Phoebe
The air tastes like honey and lightning.
It’s so thick with magic I feel like I could choke on it. Back home, magic is a whisper in the rustling leaves, the faint pull of the moon. Here, it’s a roar.
Everything shimmers. The pathway isn’t stone, but something like polished pearl that glows with its own inner light. Trees with silver leaves weep trails of sparkling pollen that hang in the air like constellations. The scent is overwhelming, a mix of night blooming flowers I’ve only read about and the clean, sharp smell of ozone.
It’s beautiful. And I hate it.
I hate it because it’s a cage built of impossible beauty, designed to awe wolves like me into submission. To remind us of our place. My worn leather tunic and simple boots feel like a brand, marking me as an outsider. Everyone I pass wears silks and finely tooled leather, their scents a complex mix of power and privilege. They move with an easy grace that says they belong in places like this. They walk with their chins high, their eyes sweeping over the grounds as if they already own them.
I keep my head down, my hand resting on the hilt of my knife. It’s a foolish comfort, but it’s the only one I have. My mother’s amulet should be hanging at my neck, its familiar weight a counterpoint to the wild thumping of my heart. The empty space it left behind is a cold, constant ache.
A wolf in gleaming silver armor, his face impassive, directs me towards a great hall. The doors are carved from a single piece of white wood that seems to hum with a life of its own. Inside, the roar of magic becomes a symphony. A chandelier made of what looks like captured starlight hangs from a ceiling so high it feels like the night sky.
Dozens of contestants are already here, gathered in small, powerful groups. They laugh, their voices sharp and clear in the echoing space. They don’t look at me, but I feel their dismissal. It’s a physical force, pressing in on me from all sides.
I’m a stray who wandered into a den of kings.
I find my way to a long table where a severe looking she wolf is checking names off a list. She doesn’t look up when I approach.
“Name and Pack.” Her voice is clipped, bored.
“Phoebe of Silent Creek.”
Her pen stills. For the first time, she lifts her head, her eyes, the color of winter ice, raking over me. A slow, condescending smile touches her lips.
“Silent Creek,” she repeats, drawing the words out. “I wasn’t aware they were still a pack.”
My jaw tightens. “We are.”
She lets out a small, unimpressed huff and makes a mark on her list. “Your quarters are in the east wing. Number twelve. Don’t get lost.”
She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist, her attention already on the next contestant, a tall male whose fur trimmed cloak probably cost more than my entire pack’s yearly tribute.
I turn away, the flush of anger hot on my cheeks. I knew this would be hard. I knew they would look down on me. Knowing it and feeling it are two very different things.
“Well, well. Look what the river washed in.”
The voice is deep, laced with an arrogance that grates on my nerves like stone on bone. I turn to find a young man leaning against a marble pillar. He’s handsome in a cruel sort of way, with sharp features and hair the color of a thundercloud. His eyes, a startling electric blue, are fixed on me with mocking amusement. The scent of storm and raw power clings to him. This must be one of the heirs Marcus warned me about.
He pushes off the pillar and saunters towards me, his movements a fluid, predatory glide. A few others turn to watch, sensing a bit of sport.
“I must have misheard,” he says, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Did the proctor say Silent Creek? I thought that was just a cautionary tale parents told their pups about what happens when you have no ambition.”
My hand tightens on my knife hilt. I say nothing. Engaging him is a mistake. He wants a reaction. He wants to see me snarl.
He stops a few feet from me, circling me slowly, like a predator inspecting its prey. “Look at you. Still dressed in your hunting rags. Did you get lost on your way to the kitchens, little pup?”
A ripple of laughter goes through the nearby contestants. My blood feels like ice in my veins.
He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that is still somehow a performance for his audience. “This is the Iridian Games, not a charity for destitute packs. You’re out of your depth.”
“And you are?” I ask, my voice quiet but steady. I refuse to let it shake.
He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, barking sound that echoes in the vast hall. “She has a voice. Kaelen of Stormfang. My father is Alpha Caden. Surely even in your forgotten corner of the world, you’ve heard of him.”
I have. Alpha Caden was a butcher who carved out his territory with a brutality that was legendary. This is his son. It shows.
“I’ve heard the name,” I say, my tone deliberately flat.
His smile falters for a fraction of a second, my lack of fawning reverence clearly an insult.
“Then you should know your place,” he sneers, his confidence returning in a wave of dismissive power. “A Creek-pup like you has no business being here. Run home before you get hurt. The games are for wolves, not mice.”
He turns his back on me then, a clear sign that I am no longer worthy of his attention. He addresses his laughing friends. “Can you believe the standards this year? They’re letting anyone in.”
The words are meant to break me. To send me scurrying back to my quiet woods with my tail between my legs. But all they do is stoke the cold fire in my gut. They remind me why I am here. It’s not for glory or honor. It’s for a piece of my soul. And I will not let this arrogant child stand in my way.
They think I am a mouse. Good. Mice can slip through cracks that wolves can’t.
“Don’t listen to him.”
The new voice is warm, calm. It cuts through the lingering chill of Kaelen’s mockery. I turn to see another young man standing beside me. He is the opposite of Kaelen in every way. Where Kaelen is sharp edges and stormy darkness, this wolf is all warm tones and gentle strength. He has sun streaked brown hair and his eyes are the color of warm amber. His scent is like sunshine on stone, clean and steady.
“His bark is worse than his bite,” the newcomer continues, offering me a small, genuine smile. “Though I admit, both are pretty terrible.”
I watch him, wary. Alliances in a place like this are just another kind of weapon.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He doesn’t seem offended by my suspicion. “Because I know what it’s like to be underestimated. And because I think judging a wolf by the size of their territory is a fool’s game.”
He extends a hand. “Liam of Sunstone. My father is Beta to our Alpha.”
A Beta. Not an heir to an Alpha. That explains the lack of suffocating arrogance. I hesitate for a moment, then shake his hand. His grip is firm and warm.
“Phoebe,” I say.
“I know. I heard,” he says, his gaze flickering towards Kaelen’s group. They are still watching us, though with less interest now that the main event is over. “Stormfang’s pack has bordered ours for generations. Kaelen has always believed power is something you take by force. He sees a smaller pack and assumes weakness.”
“That’s a mistake,” I say quietly.
Liam’s smile widens. “I have a feeling it is. That’s why I came over. Kaelen and his friends will stick together. They’ll try to eliminate anyone they see as an easy target. It might be wise to have someone watching your back.”
“An alliance?”
“A friendship,” he corrects gently. “One that might also be mutually beneficial. I’m a strategist, not a brawler. I have a feeling you’re smarter than you let on. Together, we might actually survive the first challenge.”
I consider his offer. Alpha Marcus’s warnings echo in my head. *It’s a trap.* Everyone here has an agenda. But looking at Liam, at the open honesty in his amber eyes, I don’t sense deceit. I sense a kindred spirit, another wolf trying to navigate a world of predators. And he’s right. Facing this alone is suicide.
“Alright, Liam of Sunstone,” I say, giving a slight nod. “You have a deal.”
Relief floods his face. “Good. Now, about those quarters. East wing, right? Me too. Let’s brave the golden hallways together, shall we?”
He leads the way, and I fall into step beside him. The other contestants part for us, their eyes still lingering, but Liam’s presence seems to provide a small shield against their judgment.
We walk in silence for a few moments, the pearl floor glowing under our feet.
“He’s wrong, you know,” Liam says suddenly, not looking at me. “About your pack. There’s a strength in being quiet. In surviving. It’s a different kind of power. One they won’t see coming.”
His words are a balm on a raw wound. It’s exactly what I told Marcus. To hear it from a stranger, from a competitor in this gilded cage, feels like a sign.
We arrive at a hallway where the doors are inlaid with gold filigree. He stops at number ten. I’m at twelve.
“Looks like we’re neighbors,” he says with another smile. “If you need anything, just knock. And Phoebe?”
“Yes?”
“Try to get some rest. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
He disappears into his room, and I’m left standing alone in the opulent, silent hall. I push open the door to my own quarters and stop on the threshold.
It’s not a room. It’s a suite. A four poster bed is draped in shimmering silks, a plush velvet couch sits before a cold, marble fireplace, and a balcony overlooks a garden of glowing moonpetal flowers. It’s more luxurious than my entire cabin. More luxurious than anything in Silent Creek.
I walk over to the bed and press my hand against the silk. It’s soft and cool, and it feels like a lie. This comfort isn’t a gift. It’s a tool. It’s meant to soften me, to make me forget the hard earth and rough blankets of home. It’s meant to make me want this life, to fight for it with a desperation that will make the games more entertaining.
I am not here for comfort.
I turn away from the bed and walk out onto the balcony. The air is cool and sweet. The stars above are the same stars I look at every night, but here they seem brighter, colder, more distant.
They have my mother’s amulet. They have a piece of her. And they think these beautiful things will distract me. They think Kaelen’s insults will break me.
I lean against the cold stone railing and let the shimmering, magical world of the Iridescence Pack surround me. It’s a gilded cage, just as Marcus warned. But they’ve made one critical error.
They’ve locked the predator in here with the prey.
