There was only one noble, apart from the Nightlord and lady, who Kassan really respected.

  His name was Sir. Lupinus – but he let Kassan call him Sam. As a short, slightly chubby man with square glasses, the man commanded a lot of power where the Nightland’s army was concerned. Kassan had to work closely with him, especially because Sam led whichever part of the army Kassan didn’t - the archers and the cavalry. He also came up with most strategies and hypothetical battle positions. They were complicated, intricate, full of ridiculous tactics and whatnot, but that wasn’t to say Kassan didn’t understand them. He did. He had to.

  Being part of a Lord’s inner circle was hard enough to do, let alone be nineteen while doing it. He was by far the youngest in the meeting room. Even Megie was fourty-seven, so it was a miracle he could relate with his friend at all. Of course, with his age put aside, there was the being a werewolf that many stuck-up nobles like Sir. Nirven loved to contest with. Even Sam flinched when Kassan didn’t push up his canines before grinning.

  But they slipped out naturally. It wasn’t difficult to push them up, only uncomfortable. At least his claws were easier to manage – even normal Fae had claws, despite them not being as long, retractable, or sharp.

  Sam, today, moved a few more figures on the board. To Kassan’s dismay, it was a hypothetical ‘Starroam vs Nightland’ one, and the werewolf could guess Sir. Nirven had had something to do with it.

  “You know, Kassan, I wonder if you could use your canines in battle.” Sam chuckled.

  Kassan cursed. “Sorry,” he offered, pushing them back up again.

  “It’s fine. But they do look rather sharp. Why don’t you use them in close combat?”

  There was a drumming of fingers on the table. “I don’t like the taste of Fae blood.” Kassan stated. Sam cringed, and he felt no sympathy. “I use them if I’m hunting rabbit. If it’s a normal fight, I just use these.” Kassan lifted his hand and his claws jutted upwards for a stunning half a metre before snapping back to how they were.

  It was unsurprising that Sam didn’t know this. Kassan’s personal fighting style wasn’t really discussed here. More about rations, direction, subtle implications that the Lord of Starroam wanted to take over the world. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

  Werewolves didn’t function like this.

  Kassan was the Trueblood of the Star Crest Tribe.

  The werewolves, as isolated as they were, had split themselves into tribes instead of courts. It made for incredible competition and tribalism, as well as wars. The Star Crest was the most humane of them all, and therefore the weakest.

  Kassan’s brother, Jarak, was the Bloodbred of the Star Crest. It meant he was the leader, which was passed down through lineage. Jarak was hundreds of years older than Kassan – being only nineteen, Kassan was a baby in Fae eyes. Either way, Jarak was ruthless and quick – Kassan even more so.

  A Trueblood was the wolf with the rawest power in a tribe. This title did not depend on lineage of any sort, only chance and fates. It was a large coincidence that the Trueblood and Bloodbred were related, and it laced their relationship with tension. Kassan wandered wherever, whenever, arrogant in his own capability, and Jarak planned, careful, watching Kassan with a careless eye.

  But there was never a civil war, and Kassan himself made sure of that. One night, an argument between him and Jarak had stretched too far, worn them both too thin. He would never forget the feel of Jarak’s claws piercing through every artery that was important, never forget the raging instinct to not just fight back, but kill.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Kassan hadn’t killed. He’d left.

  He’d trudged through the snow letting the blood of his wrists stain the white red. He remembered how dizzy he felt, how the adrenaline still coursed through him, how he still wanted to take somebody, anybody’s life away.

  He had. He’d taken seven. But that was a story for another day.

  With a groan, Kassan sat up and flicked a figure off Sam’s board. The mild-mannered, non-magical Fae looked up, flustered. “Kassan-”

  “We can pick this up tomorrow, right Sam?” The Trueblood offered a weary, aching smile. “I’m a little tired.”

  And it was true. After the meeting, Kassan had been overseeing a training session for a few hours. Then he’d been helping Megie fill out her paperwork regarding their relations with the Mermaids (who’d been complaining about ignorant fishers). After that he’d attempted to eat at the dining room (which had resulted in him being kidnapped by the chefs and forced to roast fish for tomorrow). Now the mere prospect of creating the thirty-eighth battle plan against Starroam made him feel incredulous, and in severe want of a nap.

  Sam took a second to look into Kassan’s dark eyes, before nodding curtly. “I suppose. I was rather looking forward to showing you this swooping tactic, though-”

  “Tomorrow, Sam.” Kassan clipped the at least four-hundred-year-old on the back. “Tomorrow.”

  He left the meeting room for Sam to note down his plans for tomorrow and started a one-destination-journey to his room. Upon reaching it, he collapsed on the bed like a fort made of straw.

  He took a deep breath, if only to see who he could smell. There was Megie, her seductive selkie scent likely in the downstairs third quarter of the castle. She smelt concentrated, highly focused. Maybe finishing off paperwork? And Gabriella was upstairs, where the Nightlord was too, in their shared quarters. She smelt quite giddy. If Kassan didn’t know better, he’d say that Gabriella and the Nightlord were...

  Kassan flushed. He turned his nose somewhere else.

  Every Fae, magical or non-magical, had a mate. But there was a cruel twist with Truebloods.

  Kassan could remember Jarak telling him about it. It had been a colder day, and he’d been stuck in the library reading while Jarak had been working on...something. Kassan had rested his head on the table, black hair hanging over his face.

  “Get up, Kassan. You look lazy.”

  Kassan had frowned. “I’m not lazy. I have a question, and you’ve made me be quiet for ages now.”

  Jarak sighed and turned to his younger brother with an impressive amount of restraint in his eyes. “If I let you ask, will you go back to reading?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it?”

  Kassan lifted his head up slightly. “Why do you and Revena always look at each other all weird?”

  Jarak sighed. “What do you mean, ‘weird’?”

  “Like, all lovey-dovey.”

  There was a thud as Jarak shut his thick book. “Revena and I are mates. Like mother and father were. A mate is someone you’re destined to be with, to spend your life with.”

  “And have kids with?” Kassan prodded. “Are you and Revena going to have kids?”

  “That’s none of your business. Go back to reading.” Jarak picked out another book from his pile, dipping a feather in black ink. Kassan was quiet for a moment, before indulging in a series of groans and whines.

  “What do you want?” Jarak seethed. The feather bent between his claws.

  “I have another question, but-”

  “Shut up and ask.”

  Kassan grinned, sitting up fully now. “Do I have a mate? Who are they?”

  Jarak paused in his ministrations, letting his eyes flit towards the child. Then, in a slow voice, as if realising nobody would tell Kassan if he didn’t, he explained.

  “You’re a Trueblood. Truebloods have mates, but they work differently.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll meet a wolf. You’ll think she’s the one for you, your mate. And once you...get something from her, you won’t love her anymore, and move to the next.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then, Kassan didn’t know what getting something meant, but now, it was just as horrifying.

  Taking the wolf you loved to bed and waking up the next day to feel wholly uninterested. Terrifying.

  As some form of adult, now that Kassan had travelled so far from where his pack was based, he didn’t expect to be finding his mate anytime soon. Not when wolves only really were mates with each other, though different tribes could intermarry. As he grew, he shed the idea of having his own mate, of having his own ‘Revena’ or ‘Gabriella’, and a birthday looming three days ahead wouldn't change that. He’d become more machine than wolf, constantly fighting, constantly thinking, sometimes growling.

  Sometimes wishing. For a bed. For sleep.

  Sometimes sleeping.

  Sometimes.