Page 4 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“Worry about your own missions, Wolf.” The words are sharp and final. “Shade can take care of himself. You need to focus on staying alive.”

The reprimand stings worse than a slap. I know he’s right, but I can’t help the unease that coils in my gut when I think about Shade.

Shepherd watches me for a long moment, then sighs. Some of the hardness leaves his expression, replaced by something that might be concern.

“Another batch of Grimsbane is headed to Aelfheim tomorrow at dawn,” he says quietly. “War is brewing between the courts. They’re requesting guild protection for more noble houses. The Judges are assembling contracts now.”

My pulse quickens. “Am I part of—”

“I don’t know yet.” He straightens, brushing off his coat. “But if you are, Wolf, you need to do your best. No more hesitation.”

I nod at the Arbiter.

Shepherd reaches into his coat and pulls out a plain black mask, featureless except for the eyeholes. He wears it before moving toward the door. “I can’t protect you if you fail again. No one can.”

He disappears into the tunnel’s mouth. I’m left alone with the echo of his voice and the taste of my own shame. I look at my hands. I can see the stains that won’t wash out. The smell of blood is permanent now, soaked into my skin like ink.

My grandfather would be disgusted to see what I’ve become. He was the last alpha of the Sylverin Clan. They ruled the Slagtown Quarter for thirty years before the other packs tore them apart. I was seven when it happened. I hid in a drainage pipe, listening to my grandfather’s defiant roar until his voice gave out. The Sylverins scattered that night. Most were dead within a month. Pack wolves don’t survive alone.

But I did.

The guild found me three weeks later, eating garbage behind one of their safe houses. They saw the sapphire eyes and knew what I was. I couldn’t shift because of my half-elven lineage, but I’m still of the Sylverin wolf clan. My senses and reflexes are faster than most mortals. With training I would be perfect for their work.

Except now I’m failing. I remember what my grandfather said the night before he died.

We are the Sylverins, descendants of the Fenrir Aeternus. We protect the weak as guardians of the night.

But I’ve protected nothing. I’ve only taken and taken until my hands are so full of blood I can’t hold anything else.

I wait.

Time crawls. Each breath feels like an hour. Past midnight, the iron door finally opens.

I jerk my head up. I didn’t hear anyone approach. A figure stands before me, wrapped in the black robes of a Judge.

His mask is blank, polished silver with no features at all. Looking at it is like staring into the void.

I scramble to my feet, breath catching.

“The Arbiter has spoken on your behalf.” The voice is neither male nor female, distorted by whatever mechanism hides behind that mask.

“Your third assignment.” A gloved hand extends, holding a scroll sealed with black wax. The guild’s mark pressed deep into it. “Succeed and your record is cleared.”

The Judge doesn’t wait for a response. The door closes. I’m alone again.

I move deeper into the sanctum, finding a corner where the shadows are thickest. My hands shake as I break the seal. The wax crumbles like dried blood, revealing the crisp parchment inside. I inhale the fresh smell of ink. This was written today, perhaps hours ago.

Please.

I don’t know who I’m praying to. The old wolf gods are dead. The new ones are ruthless. Perhaps the seventy-seven gods that my elven father worshipped?

Please, not another kill order. Not another merchant or lord or—

The words swim into focus.

Protection.

Duration: Fifty days.