. The evidence was all around them—a sickening perversion of strength. Carly found herself coughing the longer she was there. The hearth that kept the fire burning was coated in silver, and it released a constant mist of silver-infused oxygen into the air, poisoning their lungs.
Marcus looked on with a detached, cynical air. To him, the Silver Bite pack was no different from any other group of religious fanatics. It was just another extreme, another misguided belief system that people clung to in their search for meaning and purpose. He had no respect for it, but he had a certain cold tolerance for their rituals. Unlike other packs that were led by emotion, this pack was led by results. He had seen the data: they were far less susceptible to silver poisoning and silver attacks than other packs because they lived in an environment of toxicity. It also meant that this pack wasn't very large, because those who couldn't tolerate the significant levels of silver poisoning died young.
He knew that this pack had no elders. Once you were no longer able to shift, your body could no longer heal as proficiently, and you would die of silver poisoning. Their children were susceptible to common human illnesses because their immune systems were no better than a human's, on top of being poisoned every day. As much as they had their physical results, their methods were more likely to kill 30 to 40% of their population before they ever saw positive results.
Breaking away from the main group, Philip navigated toward a group of women who appeared to be in their early fifties. However, they looked to be the same age as humans in their early thirties. He noticed they all had the same silver marks on their faces—it looked like a stream of silver tears flowing from beneath their eye sockets down to their chins, three distinct lines. The rest of their skin, however, was devoid of the same silver embellishments that Mattel had.
He noticed one woman holding a sharp silver pole with a tip not unlike an arrowhead, but small, the size of a thumbnail. He watched, fascinated, as she pressed the silver arrowhead into another woman's arm, pushing it beneath the skin. He watched as the skin knitted back together, healing itself, only for it to sizzle and burn. The skin tried to push the foreign object out, and trails of blood seeped from her forearm. Before it could, another woman wrapped the arm tightly with gauze, making sure the arrowhead could not come out. Philip sat cross-legged across from the group of six women, each as beautiful as the next, all with various parts of their bodies wrapped with gauze, signifying an arrowhead beneath the skin.
These women intrigued him. Others had tried to attempt some of their methods only to die, because their bodies hadn't been properly tempered for this kind of torture—for this kind of enlightenment. He didn't say anything; he just watched and waited.
"It is an odd man who sits with widows," said a woman named Flint, who was considered the elder amongst them.
"I did not know," Philip said, starting to stand.
"Stay," Flint said, gesturing for him to sit back down. Most people in the pack avoided them; it was considered bad luck to sit with someone who had lost their mate. She thought he was either brave, stupid, or uncaring. Either way, she didn't mind.
Philip suppressed a smirk. He had seen the group of women all sitting together, completely ignored and forgotten by the rest. He had suspected they were all mateless. He had heard rumors that the Silver Bite pack's methods of strengthening themselves had an unexpected benefit: if their mate died, they would be able to undergo the strain without dying or going mad themselves, a feat that was incredibly hard to accomplish. It was always easier to die when your mate died; living was an extraordinary feat that very few could accomplish.
"Is that why only your group has the marks under your eyes?" he asked.
Flint touched the silver streams beneath her eyes. She closed her eyes; even touching the silver that represented her loss made her heart ache in an indescribable way. "Yes. Only those who have lost their mate can have these marks."
"You are brave, to live instead of dying with your mates," Philip said.
"Would you like to try?" Flint asked him, holding up one of the arrowheads.
Philip was far more interested in inflicting pain than receiving it. But he had a plan in mind, and it wouldn't stop at inserting an arrowhead. "This hall is not for those trying for the first time. I would scream. It's not right for me to interrupt everyone else's strengthening. But I do want to try. I am sorry." Philip bowed his head in feigned respect, hoping that Flint would take the bait. Of the six women, she seemed to be the only receptive one.
"Follow me." Amongst the grunts and silent struggles, Flint and Philip shared a look of understanding. She led him out of the House of Sunder and back to her own home.
"Where is he going?" Marcus grumbled, watching Philip walk away with one of the mourning women, the marks on her face indicating she was a widow.
The way Philip could find fun and debauchery wherever he went was a talent Marina thought was interesting. "The only things that interest him are power, sex, and domination. This is his playground."
Carly, on the other hand, was sickened. Her stomach twisted, and she had to school her features with immense effort, forcing herself to be reserved and silent unless she was directly addressed. It was difficult for her to witness such self-inflicted pain and not show her horror. This pack was under her administration, but their rituals and beliefs were not something she could simply change because she was disgusted.