Wolf Teeth || Book I : Summer {M/M} ❄

Chapter #6

They walked through the night. Aryeta distracted Oryen from the grim subject of collars and rotgor by teaching him more lycanthropic swear words—the things always deemed most essential when learning a new language. It was difficult not to like Aryeta. Harder still to equate her with the monsters Oryen found on most of his missions.

He tried to push away the thought of what would become of him if he was discovered to be a Fen. It wouldn't do to dwell. He was here now.

The landscape within quarantine was ever changing. They tended to skirt around settlements or civilization, keeping to nature and roads reclaimed by plants and earth. What civilization Oryen glimpsed from a distance looked equally overgrown and nothing like the world he'd left behind. Aryeta explained that it was best to avoid other packs or lone wolves, who were sure to lurk within the dilapidated shelters pocketed across the sector.

By mid-afternoon, with sweat sticking every inch of clothing to him in a way that felt deeply violating, they made it to the top of a craggy hill to stare down into the valley below. A river wound its way through the valley, and between—Oryen needed a moment to take it in—two giant wolves. Wolves as tall as the canyon from which they'd been carved. They reared onto their hind legs, jaws wide and grasping for one another, locked in an eternal battle. At their feet, a circular scar of blackened grass marred an otherwise wild landscape. It looked like the site of an explosion or a meteor crash. As the other recruits reached the top of the hill and took it in, he heard several intakes of breath, awe settling over them all.

Oryen had heard about the statue in history books. Its origins and creators had once been a topic of debate for historians. For years, it had been barred to the public while scientists researched its origins. Or so he'd been told. Though he'd never thought about it, it seemed strange to lock such a massive and mysterious part of history behind quarantine walls.

Oryen let out a long whistle. "That's... It looks a lot bigger than it did in textbooks."

Aryeta glowed with pride, as though she'd carved them herself. "Welcome to Kolraga."

"Kolraga—" Oryen cut himself off. "You live here?" He couldn't see any wolves scattered throughout the valley, nor any houses or buildings.

"You'll see."

They travelled into the valley, crossing the scar of blackened earth. As they drew closer, Oryen recognized what had made it. There had been a battle here not long ago. The grass was beginning to recover, poking through the deadened parts. Blackened not by fire, but blood. Here and there, a broken rib or a silver blade poked out of the earth like teeth.

Oryen's stomach turned. "What happened?"

Aryeta looked at the grass and then at him. "Kahleir happened."

"And who are they?"

Aryeta hesitated. "I don't want to alarm you. You just got here, and they shouldn't be a problem really. We won this fight."

"Congrats," Oryen said mildly.

"They're another pack. Terrorists, more like. They don't approve of the quarantine initiative, or Mardero's affiliation with it. They voice that displeasure in a number of...violent ways."

Oryen couldn't say, after his years as a Fen, that this part of quarantine surprised him. Inter-pack conflict, while uncommon, had sometimes helped set the stage for their better captures. A divided foe was a defeated one.

"Not one wolf from Kahleir made it inside," Aryeta reassured him. "We have the best defenses in the whole sector. You'll see."

The sun had begun to set as they passed beneath the enormous sentry statues, towering over their passage like sleepless guardians. Beyond them, in the long and twisting path of the canyon, eyes seemed to survey from the stone walls. Long, deep grooves had been cut into the red rock, and from that were carved many more wolves. Green stones set into their eyes made the statues appear to watch and follow their movement through the gorge. In the dark recess beyond the statues, Oryen saw flickers of movement and heard the rustle of footsteps.