The Lord of Wolves

“The elderly woman, Honey, arranged for my stay in Lustre for a few moons while my wounds completely healed. I returned to the Gouge when the gods sensed your Lord Winter’s summoning, and… well.” Jarret trailed off, relieved to have finished her tale.

“That’s when you found me.” Ilya had never heard Jarret speak so much at once, and she had been entranced by the tale she wove. It was like Ilya had been there herself. Her respect for her Lady only grew. The tale had taken a few days to get through, as Jarret chose her words carefully and grew tired of speaking easily. They would chat as they traveled, and they would rest as they ate and slept.

Ilya stretched her arms above her head and she was rewarded with a soft POP of her shoulders. “How far until our next stop, my Lady?” Ilya had become more confident in riding Fermaol, her horse. She still needed the assistance of Jarret to mount and dismount, but finally she no longer needed to be led like a child, though a leisurely walk was her maximum speed without risk of falling into the mud. Her body ached all over from the long days of riding. Ilya grimaced as she imagined the pain she would feel when she worked up to a gallop. Since Jarret traveled by foot, Ilya hoped that they would continue their slow pace all the way to Leynnah.

“…I don’t know.” Jarret glanced at Ilya, then returned her gaze to stare ahead. “Have you been to the capital?”

Ilya shook her head. “No, the Sisterhood is not welcome near the more populated cities. We worship the wrong Lord, and as such are outcasts.” Memories of angry mobs that chased the Sisterhood of Everfrost from each city that worshiped the Lord of Spring crossed her mind. His church was more powerful and wary of outsiders the closer to the center of his influence, and was most robust in the capital of Leynnah, where he resided within King Ramos.

Jarret worked her jaw, a habit Ilya had learned meant she was thinking - not furious, as she had initially feared. Ilya had happily followed Jarret’s directions as they traveled. She trusted her savior entirely… but she wondered, for a brief moment of traitorous doubt if they were lost. Perhaps Jarret was wondering the same thing. Ilya perked up, sensing an opportunity to assist her Lady.

“However, I know the way, generally. Leynnah lies to the east.”

Lucky for her, they had been going east already. Ilya had realized it as she plotted their travel along the stars at night. It was the way the Sisterhood searched for the Lord of Winter’s bedchamber, and was a necessary skill for any devout to the Everfrost.

Ilya’s confident declaration of Leynnah’s location reinforced Jarret’s method of travel, which was to head toward where Spring’s power was greatest — where she could sense it. There was an ominous presence looming in the east, and she had allowed the scent of growth and rot lead their way.

Jarret nodded like Ilya’s input satisfied her, and Ilya felt a small twinge of pride at her helpfulness to her savior. It gave her the boost of confidence she needed to ask the question that still burned in her mind.

“I would like to ask you a question, my Lady.”

Jarret did not reply, instead leaving a silence to be filled by her talkative companion. She had asked Ilya to drop her overly-polite way of addressing her, to little success.

“Would you tell me about your own ritual? With the Lord of Wolves, I mean.”

Jarret’s voice was flat as she replied, “Why?”

Ilya considered her words carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing or offend Jarret. Her savior was touchy about her past, and one wrong push would cause her to shut down further conversation until after their next meal. “I would like to better understand you, as well as the different relationships others have with their gods. Was Lord Wolves kind?”

Jarret’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “No.”

“Did he bless your village with riches?”

“Had you ever heard of Gloamside before I mentioned it to you?”

“No…”

“That answers that, then.”

A fair point; if Ilya had not heard of Gloamside, it must have remained a small and isolated village regardless of the presence of a god. Since Jarret had not fallen into brooding silence, Ilya decided to continue.

“…Was your ritual painful?”

Jarret took a long moment to consider the query, but she was not angered by it. She was weary.

“…Yes. My father was the previous Host, and I was his successor.”

“Oh.” Ilya cast her eyes down to her hands where they gripped the leather reins. “…I’m sorry. That must have been… difficult for you.”

Jarret nodded, her back to Ilya as she walked ahead. “It was.”

It was obvious that Jarret did not want to speak further on the matter of Lord Wolves, but Ilya’s curiosity was too ravenous. After the incredible tale of her Lady’s conquering of the twin Lords, Ilya was no longer content to imagine how gallant and strong Jarret must have been, even during the duress of her first ritual.

“Please, my Lady? You need not bear this burden alone.”

Jarret glanced at Ilya. “This knowledge will only hurt you, Ilya.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “And… if others learned of Lord Spring’s plot, then… they may try to replicate his ways.”

Ilya placed a hand over her heart and bowed her head. “You can trust me, my Lady. Your goal is mine. Allow me the honor of knowing the tale of the woman who will save Foundation.” She smiled coyly. “That way, I can make sure the songs get all the facts right after you are victorious.”

Jarret sighed deeply, as if she was steadying herself for a fight.

“As you wish, Ilya.”

—

A month prior, in the Village of Gloamside

Under the quiet blanket of deepest night, a light rap of knuckles upon a wooden door frame sounded loud enough to wake the entire village of Gloamside.

“The moon has gone behind the ridge. The sun will rise soon. Are you ready, Jarret?”

Her mother’s voice, soft as the down of a newborn chick, felt comical to Jarret. She spoke as if her question was about her daughter doing her daily chores before dinner, or attending the harvest festival - not if her daughter was prepared to be burrowed into by a god. It was sure, if she did survive the ritual, she would never be the same again.

This was her mother’s way of saying goodbye, in her strained and awkward manner. Jarret knew it was unfair to resent her mother’s forced calm and cheer - this was not the first time her mother had lost a precious loved one to the Lord of Wolves. Though she had only been five turns old at the time, Jarret could still clearly remember the night when her father had been chosen as Host. It was hard to forget the rigid smile her mother had shielded her heart with as she gripped Jarret’s small hand like a vice and cradled her sister’s still swaddled body against her bosom. The three watched Oto, beloved husband and father, leave the home he had built together with his wife, never to darken their doorstep again.

Now her mother wore that same practiced, stiff smile as she embraced her daughter for what both women knew would be the final time. Jarret wanted her mother to be as angry as she was. She wanted her to conspire with her, to help Jarret find another way, to show any sign of heartbreak or rage or defiance on behalf of her eldest who would be taken from her. But her mother was a husk, unable or unwilling to fight this fate. As she took after her father in terms of stature, Jarret had always found the height difference between herself and her mother awkward to navigate when it came to physical affection. Despite her roiling anger and hardened heart, as she bent herself to return the plump woman’s embrace, her chest ached and heaved with threatened sobs that surprised her. Jarret did not think she still had the ability to grieve for this woman, nor for the life she would soon lose. She grit her teeth and jaw, denying her unshed tears. If she had stains on her cheeks when she presented herself to the Lord of Wolves, the god would know that she was afraid. She would not show any weakness to the monster who stole her father from her.

Quietly, Jarret placed a soft kiss upon the head of her younger sister, Riseh, whose chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deepest sleep. Riseh’s dark, long hair clung to her face where her tears had dried as she silently cried herself to sleep mere hours before. Without discussing it, both Jarret and her mother had come to the decision that it would be too terrible to make Riseh watch her sister leave. They had said their goodbyes earlier in the night, over dinner.

Twenty-six turns had passed since the last Host had been chosen in Gloamside. The Lord of Wolves’ self-elected Priest, Adel, tried to soothe the nerves of the village. He preached the gospel he always had, reminding Gloamside that their god was powerful, and his power required but a small sacrifice so that he may continue to protect their peaceful and plentiful way of life. So what if the Hosts were burned through faster and faster as the years continued to turn? Lord Wolves, surely, was building his power to one day bless their humble village with bounty and riches that far exceeded any that they had seen from Lord Spring in the capital city of Leynnah.

A fool’s words, or so Jarret thought. From her time in worship and communion with their Lord, she saw that Priest Adel and his venerated peons would do anything to keep their claws on authority and power in Gloamside. They did not care if wives were left widows, if daughters became orphans. As long as the village did as Lord Wolves commanded, they would all be kept safe. Curious, then, that the priests were never the ones whose family members were chosen as Hosts. Jarret wondered, not for the first time, if Priest Adel had failed in his work in one of the larger cities and fell back to her isolated village as an easier market. He certainly had the air of a city merchant or aristocrat, more-so than a humble and pious believer.

Jarret exited the home her mother had raised her in, knowing that even if she was successful in her task, she would likely never return.

Gloamside was the only home Jarret had ever known. Infrequent travelers that passed through would regale her townspeople with stories of opulent and grand cities along the coast and nearer the capital of Leynnah - but she had never heard tale of another place like her isolated and quaint village. Situated at the bottom of one in a series of four ravines known as the Gouge, it was very difficult to approach Gloamside. It was built over the wide river at the bottom, with walkways, bridges, stairs and ladders weaving up, down and across the cliffs. The Gouge naturally defended the village, and the people of Gloamside had learned to harvest the natural bounty of the great river that flowed through its bottom. It was a long-held belief that their village’s god had rend the rocks and dirt with one great and terrible claw to create the Gouge which would house his believers and protect them from harm.

Jarret had never seen their god do anything nearly as impressive as all that.

The ritual began in earnest an hour before the sun rose above the cliffs that shaded Gloamside. She stepped into a small tent that had been erected at the foot of a precarious path carved into the rocks which led up the side of the ravine. Jarret disrobed, and then focused on the sound of the rushing river to calm herself as the priest-wives prepared her body to be taken by their god. They scrubbed her clean, then painted deep, dark tattoos against her sun-kissed skin. According to the eldest of the gathered women, the patterns they adorned her with was a prayer in his language that would please their god, and ease the pain of unifying with him.

As they finished and she shrugged into the breezy white robe she was handed, Jarret finally broke her silence.

“I need a knife,” she demanded. It was necessary for the final touch. The gathered women exchanged glances, unsure, but finally the eldest clicked her tongue.

“Well? Give the Host what she needs.” There was a scramble, then a shaking hand held out a carving knife. Jarret took it with a steady hand. All watched on in silence as she sawed through the strands of her dark, silken hair. She had no mirror and she had never cut hair before, so the final result was choppy, short, and uneven. She returned the knife to the one who offered it with a short nod of thanks.

“But, Jarret… your hair was so beautiful.” The woman’s eyes were wide and afraid. If she was not beautiful, then this final act of autonomy could cause them all to be punished by their god.

Jarret was not phased. “If I am to no longer be considered human, I want as little of myself to fall into the Lord of Wolves’ claws.” She grit her teeth. “He will not use me to hurt Riseh.”

The tent became somber as each woman recalled their own interactions with the Lord of Wolves. He was a cruel and wicked god, with an alien sense of humor. It was common for him to pretend to be the Host. Using their voice and memories to grieve the loved ones they had left behind was a favorite past-time for the immortal beast.

The ringing of bells alerted the group of women that time was short. The eldest parted the tent’s curtain for her and Jarret emerged from the tent, feeling bare despite the robe she wore. Her head was lighter, and the cool night breeze gave her gooseflesh. A small procession of Gloamside’s elders, priests and any of the villagers who were interested in witnessing their god inherit a new Host, were slowly making its way through the village toward the precarious path that led up the cliffs. The line became longer with each home it passed. They moved single-file, which allowed Jarret to easily take her place in line behind Priest Adel as he passed her. At the peak of this path was the cave which housed their god - the Lord of Wolves. Jarret felt more like a prisoner than a Host, an ‘honored bride’ as the priest would say.

The clergy’s devout bodyguards walked closely behind her to ensure she could not flee from her fate as the procession escorted her slowly up. But she had no interest in fleeing. Jarret had sworn to herself, all those years ago as she watched her father’s back disappear into the darkness of night, that she would free him from their god’s grasp. This was the day she had been steeling herself for.

Wet, sick gasping echoed against the cliffs, louder and louder as the procession neared the cave’s entrance. They were close to the ridge, and the sliver of sky expanded with every step. It was beginning to lighten with the fast-approaching sun. Jarret had never come this far up the cliffs before, and she was struck by the enormity of the sky. There were so many more stars than she had known.

The procession paused for a brief moment as two men at the front rolled aside a great stone from the cave’s entrance. The terrible gasping became cacophonous all around them with nothing to block the sound from inside. Jarret’s hair stood on end, a deep foreboding washed over her as she tried to imagine what she would see inside. Before she felt ready, the bells and chimes began their twinkling once more as the procession continued its march. Each person entered the cave one at a time and hugged the wall. They would walk slowly, hugging the walls until the circular chamber was surrounded by the witnesses. Their vigil was to be upheld in still silence, no matter what happened during the ritual.

In the center of the chamber, upon the hallowed stones sat not the imposing figure of a deity eagerly waiting for its next meal. Instead, sprawled over the altar was a thrashing, twitching heap that appeared to be only a man. His clothing, which had once been fitted beautifully to his robust, thick figure, was now ragged and hung loosely about his frail body. The light-colored and ornately stitched fabrics he had originally entered this cave with were now tattered and soiled with blood, bile, mucus and mud. His fingers twitched and grasped at the smooth rock of the altar; his sharp, overgrown fingernails scraping against the surface in a desperate attempt to ground himself to the world he would be expelled from once his Host died.

Despite her deep conviction to face this monster head-on, Jarret’s fists trembled. Priest Adel nodded at the guards behind her, and they none-too-gently shoved her forward, urging her to approach the altar and begin the ritual. She took a moment to regain her balance and glare at Adel with pure hatred. He was not phased, surely having seen worse as overseer to each Host’s sacrifice.

Jarret centered herself with a deep breath, and forced herself to not avert her gaze from the broken man as she stepped to the foot of the altar. Slowly, carefully, as if not to disturb a frightened animal, she knelt before the failing mortal body of the Lord of Wolves.

Pale skin stretched across bone as the man’s ribcage expanded in an agonizing breath. “You don’t look any stronger than this sack of bones.” It was not her father’s voice - it was a wail that came from the realm beyond Foundation. The Lord of Wolves sounded so weak and quiet that Jarret couldn’t help thinking he must be shouting from his bedchamber in the Shadowkeep in order to be heard, like a stranger’s echo heard from across mountaintops.

Regardless of the apparent frailty before her, Jarret resented the swift judgment from the god. Hard years of labor had trained her body to be tough enough to endure becoming a Host. It had packed onto her sturdy muscle and given her the stamina to climb the steep ridge without breaking a sweat. She had spent her life in the river, on fishing boats, in kitchens and in quarries earning coin for her family ever since she was old enough to stand. They had lost her father to this monster, and she and her mother had changed to fill the hole that was left behind without him. They had changed so that Riseh did not have to.

With iron will, Jarret kept her features stony and detached as she addressed the god who wore her father’s face.

“Lord of Wolves, I have prepared my body for this moment - for you.” The rehearsed line easily fell from her lips. “It will not break.”

The man who was once her father twisted unnaturally on his throne, his features pulled into a taught grin around teeth that were too large and sharp to fit in his mouth. Jarret feared that grin would split him in half.

“It matters not to me if the body breaks, girl - but it will make our time together much more painful for you.” A cruel cackle climbed out of the man’s throat, and it chilled Jarret to the bone. He held out a hand to her, his veins unnaturally dark against pale skin that was cracked and bloody where it wore thin from hosting a being too large to fit inside it. Upon his forearm, on the sensitive skin of the inside of his wrist, was a deep black insignia - the mark of Wolves, still stark and sharp like a brand despite the sorry state of the body it was attached to

“Shall we begin? A contract must be struck. What is thy name?”

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears as she stood to meet her god’s gaze directly. A strained gasp echoed through the cave - she knew it was Priest Adel. He’d be alarmed that she’d so blatantly break the rules of the ritual. A Host must remain subservient, humble, and never see their god at the same eye level.

Jarret did not care about the decorum and rules. She was not here to be subservient - she was here to best a god.

She stood much taller than what was left of her broken father. It pained her to take in how small and pathetic he looked. He was nothing like the strapping, jolly man she remembered from her earliest days. This was no longer the man who named her, nor who loved and clothed and fed her. He had been taken from her by the god that squirmed inside of him - and she felt her eyes prick with tears as she realized that there was nothing of her father left to save, here. He was not the same. She couldn’t get that version of him back.

I will not meet your fate. I will make this beast suffer for what he has done to you - and countless others before you, papa.

She took the offered hand in her own - his grip weak where hers was iron. “I am Jarret Atomo, Lord of Wolves; daughter of Oto Atomo, your current vessel, and next in line to host your glorious rule upon Foundation.” Jarret recited the lines of the contract, her voice steely as she stared into the eyes of the god that peered out of her father.

“Jarret…” The Lord of Wolves tasted her name on his dry tongue, and then smiled widely. “Your soul shall be mine for eternity.”

A jolt unlike anything she had ever felt before seared through her flesh, her muscles, her tendons, her bones, her blood. Raw power coursed through her, alien and overwhelming and blinding. It was so hot and unexpected that she cried out in spite of her resolve. She was convinced that their hands were melting together, but even as she yanked her hand away she was unable to remove her grip. The weak and brittle hand held on to her like a dog with its prey. The molten fire rushed up her fingers, her arm and into her chest where her heart beat so fast she thought it might give out. Would her lungs pop, her eyes melt, her skin crack beneath this monumental pressure?

The pain crescendoed as it surged through her entire body, then swept back towards the point of contact and finally concentrated on the skin of her right forearm. With her free hand she steadied the limb and watched with fascination as beneath her shaking fingers the mark of the Lord of Wolves bloomed. It was a dark insignia that denoted her body as a Host. Everyone in Foundation would recognize the deep, inky blackness that no light seemed to pierce - and they would know what she was. They would be expected to treat her as a god.

As suddenly as it started, the pain left her. The scorching sensation ebbed, and she could once again feel her own body, feel her breath, hear her heart. She blinked, and realized that she still stood in the center of the cave, now holding the limp hand of a dead man.

Jarret cast her eyes about the dark cave. Despite the only light coming from the gentle grays of early daylight cast through the entrance, the world around her seemed brighter, sharper. She could make out the features of each witness that stood around the cave walls - even those who were deep inside, in the darkest shadows. Jarret watched their chests rise and fall with their breath, then realized that she could count their heartbeats as it pulsed through the veins in their necks. All was still and deathly quiet as those gathered waited for their god to command them. Their eyes were set upon her, searching for a change in the woman they had known since she was a child that would confirm she was now Wolves.

Sweat fell down the back of her neck. Jarret did not feel any different in her own body. Experimentally, she moved her head with her own will, and she stepped slowly around the altar of her own will, too. Her body did as she commanded, and she felt the same clarity of mind she had known her whole waking life.

Yet, she could not shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Did it work? Did I survive?

Of course it worked, stupid. You said your body wouldn’t break, remember? It seems you’re more than just hot air.

The ghostly voice from before did not fall upon her ears, but spoke directly into her mind as if it were her own thoughts. His tone was no longer weak and raspy, but strong, powerful, confident, and even a little… smug? He had dropped all semblance of propriety, and spoke harshly.

Jarret blinked. She had not been prepared for this. “You hear my thoughts, then?” The gathered witnesses shuffled their feet nervously at her statement. They could not hear both sides of the conversation as she could, and assumed her words were that of their god. It did not make sense. Were they supposed to hear the thoughts of their god? He had never demanded such a thing of them before.

I hear your thoughts, I am your thoughts. We’re now one, and your soul is mine. But… shit, this pisses me off.

Jarret noted the use of the words Wolves used to describe their union, but did not comment on them. However, as he was in her mind, a verbal comment was not necessary. Her silent note was felt, seen, heard by the god, and he huffed in annoyance. He did not explain his irritation to her, however, so Jarret continued her questions as she adapted to the inner dialog.

“…I thought that the gods carved out the soul of their vessels and left naught but a body behind to be used like a puppet?”

The Lord of Wolves sighed, long and loud. Jarret thought he acted much like a teenager, which made the god grumble once more in distaste.

Yeah, that’s usually what happens. Humans are weak, pathetic bastards - if your kind believe there will be nothing left of them after the bargain is struck, then they willingly take a backseat and let me have all the fun I want! Jarret felt a scraping against the inside of her skull, and she winced.

But you… You tricked me, bitch. Me! The Lord of Wolves! You were chosen, raised to worship me, but you’ve never been devout, have you? You’ve built walls up in here.

She frowned. Was the Lord of Wolves saying because she did not want to be a puppet, she would not become one? Were the gods not as all-powerful as she had been taught?

A deep growl, like that of a true wolf, echoed through her mind.

You have signed your soul away to me - it is mine for eternity no matter how tough you think you are. Your time on Foundation will only be the beginning of your torture! I will break you down, slowly, from the inside-out over the course of your puny human life, and when you die you’ll be my property in the Shadowkeep.

Jarret frowned. “You bark, but my mind remains my own, as well as my body.” She opened and closed her hands, watching the tendons flex and relax beneath the thick callouses. “It seems you will not have dominion over me until I die, Wolves.”

That’s the LORD of Wolves to you, bitch.

He was angry with her. He may even loathe her. Good. She didn’t like him, either.

Why are you so smug? It’s pissing me off - I can’t see into all your thoughts… It’s like a steel trap up here.

Jarret huffed an incredulous laugh. “So, not all of my thoughts are open to you. Good.” She flexed her fingers experimentally as she turned her heavy gaze upon Priest Adel.

For now, little girl. In time you’ll be like an open book to me — entertainment to read and dog-ear and rip and redact until I’ve had my fun with you. Humans are simple, their stories are exactly the same as the last. Oh, you’re hungry! Oh, you’re cold! Oh, you’re lonely! Blah, blah, blah. I could probably write your story on my own if I wanted to. Your will is strong, but that doesn’t make you different from the rest of the hundreds of humans I’ve devoured over the centuries.

Jarret grit her teeth as Lord of Wolves continued to prattle on. Her body, while seemingly still under her own control, started to feel like needles - her skin itched deep in her bones where her nails could never reach. She realized the itch was the intruding sensation of having another soul inside her, and her body was physically trying to accommodate being over-capacity. A mortal body was only made to house a single soul - and now a soul which had lived for centuries… perhaps even since time began, had taken up residence in her bones, her muscle, her sinew, hair, fingernails, teeth. Within every part of her, she could feel the intrusion - but still not in her mind.

She breathed, trying to steady her heart rate and ground herself. It was not the first time she had felt an intrusion in her body - this was far from the worst night of her life. At least this time she had chosen to accept this violation. When she was a young girl, still with no power of her own, who did as she was told and trusted everyone around her equally. She had no father and a mother in deep grief. Distantly, Jarret compared the sensation of her body inhabited by two souls with the large, rough hands of the boat captain she brought a hot meal to every seventh day. Until he had laid those hands on her, told her not to cry, told her to be a good girl. She had never returned, and had never told another soul - not her sister, and especially not her mother. The truth would have killed her.

Jarret housed these secrets within her soul, buried and locked away. These secrets hardened her when she was too young. What had remained of her innocence after her father had become Host had been completely lost to her, and in its place grew rage, shame, disgust. It meant she would never allow things like that to happen ever again. She would never again be powerless.

Compared to that, this haughty and pompous god was nothing.

Wolves felt her reflection, but could not peer within these thoughts. Each attempt was met with a door slamming in his face, a whip yanking him away, thorns blocking his path. His frustration mounted. Jarret wondered if this experience was as uncomfortable for the Lord of Wolves as it was for her, to be packed into a body that surely was too small for him.

What is it that you’ve built such a maze about? It’s not fair to keep secrets from me, girl!

“I have not been a girl for many years, Wolves.”

LORD Wolves. He corrected. So feisty. You’re basically a baby to me, young one. Live a hundred years and then maybe we’ll talk about calling you a ‘woman’.

Jarret grit her teeth. “I hate you, Wolves.” She watched Priest Adel as she seethed to herself. He was confused and shocked at how long it was taking for their god to address the gathered throng. “You have convinced these people that each generation a new host would need to be sacrificed in order to remain in your good graces.” Jarret raised her voice, now addressing the entire room. “But, I have not found the stewardship of the Lord of Wolves over my village to be worth the price of my father.”

Oh, she thinks she’s the first to lose someone.

“By our contract, my soul is yours to torment in the Shadowkeep upon my death - but not a moment before then. That is what you and I have agreed to. These are the terms.” Her mouth turned up in a sneer. She could not save her father, but she could make Wolves pay. “You will starve as you are trapped within my body, unable to feed off of my spirit until the moment I die.”

Wolves was quiet for a long moment, but Jarret could tell he was casting about to check if her declaration was the truth. Then he growled, a snarl so wicked and menacing that she could hear nothing else but his fury.

You stupid fool - you think my power is something you can bind with just mortal will?! I’ll eat you now, then tell these ants to offer me your sister, next! You are not my equal, bitch, and this is far from a prison. You will bend!

Jarret’s right hand shot up and slapped her across the face. Her amber eyes went wide as she felt red bloom across her cheek where she had been struck.

You are mine, little Jarret. Now it was Wolves’ turn to seethe. I am your Lord. Bend to me.

She tried to stop the next blow, but it came all the same. Her will, though strong enough to keep Wolves out of her mind, was losing the same control over her body. It was as if another arm had slipped inside her own. Blow after blow, crack after crack echoed through the cave, until she felt her mouth fill with her own blood from split lips and a battered nose. Bile rose in her throat as she felt that powerlessness of a child overtake her, haunting and hot and overwhelming. Tears pricked at her eyes as she desperately looked to the gathered throng for help, but her throat constricted, the words unable to escape her mouth. It was not Wolves’ doing - it was her own way of protecting herself. The panic, the fear, the terror surged, and she wanted only to hide, to curl up, to disappear.

Her ears were ringing, so she distantly heard the alarmed shouting of the gathered witnesses as if they were far away. These people were shocked at their god harming his newly acquired Host body… but they dared not help her. They could not, they would not defy their Lord. Just like her mother did not scream or shout or fight for her, none of these people were ever on her side. It was imperative for them that their god was free to do as he wished so that in return he would grant them bountiful harvests, easy hunts, quality ore, and endless fish. Jarret alone could give them nothing of value greater than hosting their god and bending to his whims. Or, if she had not been chosen as Host, siring the next generation of sacrifices would have been the next best thing.

She heard the crunch of gravel beneath boots as men shuffled nervously closer. Jarret grit her teeth; she would not be seen this way - she swore she would not ever again be used like this!

Jarret bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. She focused on this specific source of pain - pain brought about by her own choice, her own decision, as she willed her limbs to once again be her own, to obey her command, to ignore the false signals given by the intruder. The echoing laughter of Wolves ceased as Jarret’s palm halted mid-swing. It trembled from the strain of two opposing wills. Jarret felt her muscles pulling against the internal force - so taught she feared the sinew would tear from her bones. As the two struggled, the only sound she could hear was her own heavy breath and the approaching footsteps of the ceremonial procession, seeking to collect their god and end the ritual.

You dare defy me?

The Lord of Wolves was quiet, his voice cold. To her mind, he sounded disappointed, or even hurt. Before she could utter her own reply, however, Jarret’s left hand flew up and smacked her so hard across the jaw that she spun. She tripped over her own feet and landed, hard, upon the cool stone of the cave. She struggled to her hands and knees, and her stomach emptied from the pain, the horror, the frustration, the shame.

Shakily, she looked up at the gathered witnesses. Concern masked their faces, but she knew it was not for her.

Priest Adel stepped forward and knelt down, as if to offer assistance to her. His voice was gentle and patient. “Lord of Wolves, does our daughter cause you pain? Is this vessel not to your liking?”

The tiny flicker of hope died in Jarret. As she thought - not one of them cared about her. She was no longer Jarret to them. In their minds, her role in their lives had been already replaced by the beast inside of her.

Jarret’s mouth opened to beg Adel for help, but it was not her voice that barked out a laugh.

“She is spirited, though most are in the beginning. She will be broken soon enough.”

Her eyes widened in horror, an eerie contrast to the mocking laughter that she belted out. That’s not what he had said before - he had been frustrated with her will, annoyed by her composure and power over him. What had changed? Had he been mocking her? Was it hopeless all along, and he had just been toying with her for his own amusement?

Adel smiled, flashing bright white teeth as he was obviously relieved to hear the familiar timbre of his god. “Jarret has always been a… spirited child. We thought it would serve you well and, ideally, last much longer than her predecessor.” A few of the gathered clergy nodded in agreement. They had all discussed this without her, it seemed.

“We hope she is not too much trouble,” Adel continued. “Is there anything we can provide you with, Lord Wolves, to make this transition more seamless and comfortable?”

Tears fell unbidden from her eyes as Jarret struggled to keep her jaws closed, to clamp down on the force inside her that was using her. Wolves laughed in her mind, taunting her.

They really don’t give a fuck about you! Humans are so interesting. They’ll claw over one another if it means staying in my good graces. You could learn a thing or two about respect from them, girl.

Jarret’s mind raced as she tried to think of some way she could hurt and humiliate Wolves in the way she had been. With sudden clarity and a churning horror, she realized that there was nothing she could do to him. He was an intangible being from another realm using her body as a medium to experience the pleasures and bounty of Foundation which he otherwise could not. He would use her body until she was broken, just like her father, even if he could not dominate her mind. She would simply be trapped in her own body, with only her secrets to keep her company. The Lord of Wolves could not feel the pain he inflicted upon her - he was not connected to her nerves. He did not care if her bones were broken or her muscles torn - he could simply command the body to continue moving despite the agony. He did not understand the limits of a physical body, or at the very least he was willing to ignore them for his own amusement.

It all crashed over her at once like a clap of thunder. A white-hot rage bubbled and boiled in her chest, and the intensity of it made her body shake. The magnitude of her fury was so fast and sudden as it surged through her, but Wolves noticed the change in her emotions too late. Jarret's rage was thick, thorny vines, sharp and tough and painful as it covered the Lord of Wolves and pinned him to the wall of her mind.

W-what is this?! You’re nothing but a toy to me-

“Shut up!” Jarret screamed, and her thorns snapped the god’s snout closed. He was stunned silent, as were the gathered throng.

She whipped her head up to look at the priest. “You.” She stood slowly, her amber eyes never leaving his as her chest heaved with ragged breath, her blood and saliva dripping freely from her mouth to the stone beneath their feet.

“Jarret?” Adel’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “S-stop this selfishness immediately! You’ll doom us all!”

“Doom is what you deserve!” she shouted in his face. Her blood was pumping under her skin, fast and hot. Spittle and blood flew from her mouth as she snarled at the quivering man. “Your life is built on the lives of fathers, mothers, children!” The coward scrambled back, pushing his way through the other witnesses and aiming himself toward the entrance to the cave without taking his eyes from her.

“What kind of man accepts those terms for an easy life?!” Her voice echoed against the walls and it was alien to her own ears. Something was happening to her. Something was not right.

A few of the witnesses had the decency to look ashamed, to avoid her accusing eyes. Not nearly enough.

“My Lord, please, what have we done to anger you so?!” Jarret sharply turned to identify who spoke, and it was one of the clergy’s sanctified bodyguards. He was trembling.

“I am not your Lord!” Jarret bellowed, gesturing wildly and pointing at herself. Why could they not hear her? Why would they not understand?! “I am Jarret! I still am! You- you just…!” Her frustrated pleas died on her lips, as she noticed her arm was now peppered with a dark fur that had not been there before. As she inspected it, she noticed her fingernails had grown long, thick and sharp.

She could feel the Lord of Wolves laughing against his restraints. He wanted to taunt her, to distract her, to give him an opportunity to regain control from her. She would not listen. She was too angry, she was too desperate.

“Please, I beg of you, Lord Wolves - it was not our intention to trouble you so with such a spirited host.” One of the village elders had found his voice once more. He was on his knees, his face practically touching the stone as he prostrated himself before Jarret. The rest of the gathered witnesses quickly followed his lead, and soon Jarret was the only one standing in the cave. Adel was nowhere to be seen - likely fleeing down the path back to the village and the safety of his chapel. Jarret heard the deep growl of an animal, and realized with surprise that it had come from her own throat.

“It is our deepest honor to witness the terrible power of your true form upon Foundation, but, please, we do not deserve your wrath! We have done nothing but serve you faithfully and dutifully for generations!” A chorus of agreement rose from the rest of the group. Jarret sneered and reached for the closest person with the intent to yank them to their feet by their shirt. She did not want them to bow to her like that! She wasn’t someone to be afraid of - she was not their god!

Her grip was like iron, and the man she grabbed cried out in pain as her sharp nails dug deep into his shoulder. “Ah-ahhh! Please, please, my Lord! No!”

Jarret yanked her claw away, surprised at the harm she had so easily dealt, but it only made things worse as her movement left behind deep gashes in his flesh. He gripped his shoulder as thick, red blood oozed down his arm and splattered upon the stone, wet and hot and sticky. Her nostrils flared at the divine scent. It was overwhelming. Jarret’s mouth began to water, and she absently sucked on her nails, licking the blood clean. It tasted even better than it smelled.

She suddenly realized how famished she was. It had been hours since her last meal.

The Lord of Wolves cackled in her ear as her vision swam. Jarret knew the encroaching darkness - she was going to pass out. Distantly, as the shadows engulfed her, she heard cracking.

Popping.

Crunching.

Screaming.