We waited two hours.
Two hours of stiff limbs, chapped lips, and the ever-present itch of nerves crawling under my skin. The sun, once a glaring coin in the sky, had started to sag low behind the pines, bleeding orange through the slats of the old enlistment outpost's fence. Dust hung in the air like suspended breath, and the wind that swept across the clearing carried the metallic tang of iron, sweat, and nerves.
Marco shifted beside me with an audible groan, adjusting his saddlebag for what had to be the twentieth time. "Rot me sideways," he muttered. "If I'd known enlisting meant watching moss grow, I'd have brought a pillow and pissed in a bucket."
I rolled my eyes, resisting the urge to stab him with my elbow. My own legs were screaming, hips stiff from too long in the saddle. "You did piss. Four times."
"I hydrate responsibly," he snapped, patting his waterskin with mock dignity.
I was about to tell him where to shove his responsibility when the sound of a bell rang out—three short clangs from the outpost tower. Around us, figures stirred. Those who had sprawled on the grass stood. Those dozing against trees rubbed sleep from their eyes and drifted toward the clearing near the outpost gate.
We joined them. A loose, tired crowd of maybe twenty, all shapes and sizes, most too thin or too quiet. No guards had spoken to us since we arrived, and no instructions had come. Just waiting. And now, finally, a hint of movement.
That's when I noticed the boy.
He sat apart from the group, perched on a flat rock like he belonged to the stone more than the people. His eyes were downcast, but not in sleep—just in thought. Something about him felt still in a way that unsettled me. Like he wasn't waiting to be called. Like he already knew he wouldn't be. A boy leaned against the garrison's splintered doors, arms folded, his gaze locked on the horizon. His sleeves were rolled despite the cold, revealing a faded brand on his wrist, a wolf's skull, the mark of military service.
Marco followed my gaze. "Doesn't look like someone who wants to enlist," he muttered.
The boy heard. He looked up slowly. "And you don't look like someone who knows what it means to be there."
The words weren't cruel. Just… tired.
Marco's face hardened, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes, but he didn't reply. He just stared.
I stepped in. "I'm Iris, Iris Liren," I said. "And this is Marco. We're here to—"
"Your brother," the boy said, nodding. "I figured."
He stood, dusting off his coat. He wasn't much older than me—maybe twenty, tops—but something in his posture carried the weight of more years than that, his eyes were older—the kind of old that comes from carving pieces out of yourself to survive. "I'm Roan."
"You been here long?" I asked.
Roan nodded toward the gate. "Since dawn."
Marco frowned. "They didn't let you through?"
"They let a batch in hours ago. But not me." He glanced sideways. "Not them either."
He gestured subtly—off to the side, near the fence, where a small group had gathered. Four women. Seven men. All of them still waiting. Some looked angry, others just blank.
Marco snorted. "What's that mean? You piss in their ale?"
"They said people like me were needed elsewhere."
I exchanged a glance with Marco. "What does that mean?"
Roan shrugged. "Didn't ask again."
Marco tilted his head, eyeing the man's tattoo. "Military experience?"
Roan's jaw tightened. "Three years. Front lines." He said it like a curse, his voice sandpaper-rough.
I blinked. "Then… why are you here?"
"Punishment." He didn't hesitate. "For a crime."
Marco stepped closer, crowding into Roan's space. The campfire's dying light carved shadows under his cheekbones, turning his expression feral. "What kind of crime?"
Roan met his gaze directly. "I murdered a man."
The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy. But Roan didn't fidget. He didn't explain. He didn't defend himself. Marco's expression darkened again, but said nothing. Just crossed his arms and looked away.
I glanced again at the other stragglers—lean, hardened types. Every single one of them looked like they'd seen blood. Survived it. And yet here they were, not sorted, not spoken to.
A strange unease settled in my chest.
They weren't being ignored. They were being held.
And Roan... Roan thought he was being punished. Sent to the worst of it. Straight to the front where the Wolves rarely patrolled and survival was a coin toss.
But something about it didn't add up.
No one said a word. And for now, I didn't press.
The guard's voice cut through the cold like a hammer hitting stone. "Last batch. If your name's called, move to the east gate."
He unrolled a scroll, his fingers stained with ink and something darker.
"Harlan Vost."
"Mirra Thorn."
"Jespar Cole."
One by one, people stepped out from the crowd—packs slung over shoulders, faces blank. No one said a word. Just boots crunching against frozen ground as they disappeared down the path.
I tried not to look impatient, but my foot wouldn't stop tapping. Marco stood beside me, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like this was just another dull errand. But his jaw was tight. I knew he was just as keyed up as I was.
"Tobin Greer."
"Lysa Hark."
"Garret Vorn."
Then nothing.
The guard rolled the scroll shut like he was done for the day. "That's it."
"Wait," I said, stepping forward. "You didn't call my name. Iris Liren. Or Marco Korvin."
He didn't even slow. "No other names on the list."
Marco stepped up next to me. "You sure about that?" His voice was sharp, low.
Before we could get closer, another guard moved in and shoved me back. I stumbled, but Marco caught me, steadying me with one hand.
"Touch her again," he said quietly, "and we're going to have a real problem."
The first guard let out a dry laugh. "Save the fire for the night candidate. You'll be sorted soon. Be patient."
"Sorted into what?" I asked.
But they were already walking away.
Then the howling started again. Closer this time.
Roan drifted toward us, arms folded tight. "That makes fifty of us," he said, eyes on the tree line.
I looked around. He was right. Somehow, quietly, more had gathered. Fifty of us left behind, almost everyone looked fidgety and nervous.
No explanation. No answers. No orders. Just this weird, open-ended wait.
Marco spat near his boot and muttered, "Patience, huh? Bet this 'sorting' doesn't come with much of a choice."
I didn't respond. I was too focused on the sound of the howls. They were steady now, rising and falling like waves crashing just beyond sight. Whatever came next, I had a feeling it wouldn't be what we were told.
We were cold. Tired. And quiet.
The three of us sat on a rough log near the edge of the clearing—Marco, Roan, and me. The light had drained from the sky hours ago, leaving only the sickly blue of twilight, like the world couldn't quite decide if it wanted to slip into night.
Marco kept shifting like the ground itched, flicking pebbles into the dirt with half-hearted precision. Roan hunched forward with his hood drawn, picking at the dry skin on his knuckles. I'd given up warming my hands a while ago. The cold just lived in the bones now.
"I think my ass froze off," Marco mumbled after a long stretch of silence.
Roan didn't look up. "That's the least of our problems."
A few feet away, someone was crying—trying to muffle it but failing. The kind of crying that didn't come from pain exactly, just the slow dread of knowing you're stuck. That there's no good way out.
We weren't the only ones sitting like this. Others huddled in small circles or paced in short, restless bursts. Some stood alone, shoulders bowed, arms folded tight over their chests. No one spoke above a whisper. No one laughed.
"I swear," Marco muttered, "if they're planning to let us freeze out here before telling us what's going on, I'm going to start biting people."
Roan gave a soft snort of amusement, but it died quickly. I didn't say anything. My thoughts were too busy chewing on everything that didn't make sense.
Then came the sound—heavy footsteps thudding against the earth. Instinct had me on my feet before I knew it, bow in hand. Marco rose beside me, and Roan followed, every muscle tensed. Around the clearing, everyone else stirred too, a ripple of bodies standing, eyes narrowing toward the sound.
A volanema wolf broke through the trees.
Brown, massive, and familiar in the kind of way that put a knot in my stomach. A rider sat astride its back, cloaked in weather-stained leather, posture calm and controlled. More wolves followed behind, padding out of the trees with their riders close. They spread out in a loose semicircle, boxing us in, quietly and efficiently.
The first rider dismounted, stepping into the middle of the clearing. His gaze swept over us with the kind of sharpness that cut without trying.
"I'm Beta Cael of the Feabhas pack," he said, voice carrying in the cold air. "And you lot are not here for the army."
A stunned silence followed.
"Contrary to what you've been told—or led to believe—you weren't passed over. You weren't forgotten. You were chosen."
Whispers broke out. Someone cursed. A girl behind me started to cry, hands pressed to her face. Roan stiffened beside me, but I stayed rooted, heart picking up speed.
"You're here," Cael continued, "because you've been selected for the bondingtrials."