Silver: An Unholy History of Wolfkind

Chapter 3: Dishonour

"Once blood is spilled, it has a stubbornness in how it sticks to everything, and no amount of water can remove its stains."

Erin was the last one out of the wagon when they arrived home. The Teagues' Pack House was small when compared to most homes for a family of their stature. Hewn out of pine logs, it had stood for over a century without being rebuilt. It was a rare treasure. Other Alphas tried to show one another their pack was better by building newer, larger Pack Houses.

Erin headed for his room, dragging himself up the narrow stairs. He did not want to spend another minute with his family. While Erin's room was a decent size, it was mostly empty. There was only a bed in one corner, lacking the furniture and decorations needed to speak to the character of its owner. It was a pup's bed, but Erin was small enough that nobody cared to give him a proper bed. His family gave him everything he needed, but nothing more.

He hung his jacket and hat on a hook nailed to the back of his door before unlacing his boots. Erin placed the knife on his bedside table. In the chaos of the afternoon, the blade had slipped out of his memory.

His clothes belonged to Isam before he had his growth spurt. The sleeves of his off-white dress shirt were too long, while the grey vest was ill-fitting. It was not originally off-white, but heavy laundering had taken its toll on the fabric. His black trousers fit too loosely around his thin legs. He wore the nicest stock tie Isam had owned, a bright red silk that he had secured in place.

The shame of not returning this ill-gotten knife to Gemma made him uneasy. He had been lucky, nothing more, and luck would not save him when she brought an army. He would die no matter what he did. Still, there was a way to potentially tip the scales.

He had not touched his copy of the Unath Imom since he was a juvenile. It had remained wedged in the back of an empty drawer of his wardrobe, where he had been content to let it gather dust.

Apart from the bed and the wardrobe, Erin also had a desk. He sat uneasily on the chair. He traced a finger over the title of the book, printed in inky black runes. Erin had grown complacent by allowing Theresa to protect him.

Flipping to the first page, Erin inhaled sharply. He could read the text, even though it was printed in Wolvish runes. He had acquired the ability, inexplicably, after passing his fifteenth winter. The language was closely guarded by the Oracles, and common wolves were forbidden from learning it.

However, Valerie had made accusations publically that had only been whispered behind his back before. He needed to know. With some struggle, he found the passage he wanted:

The scourge of the Moon, the Eclipse Wolf is, Her will divine in darkness he smothers. With eyes green like the Goddess, Her true form he can behold.

Yet, be not deceived! Cursed with youth eternal, unable to shift he remains. The mark of a mate he cannot hold, and love he cannot know, for that of a pup his form resembles. His duty as father he rejects, his body barren, life his loins never bearing.

Males he pursues, their seed wasted, their mates' needful cries unheard. Such is the scourge of the Eclipse Wolf: wolfkind and the Moon's will undone.

To the Temple on the new moon's night he is to be brought. Before Her shall he kneel, and his body the Blessed Blade shall impale, his blood to the Goddess fed.

He closed the book abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. He swallowed back his embarrassment and blinked away tears. He, of all wolves, had no right to read it. By the Mists, the Moon hated him so much that he was barred from the Temple. Or at least, barred until Valerie would drag him there during the new moon. It did not matter whether the text was describing him or not. Valerie believed it, and others did too.