Promised to Wolves

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Since I had not eaten any breakfast or lunch, my first visit was to a small tavern on the edge of the city where I purchased a venison broth and ate it huddled in a corner, my cloak pulled up around my armour to hide what I was wearing. As much as it pained me to pretend I was a humble maiden and not an Agem, I did not want to have to beat up any hot-headed warriors over blatant sexism and so kept myself to myself. 

Thankfully, the venison was good and, if my wolf were still around, I am sure she would have licked her lips in approval. I could tell the innkeeper's son had hunted it from the surrounding forests only this morning from the scent of its blood still in his shaggy hair and the proud look on his face for bringing down a whole deer, which almost brought a smile to my lips. 

Until his father embraced him in a hug and I was forced to look away otherwise I would have hurled every last drop of the broth I had just eaten on the floor.

Soon, I left the tavern and wandered around the edge of the city, walking down the border between the city and the surrounding forest area. At one point, I passed through the harbour and stood watching the ships arriving, unloading, loading and leaving as I calculated how easy it would be to take a ship back to Santorini. Although Marcella had only told me to scout the city so I could calm down, I could not help myself but do my job. And so, I delved into the heart of the city, walking routes from the road which lead up to the palace down through the city to the harbour and to the forest.

Every building in the city seemed to be constructed from wood and clay, staining the air with its rich, overpowering scent. Streets were not paved, instead, being pathways of mud and grass which were imprinted with footprints, hoofprints, cart tracks and pawprints which had churned up mud on the more popular roads, causing me to change my route several times to prevent my boots from being completely soaked in mud. 

Not only that but there was a growing headache that rose and fell like waves in the ocean, embellishing my eyesight with spots as it grew into an agonising throbbing before disappearing.

Turning off a street and into a market square, I remembered Marcella's request for a souvenir and headed over to a stall in the corner of the square covered in random objects. The man who stood behind the table was a wizened old wolf who eyed me suspiciously as I approached, giving me a grin that exposed his yellow, rotting canines. 

"Geia, sou koritsáki," he rasped, running his hand through his greasy hair.

"I'm just looking," I answered firmly but quickly realised he did not speak Tierrian after he started muttering about tourists in Lykan. So I switched to that language and repeated myself. "Aplá koitázo."

He nodded and started to gesture grandly at the array of objects in front of him. I only paid him half of my attention as my fingers traced a cheap necklace with fake rubies, a rusted dagger and a cracked wooden box.

A leather-bound book hidden beneath a pile of chains and a lamp caught my attention and I carefully unearthed it, ignoring the glares the stallkeeper was giving me as I lifted it up to the light.

The History of the Twelve Packs

I am not sure why I decided to buy it, but it seemed like the perfect gift. Marcella was a werewolf like me but had never belonged to a pack, not even one of the small, weak ones scattered across Santorini. I thought she might like to learn about Lycaon culture.

Handing over almost a hundred Drachma to pay for the overpriced book, I gave the old man one more scowl before tucking the book underneath my arm and walking away. Already, the sky was beginning to gain a yellowish hue from the slowly setting sun and it was time I went to the palace and back to the princess' side.