The Twelfth Moon || ✔️ [LOTM #1]

26. Lonely Days

The odd feeling I'd encountered at the Pool of Death still lingered in the back of my mind during my training. I was able to work through it, but it had earned me a few pointed looks from Feytan. I didn't know if he knew where Jerr had taken me, and if he had a guess as to why I felt so strange today, but if he did, he did not let it show.

The improvement in my capabilities was noticeable. The exercises took less effort—though they were nothing close to easy yet—and I endured it for much longer. Feytan said I was to thank my wolven blood for it, it made me grow and adapt quickly. But my arms were still sore and trembling by the time we'd finished today's exercises.

"Well done again, Sari," Feytan said, a smile appearing on his face as he tossed me a flask of water.

"Thanks," I panted. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

He took a sip of his own flask. "I have a meeting with Aven, I assume you will be able to manage on your own in the city?"

I nodded. "I found a job," I said, my face beaming with a smile. "In a bar outside the city center."

Feytan's face was radiant, too. "I'll have to come by for a drink once. But not now, I'm running late as it is. Bye, Sari!"

I watched him walk away—this absolute wall of a man—yet with such a soft, and kind heart. His long hair was tied back in a bun, as it always was whenever he set foot in the training area.  Even in his messy updo, the few grey streaks that were intertwined were stark, yet oddly in form with the rest of his darker brown hair. It caught the sunlight in a different way, and his hair was so nice to look at, you'd almost forget to notice the rest of him.

He was massive, a composition of muscle and height. He'd scare any opponent just by his appearance, yet his gentle and kind nature was often the most comforting presence in the city. 

Him, and Lotta. My hand shot up to my forearm, caressing my still fresh tattoo. I was surprised every time I saw my inked skin; I forgot about my tattoo all the time. But I loved it more every time I saw it, and it belonged to me, it was always meant to be put on me. It had healed already, no doubt I owed that to my wolven blood, too.

Vince had shown me kindness, too. Vince and Jerr.

Four people in this entire sunburned pack had been welcoming. I had come here—I had switched packs—to begin anew. To start over in a home where I would be welcomed, accepted. My plan had always revolved around this; I only had to survive in Fire Moon until my Ascension, and then this hell would be over.

Only now it didn't appear to be the case at all. 

Though so far, Aven had not laid a finger on me, I would be foolish and naive to think he would be any less ruthless than Beckett. Aven's cruel nature was known across all the packs—and I had seen it, too. He'd told me on our way here, he'd executed that guard in such a brutal way.

He was dangerous, perhaps even more so than Beckett. He was not kind, benevolent or warm. He was sharp, cunning, lethal and cold. I could not let myself forget that, not ever. I could never unhear all the whispers I had heard about him, all the rumours of the Winged Death. 

I had never understood the nickname, because no part of him ever had wings. But once, I had overheard a conversation with someone who'd been equally confused as me.

He had earned his nickname, because death at his hands was monstrous, one had said. Another had explained it rooted in the darkness and swiftness of it—like a beast striking in the heart of the night. Someone else had disagreed with both, and had said it was because he had made killing and torturing a form of art—and therefore, had earned himself a nickname of the same capacity.

I had returned home that night, with the shuddering conclusion that the origins of the nickname probably lay in a mixture of all the reasons the men had said. 

Everyone knew the stories—the people taken and never to be seen again, unless they were sent back. Usually in pieces. Spitta had been safe from his grasp, but the dreadful town had been cursed by another villain entirely. The world would not have survived the exploding grip if both Alphas had let go of their desires there. 

I was sure the war would come at such a high cost, too. But it had been brewing for ages now. I wasn't sure exactly when it had started, or why. I had heard many theories on all of that, too, but I had found none convincing.

The strains between Fire Moon and Death Moon ran deep, and they ran old. Supposedly, even the Sister Moons were often at odds with each other. And when fire danced with death, the world erupted in destruction. 

It had continued when their life essence had seeped in the packs. Both legacies had never gotten along, and had often had violent disputes in the past. But that was always what they had been and remained—disputes, arguments.

But when Beckett slaid both the Alpha and his wife fourteen years ago, the tone was set. This time, it could end in nothing else but war. And it was coming soon—it was nearly palpable. 

I tried to shove my thoughts aside as much as I could during my first shift at the Puny Bell later that day. Talek had put me on kitchen duty—it was a rather busy night, and there were lots and lots of dishes to do.

Sometimes I was moved to the bar, where there was a smaller sink. Talek needed glasses fast, and didn't want to run back to the kitchen every time. But he also didn't like clutter and chaos, so my entire shift was spent in the kitchen or in the bar, but always with my hands around dirty glasses, and diving into even dirtier water. 

Cleaning the water was not so important when it was busy, Talek said. The ale would wash away the germs anyway.

It was nothing like Benjamin's bar. But nothing would ever compare to The Dancing Wolf—and my heart ached every time I thought about the fact I would never set foot in that bar again. Nor would I see Benjamin again, smile and laugh with him, confide in him, be silent with him. 

He'd reminded me of my father so much, so it felt like I said goodbye to another piece of my parents, too. 

I had underestimated how hard it would feel to leave Fire Moon behind. Beckett his terror had grown so large and overpowering, it had become easy, natural even to overlook the good things that I had there.

They would never be enough to make me stay, but I could have appreciated it more, I thought. I could have told Benjamin I loved him a few times more, I could have thanked him more often. 

But all these could've, would've, should've's did me no good, now. I could not turn back time and do it differently. And I also did not want it—the relief of being out of Spitta had been too great.

Even this cold welcome in my new pack could not subdue that feeling. 

The start here had been rough. But the end would be soft and beautiful, I promised myself. I would make it that way.