Chapter 2 The Art of Breaking

"Ninety-eight," I muttered, my breath coming out in a short, sharp puff against the damp stone.

I drew my right hand back. My palm was a map of white scar tissue, split open across the knuckles with fresh, bright red blood. I didn't look at the blood. I looked at the specific, uneven edge of the granite block directly in front of my face.

I drove my bare palm forward, striking the center of the stone.

"Ninety-nine."

The impact sent a sharp shockwave straight up my forearm, vibrating through the bones of my elbow and settling into my shoulder. I didn't flinch. I kept my feet planted on the freezing, wet floorboards. Seven years in the North Tower taught me that if you align your wrist perfectly, human bone doesn't break against granite. It hardens.

Rain lashed through the narrow, unglazed window slit behind me, spraying freezing water right across my bare back. My tattered gown was soaked through, sticking to my skin like a second layer of dirt.

"One hundred."

I struck the stone one last time, holding my palm against the rough surface, feeling the exact way my muscles absorbed the hit. No wolf to heal me. No magic. Just pure, repetitive human effort.

The cold air of the North Tower swept through the tiny iron-barred window high above my head, biting into the open cuts. I didn't care. The physical pain was the only thing that kept the silence from swallowing me whole.

Seven years. Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days in this exact room.

I hauled my arm back again, my eyes completely fixed on a small, chalk-drawn outline of a human throat I had scratched into the wall years ago.

A sharp scrape at the bottom of the heavy oak door made me freeze.

The small iron slot at the floor level slid open. A rusted metal plate containing a single lump of green, moldy bread was pushed through. But the plate didn't just slide in smoothly. It was rattling violently against the stone floor. The metal was shaking because the hand holding it was shaking.

"Nyra?" a voice whispered from the other side of the thick wood. It was Marcus. He was young, always too nervous for a guard, but tonight his voice sounded completely unraveled. "Nyra, are you right by the door? Please tell me you're right there."

I stepped across the cold cell, my bare feet making no sound on the wet wood. I knelt down by the iron grate at the bottom of the door, leaning my ear against the cold wood.

"I'm here, Marcus," I said, my voice rough from disuse. "Why are your hands shaking? You're spilling the water."

"You need to take the food quickly," he gasped. His breath was coming in short, ragged hitching sounds through the iron bars. "I shouldn't even be on this floor. Everyone is downstairs. Everyone is losing their minds."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly flat, completely steady. "Did King Corin find another reason to cut my rations?"

"No, no, it’s not about you! It’s about the territories," Marcus whispered, his face pressing so close to the grate I could smell his sweat and the sharp tang of sheer terror. "The sickness. The global plague. It crossed the northern border three days ago."

I reached out, my bloodied fingers wrapping around the cold iron bars of the slot. "The plague? It’s just a fever. Alphas don't die from human fevers."

"It's not a fever, Nyra!" Marcus choked out, a sob catching in his throat. "It’s changing them. It’s hitting the elite packs. The strongest alphas in Bloodmoon, they try to shift to defend the perimeter, and... and they get stuck."

I frowned, my grip tightening on the iron bars. "Stuck how?"

"Mid-shift!" Marcus hissed, his teeth literally chattering together from fear. "Their bones split open, their skin tears apart, but the wolf doesn't take over. They are trapped right in the middle. They aren't wolves and they aren't men. They are just raw, skinless things running around the lower courtyards, tearing their own throats out. They are screaming, Nyra. The Alphas are screaming like dying dogs!"

"Can't the High Priest stop it?" I asked quickly, leaning closer. "Malakai has the ritual oils. He has the blessing."

"Malakai was the second one to go down!" Marcus cried, his voice rising in panic before he forced it back down to a harsh whisper. "He tried to cleanse the main barracks an hour ago. His wolf woke up, but it tore through his ribs backwards. He’s down there right now, tied to a post, howling while his lungs turn to black mush. The whole pack hierarchy is falling apart. There's no one left to lead the guard!"

"Marcus, look at me," I commanded, my voice sharp. "If the guards are down, who is watching the perimeter gates?"

"Nobody!" Marcus whimpered. "Everyone ran. The moment the King's personal guard started turning into monsters, the frontline soldiers just dropped their weapons and fled into the woods. We're completely defenseless. If any other pack decides to ride south right now."

A massive vibration shook the floorboards beneath my knees.

It wasn't a small tremor. The entire stone structure of the North Tower groaned. The air in my cell instantly turned hot, and the smell of sulfur and burning timber cut through the scent of rain.

A loud explosion blasted from the very base of the tower, the force of the sound wave hitting my ears so hard my head throbbed.

"Marcus!" I yelled, slamming my palm against the heavy oak door. "Marcus, talk to me! What was that?"

No answer came from the other side. Instead, a thick, heavy plume of black smoke came billowing up through the floor cracks and under the door slot, filling the tiny cell with a blinding, choking dark cloud.

Down below, the spiral stairs erupted into sound. It wasn't the sound of a battle. It was the raw, desperate, agonizing screams of men being burned alive and torn to pieces by something heavy moving through the dark.

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