Chapter 1- Ultra Silvam. (Beyond the Forest)
There's a thrumming about tonight in pack's territory castle, as everyone anxiously awaits the upcoming spectacle. For some, it's like a pastime of bickering lovers. Whilst for others—a bothering nuisance needing to be put down once and for all.
Like statues: emotionless and stone stiff, one guard is stationed to my right and another—my left. Eyes forward, arms behind back, legs apart, clad in all black and silver. They Remind me of crows, the ones you'd find perching along rails and branches. Except for these crows, their branches are my hips.
Becoming now a standard, I'm always brought to the donjon: their over ground and inner keep above their second sanctuary once detained. It's a stronghold of a tower, built specifically for withstanding any attack on the castle. With melted silver and monkshood laced between the blocked cobblestones—making its spherical form appear more dominating. What's even more interesting and strange is that the monkshood and silver aren't affecting them in the manner that it should: with a severe sensibility to its smell and the weakening of bones. Almost like an immunity, it's mind-boggling especially with what they are.
Nevertheless, the donjon wasn't your usual medieval donjon directly centred at the heart of the castle. It didn't house bed-chambers or garderobes, nor was it an actual donjon turned into a dungeon to lay host for prisoners. No...it was their passageway, leading straight to the tombs.
From what I could assess, it ranged from three to four storeys in height, housing thick iron windows set between the walls as well as one grand masonry of a spiral stairway; columned in the middle from the ground floor down.
Beyond its peculiar build was the castle. Built on top of a hill, its deep incline overlooked all of Hollow's Bay. Situated towards the farthest right of the castle was the donjon; where each storey had an archway, spanning over a small moat that opened into something resembling of a parapet walk, leading them further beyond the forest.
The ground floor, which should have been situated on the actual ground itself was on the highest level and held the largest parapet walk. Looking almost like a drawbridge, one would think that this part of the castle should have been the front, whilst the front—its back. At the moment, it's vacated. But even I know that walls have eyes and ears.
On every occasion, I'm escorted here by the guards. Never the warriors. Like extra skin, thickened—the warriors are bound to him and him only; no doubt willing to kill if his thoughts were ever of such. All he must do is think it and without hesitation...they'll do it.
"There's a reason as to why they're called Command Warriors girl," he'd once stated after my second attempt at freedom was unsuccessful. "So, if somehow you managed to 'escape' again and say I decide not to send guards after you but them—them as in the Command Warriors, and my thoughts are of nothing more than to have your head...then to have your head they'll want, silly girl.
"It won't be reversed!" He'd all but barked it out. "The first order they'll always obey. Nothing after will overthrow it. I can be jesting with them and they'll still respond to it. And do you wish to know why?" He'd said more than asked. "Because an order is an order. No matter the form it's issued in!" In other words, 'till death do them part' and, unfortunately for me, La-he won't be dying anytime soon and relieving them of command. However, it's come to pass that I too can command them if only I—
Suddenly, I'm pulled out of my reverie by a blast of a sound. Like that of castle doors being ripped off its hinges and exploding into smithereens. Something else is heard shattering soon after. Glass or a vase maybe, before a loud thud and then another and another following along. It didn't sound like anything human had created those noises, for I could've sworn that a part of the donjon had vibrated.
YOU ARE READING
WOLFSKIN (formerly known as: The 7th Claim).
WerewolfMatched. That was the word he used for what was between us. Matched. For me, there would be no conceding. But his defeat. Matched. He used the word between our space. A binding word that my will rebels against. Matched. 'Bind me beneath the Wolfskin...
