Chapter 4 · Wolf in the Fold

"Keep your eyes on the dirt, dog. You’re not paid to look at me," Sela snapped, her voice like a whip cracking in the humid air.

I didn't look up. I kept my gaze locked on the cracked stone tiles of the courtyard, but I could feel her. She was close—too close. The scent of cold steel and something like crushed jasmine drifted off her, a sharp contrast to the stench of the slave quarters. I shifted my weight, feeling the heavy iron collar chafe against my neck, but inside, beneath the skin, the Devouring Bone was humming. It wasn't just humming; it was starving. It wanted her. It wanted the radiant, golden marrow pulsing in her veins.

"Is there a problem?" Sela asked, stopping abruptly.

I froze. I could see the tip of her polished black boot just inches from my toes.

"No, General," I rasped. I made my voice sound thin, broken. I wanted her to hear the defeat. I wanted her to believe I was nothing but a hollow shell of a man.

"You're shaking," she observed. I felt her hand reach out—not a gentle touch, but a grip. Her fingers clamped onto my jaw, forcing my head up. Her skin was cool, but her grip was absolute. She leaned in, her eyes scanning mine with a terrifying precision. Sela didn't just look at people; she dissected them. "Why are you shaking, dog? Fear? Or are you just too weak to stand?"

I let my breath hitch. I let my eyes well up just enough to look pathetic. "I... I've never seen someone of your rank, General. I'm honored."

She scoffed, a small, dangerous sound. "Honored. You're a marrow-stripped waste. You should be grateful I'm not having you fed to the hounds for breathing my air." She didn't let go. Her thumb pressed hard into the side of my cheek, a subtle reminder that she could snap my jaw with a flick of her wrist.

For a second, the mask slipped. I didn't see a General; I saw a target. The Devouring Bone inside me surged, a black tide of hunger that screamed one word: *Eat.* My pulse spiked. My muscles coiled. I could have lunged. I could have ripped her throat out right here in the middle of the courtyard.

Then I remembered Victor's face. I remembered the feeling of my own marrow being ripped out of my spine while I was still screaming.

I forced myself to relax. I let my body go limp in her grip.

Sela frowned, her eyes narrowing. "Strange. Your heart is racing, but your eyes are empty. You're a weird little thing, aren't you?"

"I'm just a dog, General," I whispered.

She released me with a sudden shove, sending me stumbling back. "Get in line. You're moving the crates to the inner sanctum. If you drop one, I'll have your fingers."

I scrambled to my feet, bowing low. "Yes, General."

As I turned away, I felt her gaze lingering on my back. It wasn't the gaze of a master looking at a slave; it was the gaze of a predator who suspected the prey was pretending to be dead. I liked it. It meant she was paying attention.

I spent the next three hours hauling heavy iron-bound crates across the courtyard. Every step was a lesson in agony. The collar was digging in, and my muscles, still recovering from the trauma of the marrow-stripping, screamed with every lift. But the physical pain was a distraction. It kept me focused.

Around me, the other slaves moved like ghosts. Broken men and women, their spirits extinguished long ago. They didn't look at me. They didn't want to. In this place, any connection was a liability.

Then I saw him.

Victor.