The day was drawing to an end when the Wolves began to cheer. Startled, Sylvia turned her head. She arched as much as she could, peering over the back of the horse she was slung over. She spotted a structure in the distance. A watchtower was peeking out over the tips of the surrounding trees. It stood tall and silent like a stone guardian. The evening sun shone through small windows at the top, giving the guardian menacing lilac eyes, which glowed beneath a wooden hat. From the elation of the Wolves to judge, this was their watchtower. A tower that massive, and permanent enough to warrant stone walls, meant they had reached a city. A Wolf city. Sylvia was shocked such a thing existed, and that in Holmen. Letting her head lull, she felt the last fragments hope melt away, dripping onto the cobbles, and leaving a barren cold in her chest.

Not an hour later, the woods gave way to an open landscape of arable and meadows. The road broadened, allowing two wagons to travel side by side. In the middle of the open land stood a town at least five times the size of Nyberg, and much better fortified. Thick clay walls and wooden spikes surrounded the settlement. The lovely braided, moss insulated roofs peaking over the bulwark offered a strange contrast.

Passing a heavy wooden gate, the caravan was greeted with clapping and cheering. It was a greeting worthy of heroes returning home from battle. Too tired to be angry any longer, Sylvia kept her eyes glued to the ground. She observed the cobbles transition into smoother ground, and finally into well crafted flat stones, laid out in a pattern of even squares.

When they stopped, she was pulled from the horse like a sack of grain. Draped over the shoulder of a strong Wolf, she was carried through the crowd and onto a market pedestal. Put down indelicately, her hair was roughly brushed from her face. Peering out over the market square, she saw a large gathering of men and women, all inspecting the looted goods up for sale. This evidently included her.

Suddenly painfully aware of her bare chest, Sylvia let her gaze fall back down. She tried to block out the happenings around her, but the intrigued comments still made their way through the bustling noise. Her hips were nice and broad, but she was too short. No, short women fit a man’s taste just fine. The issue was her slender waist. She looked sick and pale. Would she even be able to carry water? Carry, she did not need to do, as long as she could provide entertainment. A girl could always be fattened up over time.

The bartering began, but no one wanted to offer a coin more than they could get away with. After much shouting and bickering, money exchanged hands, and Sylvia was pushed toward a man of light complexion. Daring a quick glance, she spotted short brown hair and a trimmed beard. The man grabbed the ropes, which kept her hands tied, and tugged her along. Forcing her to walk in front of him, he steered her away from the market. After a few turns, he urged her into an alley. There, he let go.

Sylvia spun around and looked at the man who had purchased her. He was tall and broad, covered in leather and thick wool. It was practical clothing, especially for a warrior. She did not spot a weapon on his belt, but there was an empty loop. Surely, this man was a Wolf as well. He inspected Sylvia in turn, from the tips of her boots, up to her wavy hair. The grim eyes pierced Sylvia's skin.

Unclasping the simple iron ring that held his cloak in place, the Wolf shrugged the cloth off his shoulders. Sylvia's breathing quickened. She looked around wildly, but there was no escape. Even if she ran, she was only going to run into another Wolf, and with her hands tied, she had little chance of defending herself. Even with all her limbs in her control, there was frightfully little she could have done against a Wolf twice her size, well fed and war trained. Pressing her eyes shut, she cowered, waiting for the horror to start, and to be over.

The thick cloth landed on Sylvia’s shoulders. She flinched. Looking up in puzzlement, she saw the brown eyes darting over her slender body again. The Wolf closed the cloak around her and put the iron clasp back in place. The Wolf reached up and took a hold of her hair, inspecting the torn patches, the dirt caught in her curls, and the general state of disarray. Finally, he grabbed Sylvia's chin and tilted her head up. The Wolf inspected her face. A finger hovered over her freckles for a moment, and then retreated.

“Injured?”, he asked appraisingly. His voice was deep and hoarse, like he had been shouting and drinking too much, not just today, but all his life.

Bewildered, Sylvia shook her head.

Licking his thumb, the Wolf brought it to her neck. Sylvia froze like a statue. The Wolf rubbed her skin, like he was attempting to remove an irritating stain from a plate. Wiping at his trousers and leaving a red smear, he stepped back and nodded to himself.

“Come”, he ordered, and continued along the road.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Sylvia figured her chances of survival would only suffer if she disobeyed. She followed the gruff Wolf through the streets, until they reached a house a little further away from the watchtower. It was a big building, two stories high, plus loft, and likely a cellar. The door handle had a flower stamped into the knob and the threshold was low and smooth.

Roughly urging Sylvia through the door, the Wolf pulled it shut behind them and locked them in—or rather, locked her in. He kept the key at his belt. Crouching down, he untied his shoes. Placing them beside the door, he reached for Sylvia’s feet next. He unlaced the now sweaty and dirty boots, and pulled them off. Standing back up, he motioned with his entire hand into the house. Sylvia tentatively walked further away from the door.

It was a sturdy, yet elegant house. The foundation was laid in stone, and the walls were built of thick timber. The floor was polished and every window had curtains. There were even oil lamps hanging on hooks at strategic points in the various rooms. Reaching the end of the hallway, Sylvia entered a wide and modern kitchen. The cabinets were broad and fine, the table was polished, and there was even a water pump indoors. Sylvia had heard of such constructions, but never seen it with her own two eyes.

Taking his cloak off Sylvia’s shoulders, the Wolf began pulling at the knots still locking her arms behind her back. He fumbled with it for a long moment, before grumbling and stomping across the room to a counter. He rummaged through a drawer and produced a knife. Sylvia held perfectly still when the Wolf rounded her. She feared for her life, with this large bandit looming behind her, weapon in hand. His fingers curled around her arm again and she closed her eyes. She begged silently for him to cut the rope and nothing but the rope. And so he did.

After freeing her, the Wolf kept as much of the rope intact as he could, and rolled it into a neat coil. Placing the coil and the knife aside, he finally turned around to really look at the young woman standing in his home, rubbing her wrists and rolling her shoulders. She looked like she had been dragged through the mud all day. It would not do. “You need to bathe”, he determined.

Showing her into a stone laid room with a bathtub, and offering her a bucket to fetch water with, he left her to it. Sylvia used the water pump in the kitchen and carried bucket after bucket to fill her bath. Then, she kindled a modest fire in the oven and heated a big pot of water to add to the cold. She added a second pot, making sure steam rose to the ceiling and fogged up the window. Undressing, she piled her clothes on the floor, and washed the dirt off herself with a brush and soap. She had hay and leaves sticking in her hair, and mud all over her arms. Horse hairs clung to her stomach and chest. She scrubbed until her skin was irritated and warm. Finally climbing into the hot bath, she groaned softly. It felt fantastic. The heat rippled over her skin. Every muscle and sore joint in her body finally relaxed. Exhaling, she sank down further, playing chicken with the water as it threatened to run over. Leaving her nose just above the surface, she closed her eyes. She was tired. It was first now that she noticed how very tired she truly was.

When the door to the bath opened, Sylvia hugged her arms across her chest. The sudden movement caused some of the water to splash out onto the cold stone floor. Steam billowed around the tub. Wordlessly, the Wolf placed a pile of clothes down on a stool, and walked back out.

Sighing, Sylvia let her head fall back against the edge of the bathtub. What was she going to do now? Figuring there was little else she could possibly do, she bathed until the water became too cold to enjoy it, and a little longer still to avoid the strange Wolf who had purchased her like cattle. Then, with a heavy heart, she heaved herself out of the bath and dried off. She inspected the clothes the Wolf had laid out for her. She tried the trousers on, but they pooled around her legs, dragging along the floor, so she opted for the tunic alone. Pulling it over her head, she wore it like a sloppy dress. It felt a little odd to walk around without underwear, but it would have to do. Cleaning her father’s belt, she tied it around her waist to create some semblance of shape. She took one more deep breath, before facing reality and exiting the bathroom.

The Wolf stood right outside the door. Sylvia forced herself not to jump when he came into view. A visible jerk still ran through her body, and she kept her eyes fixed on the bandit.

“Can you cook?”, he asked.

Sylvia nodded, glad to have a task to occupy her mind. The Wolf motioned in the general direction, and she hurried past him into the luxurious kitchen.

“What should I make?”

“Do what you can”, the Wolf shrugged.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he watched her idly while she found and put on an apron, and then began searching the cupboards for ingredients and equipment. Finding a sack of potatoes, she figured it was a good enough start and looked around for a knife next. Seeing the kitchen knife the Wolf had used to cut her bindings lying on the counter, she picked it up and inspected the edge. It was a small but well tended tool, sharp and even. Everything in this kitchen was of very high quality. Taking out a bowl to catch the peels, she brought the knife to the first potato and paused.

She had a knife, she realised. It was small, granted, but it was the first weapon she had gotten her hands on since they had been surprised at the stables. Her heart raced.

A knife.

The sight of Rebecca's green eyes going still as the blade of a knife severed her throat replayed in Sylvia’s head. Fury flared up in her chest. She wanted revenge! In a single day, she had felt panic, shock, sorrow, and despair, but not one of these emotions dared to raise a hand in the presence of her burning hatred. The emotion was so strong, it constricted her chest. It physically hurt how much she hated these bandits, these immoral beasts. Firmly gripping the hilt of the knife, she spun around and lunged at the Wolf.