FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I'll preface this by saying that I have no clue where this behemoth came from, only that this chapter is a whole lot of introductory nonsense and build up. This story leans mostly into anthro wolves, though there are some other species dotted throughout. I want to reiterate that this is a romance, but there's a heavy helping of plot to go along with it. If you're looking for one-shot smut, this isn't it. Be patient with this first entry. I'm sitting at about 9k words, which is about three regular sized chapters rolled into one. The following installments will be about the same.

Rating: This chapter doesn't contain any sexual content, though the rating for this series is meant for sex, violence, and language.

Disclaimer: All characters and associated plot are of my own creation and I'm hoping everyone will be respectful enough to avoid using any of my content under their own name.

Disclaimer II: I shouldn't have to say this, but I will. This is not National Geographic. The references to species/behavior/biology/etc is purely fictional, created and manipulated to serve the purposes of this story. There might be some legitimacy littered here and there, but please don't take any of this for fact.

I hope you all enjoy, and please feel free to leave any and all feedback/recommendations.

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Moon Called: Part I: The Departure

By: Saltyneoma

She was engaged at birth; a long-standing political arrangement made by her father that ensured his allies to the west would protect Thilinael's borders. The western territories were vast and Thilinael was small. A necessary evil, King Estoran had proclaimed, and so it was. Sarrassin saw the sense of it. Perhaps even the importance. As Thilinael's Princess, it was her duty as much as her parents' to put the safety and security of their people, their land, first. When she was young, the idea of marriage had hardly crossed her mind. She and her older brother, Eldril, had been far too busy with their tutors and lessons, learning their lands, their history, and the promise of its future, to think of such personal things. Today was different. On this, her thirtieth birthday, the shadow of her father's arrangement loomed, and this shadow did not appear to be impressed.

"Princess Sarrassin," King Estoran announced proudly, flourishing his arm to present his daughter. Her eyes darted to her father, and then to the male standing stiffly before him. "Daughter, please welcome King Jalal of the Hinterlands. Ruler of the West."

Sarrassin just managed to stop herself arguing: there is no 'Ruler of the West'. The Hinterlands were in a state of chaos after the death of the _true_King, Favious III. Some say Jalal's father murdered him, vying for the throne. Others say the wolfblood running through Favious' veins sucked the will to live from him when his mate died trying to give birth to their heir, who also died in the ordeal. Jalal's family took advantage of a territory in mourning and made all the right promises, said all the right things. Whatever it took to ascend. It took less than a decade for Hinterland's people to realize their mistake. Unfortunately for them, it was easier to appoint a monarch than it was to dethrone him. Jalal's family had their claws dug deep into economic and political affairs. Their allies made it clear that the current agreements hinged upon Jalal remaining in control.

"We bid you welcome, good King," Sarrassin said dutifully, and swept into a low curtsey that made her mother, watching with narrowed eyes from her father's side, smile. "I hope the accommodations so far have been to your liking."

Jalal's wide brown eyes studied her briefly; a calculating assessment that made her hackles tingle warningly. He was smaller than she'd imagined, barely to her brother's shoulders, less than an inch or so taller than her. Fox-kind were not known for indomitable size, but it was odd to think of this short, thin, petite-looking creature as the fearsome ruler she'd read and heard about most of her adult life. His genus, zerda, or Fennec, to be specific, was especially unintimidating. Huge ears that were too large for their heads, and big, round eyes that struck Sarrassin as childlike. Jalal was colored like most; cream with white accents around his muzzle and chest. His kind were made for the heat. Excessively furry paws to protect against hot sand, sandy coloration that reflected the desert sun, bodies that stored more water and expelled more heat than most. It was no wonder they'd migrated to the west.

Sarrassin watched his gaze dip from her face to the tuft of fur around her neck, and then downward, along her shoulders, across her covered breasts and along the material of her dress, all the way to her feet, cramped inside a pair of shoes made just for this occasion. Her claws spasmed within the material as his gaze lingered. "The welcome has been satisfactory," Jalal finally said, shifting his eyes back to Estoran. "I am pleased with your court's hospitality."

"Good." Aradora, Sarrassin's Queen and mother, bowed gratefully. "And what of your long-awaited bride? Does Thilinael's Princess please you, as well?"

Jalal blinked at the Queen, and then at Sarrassin. "She will do."

If Estoran and his wife were offended, they did not show it. Beside Sarrassin, Eldril tensed. He murmured, "What a prize you've won, sister."

"Indeed." She glanced at his face, stony and serious, insisting to the room that his full attention was on the visitor King. Sarassin knew him, though; knew the slight dip at the corner of his mouth that spoke of his sudden unhappiness; the crinkle at the corner of his eye that belayed a joking edge to his tone. She said, "My desire to bend the knee to him is overwhelming."

Eldril huffed quietly. "Won't have to bend far."

Size wasn't everything in their world, certainly. Men like Jalal ruled in various parts of the Continent and many of them earned that place, same as her family. But here in Thilineal, a central, temperate region brimming with diverse species and diverse dangers, Red and Gray Wolves ruled. Their numbers and cunning and strength protected four borders and managed the land well, promoted economic and technological advancement, and braved the political field with wiliness and confidence true to their nature. Eldril, tall and sternly built, beautifully colored in varying shades of gray and white, with eyes that reminded Sarrassin of the ocean - deep and blue and fluid - wanted someone for his sister that inspired confidence. Someone he believed could protect her if necessary; someone to offer her the same security, love, and comfort that he'd provided since their youth. A partner for her to take his place. It appeared that Jalal did not fill this expectation.

"The other Leaders are still arriving," Estodan told Jalal. "But we are directing everyone to the ball room, where there is food and music and entertainment already arranged. If you'd like to retire to your rooms until the feast begins -"

" - No," Jalal interrupted, waving a hand at the suggestion as if it offended him. "I should like to observe these_Leaders_ as they trickle in. The political situation on the Continent is fickle as of late."

Aradora tilted her head; a dainty, feminine motion, much like Aradora herself. "Has someone drawn your ire, friend?"

"Ire." Jalal snorted. Adjusted the collar of his silken, maroon dress shirt. He checked the center button of his black suit jacket in what Sarrassin thought was a habitual tic. "That is a mild word. It's those dolts in the north. Heathens, the lot of them."

Sarrassin watched her parents closely. Estodan pursed his lips and she could see his jaw twitching lightly. Of all the factions to take issue with, her future husband would, naturally, choose the most dangerous. While most of the Continent had adopted much from the age of men, who's reign had ended thousands of years before, with government systems, political alliances, and trade and military support, the north was unbound. Far less developed than their neighbors, Sarrassin wasn't even sure if the northern hemisphere was divided into towns or countries or cities, or if they had any leadership at all. They'd learned about every province and territory on the Continent in her history lessons, but never about the north. There simply wasn't anything to be taught. Ruled by the Dire Wolves, those that lived beyond the border of that land were not subject to the rest of the Continent. They answered to the Alphas there, who answered to no one.

Estodan cleared his throat and glanced around their clean, well-lit receiving room. None of Jalal's men had removed their gear or taken seats. To Aradora's relief, Sarrassin was sure. Her mother was meticulous about her home, as well as her children. The cream-colored furniture of the parlor might not have survived Jalal's dusty men. Likewise, her mother had unwisely left several crystal decanters and the accompanying glasses on the end tables, as well as the porcelain trinkets Estodan had been buying her for as long as Sarrassin could remember. A fire crackled in the large flagstone fireplace behind her parents and the floors, cream and white tile, glittered in the low light. Bookshelves were built into the right-side wall and a pair of wingback chairs were arranged before them, soft pillows tucked into the arms. It was normally an inviting room. Right now, it felt cramped.

"The people of the north ask for very little," Eldril said. "And cause us ire even less. They rarely move beyond their borders. I can't imagine how they've slighted you."

Jalal frowned at her brother, one canine peeking from his top lip. "Your son must not keep up with the political goings on," he said to Estodan, dismissing the Prince. "This was far beyond a slight, I'm afraid. Their Guardsmen attacked a caravan of my people near the border, traveling from Bellharbor to my home in Casafair. Nobles, all of them, visiting my court to speak on behalf of their townspeople on various issues."

"Attacked," Sarrassin repeated, and was unable to keep the doubt from her voice. "Why would their Guardsmen attack anyone beyond their borders? What do they gain from such senseless violence?"

Jalal stared at her, as if he couldn't believe she'd spoken. He blinked once. Twice. Opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally, he shook himself and, as he'd done to Eldril, addressed her father instead. "What are you teaching your children, Estodan? As if the north is opposed to acts of senseless violence." He snorted, and his men chuckled behind him, their shiny gold armor creaking as they moved. "Those beasts know nothing but violence. They live like our bestial ancestors and war amongst themselves constantly. Running around half-naked with bare paws and unkempt fur. Savages, really." His brown eyes shifted to her and lightened a shade; a flicker of anger igniting around his irises. "So, Princess, I'm afraid I don't have an answer to your questions beyond this: they don't need a reason. Never have. They kill and rape and burn all in their path, just as they have for a thousand years, and will continue to do until they are stopped. It is not enough that they hole themselves away in that lush paradise that we've allowed them to claim as their own. These slights have grown more frequent and more brutal. This last caravan - one of many in recent months - did not survive. Not one."

Estodan swallowed thickly and seemed to be drowning in the tension of the room. Jalel's eyes remained on her, daring her, she thought, to speak again. Sarrassin wondered if this was his measure; cold and aloof. That ember of anger in his eyes remained, speaking to a deeper and more complex combination of faults. Faults Sarrassin imagined could make her life quite miserable once they were tied together.

"Well," Aradora breathed. An awkward chuckle. "Let us move to the ball room and introduce you to those of our guests that have arrived. We'll be seated and await the feast together."

Jalal inclined his head, large ears twitching flippantly, and gave his men a silent order. They left the room, single file, and Estodan motioned for his family to follow as Jalal exited, too.

"Do you believe him?" Sarrassin whispered to Eldril in the hall, trailing behind their party. "About the north?"

His shoulder lifted shallowly, rustling his white undershirt and colorful, elaborately embroidered vest. The sword holstered at his hip clanked lightly as they walked. "I know as much about the people of the north as you do. Rumors, mostly. Though Dern speaks as if they're of no concern to him." Dern, their long-time tutor, had told her once that he'd been to the border. Had seen beyond, into the land of the Dire Wolves. He'd said, like all others, they were a people to be respected, and that was that. "I've not heard any other Kings or leaders complaining about raids and murders at the border." Eldril glanced at her, eyes the deep ocean during a storm; tumultuous and dark and fathomless. "I'm more concerned with how Jalal finds himself in the business of Bellharbor. Last I checked, he was not King of Mabria, and did not govern its citizens."

Sarrassin's brows furrowed. She'd been so preoccupied with the idea of meeting the man she'd been betrothed to her whole life, she hadn't fully absorbed much of what he'd said. "Why is Bellharbor sending nobles into Casafair?"

"Exactly." Eldril shook his head. "The Hinterlands don't border the north. It's convenient that Jalal now has people in Bellharbor, suddenly reporting aggression from the north's people."

She looked ahead; at the backs of her parents, walking arm in arm, and then at Jalal, moving stiffly at her father's side. "What does he gain putting the north on trial?"

"You heard him. Lush paradise we've allowed them to claim as their own." Eldril's impression was good enough to make her snort in amusement. Aradora cast a narrow-eyed warning over her shoulder. "Jalal, since taking over for his father, has annexed nearly all the territories of the west, and even a few in the northeast. He has a prearranged alliance with us that will be sealed with a marriage, and then children, locking us in for good. We're his gateway to the south and east coast."

Sarrassin frowned. Flexed the digits of her forepaws. Extended and retracted her claws. The tension that was building did not dissipate. "You think he's attempting to rule the whole continent." It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway. The thought was a disturbing one. It made the fur on her neck bristle and her stomach roll unhappily. She didn't know Jalal well, but her gut was rarely wrong. His first impression had left her sour. Imagining him as monarch of the Continent had a similar flavor. She shook off the sensation and huffed out a laugh. "C'mon, Eldril. Bit of a reach, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

They exchanged a glance and she laughed again, a little louder. "Father has known him since he was a child. Agreed to this arrangement. He wouldn't have done that if Jalal had no merit. Your King believes him to be a good match for Thilinael. Do you doubt him?"

Eldril didn't answer, and that sour feeling in her stomach worsened.

.

The other leaders of the Continent arrived fairly quickly after Sarrassin and her family escorted Jalal into the ballroom, which was set up to house at least three hundred guests. This was, in theory, a neutral political summit to air out any grievances that might have formed through the fall and winter and spring. Summer was a time for growth and renewal, making Litha, the Continent's Summer Solstice celebration on June 21 of each year, the perfect setting for such an affair. The circular ballroom appeared magical with twinkling lights dangling from the ceiling and between columns, colorful flowers and lush vines spun and draped along the chords and dappling the floor and tables and strung up along the walls. Lavender and pine and rose were thick in the air, and small jade, citrine, and amber stones were arranged with flowers and candles to make centerpieces on each table. The white walls and light marble floors contrasted beautifully with the extravagance of color brought in for the occasion, and the glass dome ceiling allowed the moon, nearly full, to blanket the interior with her white-blue glow.

Sarrassin loved Litha. Loved all holidays and gatherings where she was granted leave, unlike the rest of the year, to interact and enjoy the company of Thilineal's people. Most of her life was spent in the company of her parents and brother or alone. Even her family's household staff and guard kept her at arm's length. Polite but never friendly. Dern was the concession, though he had his own family and his own life to make time for. He'd told her once that they shelter her because she's precious to them; Princess of Thilineal, only daughter and sister to the King and Queen and Prince. He hadn't seemed like he believed it any more than she did.

With the exception of her brother, Sarrassin had always felt like little more than a tool to them. Something shapeable and pliant that they could influence and structure in whatever way benefitted them most. She'd been learning etiquette and languages and the ways of court since cubhood; molding her into the perfect princess for the man they'd chosen. Sarrassin had no doubt that she was loved. It was, perhaps, a different love than most parents have for their children, but love all the same.

The tables were arranged in a semi-circle around the center of the ballroom floor, with the buffet tables at the open end of the room and musicians at the other, behind her family's table, where their honored guests were invited to sit. In this case, Jalal and his advisor were sat on the other side of her father, while her mother, and then Eldril and Sarrassin were on the other. It gave them a clear view of the doors and everyone coming and going. An uninteresting endeavor, honestly. Even more so now that her holiday was being ruined quite thoroughly by the politicians in the room. She was to be on her best behavior, which meant, apparently, no dancing, no drinking, no fun, unless it was with Jalal, who had become her escort somewhere between the parlor and the ballroom, unbeknownst to Sarrassin.

She poked at her food and sipped at her water, watching others flying and swinging around the dancefloor to upbeat folk tunes and the wailing of violins and fiddles; slow dancing to quiet piano and guitar compositions. The house staff opened the windows in the room when it began to fill up, and a soft, steady breeze shuffled flower petals and leaves around the room as the guests danced and laughed and ate. Sarrassin was in a foul, jealous mood by the time Jalal decided to ask her for a dance. It was, of course, a slow and depressing jaunt that she might have enjoyed on another day, or with another male. She slid her paw into his and let him lead her through the tables into the sea of couples swaying gently. In the center, he kept her paw and raised their hands formally as her other went to his shoulder, and his went to her hip. Their steps were purposeful and well-rehearsed. An old dance taught to all Royals.

She glanced to their right; a pair of black bears wrapped around one another, eyes closed, barely moving, simply enjoying one another's company. It looked intimate. Sweet. Sarrassin had craved that type of closeness since she first matured, had experienced it in short bursts during events such as this, in the shadows, away from the watchful eyes of her parents. Small connections that lasted but a few hours; shallow and untrustworthy. She was the Princess, after all. Gauging others' interest in her was hopeless amidst a sea of possible motives.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Jalal asked, breaking her reverie.

Sarrassin gave him her full attention. "Quite."

He hummed and glanced around the room, then back at her. "I would like to apologize for waiting so long to meet you. As you know, once my father passed, my life was very suddenly full and I found myself without the time for frivolity."

Frivolity, she thought bitterly. That's what she would be to him. Frivolous and unimportant. A vessel for his heirs; a tick on his list of things to get done as King. She smiled as warmly as she could. "Of course, my lord. A King's responsibility to his land and people must always come first."

"I'm glad that you're able to see that. There is no room in my life for a wife. I must have a Queen. One that is prepared to sacrifice for the good of my kingdom." His eyes studied hers intently. "Are you capable of such a thing?"

The corners of her mouth were tight as she tried to muster a smile. His hand on her hip twitched, squeezed. "Of course I am, my lord. It is what I've prepared my whole life for."

"I am glad to hear it." He watched her carefully. She felt his claws prick the thin material of her dress. Instinct insisted that she move away from the threat of those claws, but decorum demanded she remain, and appear pleasant while doing it. Jalal leaned in until his nose was nearly touching hers. Quietly, so that no one might overhear, he said, "When you are my Queen, you will never speak in the way you did there, in your parent's parlor. You will not address foreign diplomats and leaders on issues that do not concern you." He snorted, leaned closer still, and pressed the side of his snout to hers. She felt his lips moving as he continued, "What could you possibly know about relations with the north? Do you see how silly it sounds, that you would enter a conversation in which you hold no status or importance?"

Sarrassin implored her muscles to remain languid. Breathed slowly and deeply, controlling her pulse. It wouldn't do for him to hear her heart pounding, to feel the anxiety he was causing. That's what he wanted. She wouldn't give it to him. "Naturally, my lord. In my excitement to finally meet my beloved King, I stupidly thought to make myself seem significant by interrupting your talks with my father. It was, indeed, silly. I want only to serve you, lord. I will do as you say."

This did as she'd intended. His chest puffed a little and his nostrils flared. His snout, still pressed to the side of hers, angled slightly so that his tongue could brush against her lip. She tasted him faintly - meat and wine and something bitter - and wanted to disappear. She'd dreamed for years about meeting this male; seeing him and touching him and loving him. He was a bloated and unrealistic character in her mind, but the rational part of her had bargained that he could live up to at least half of what she'd hoped, and she would still come out better than before. Sarrassin, no matter her sense of duty, did not like him; did not like his dry, dusty scent or his bitter taste, did not like his cruel eye or the way his lips seemed always on the verge of a snarl; she couldn't stand the arrogant set of his shoulders or the pompous way he dressed. She was not attracted to him. Could not imagine herself mating with him; letting him kiss her, touch her, knot her. It was enough to make her cringe.

And she very nearly did when his tongue darted back out and ran along her lower lip, and then beneath it, along her teeth, for she couldn't bring herself to open for him. He inhaled deeply and licked his lips. "I think I will enjoy taking you, though. You are plain in comparison to some, but there is something intriguing about you. "

To have this male call her plain was... insulting, yes, but also surprisingly painful. Sarrassin was humble by nature but had always been uncertain about her own physical value. She'd been told her whole life that she was beautiful, but then they had to say that, didn't they? Her parents and brother, who felt emotionally obligated, and her staff and guard and subjects who would never tell their Princess that she was anything but the most beautiful thing they'd ever seen. Jalal hummed thoughtfully and pulled her closer, so that she was flush against his front.

"I believe we've waited long enough, hmm? My Kingdom is secure, powerful, and it's high time our two families, and our territories, are finally bonded." They followed the steps of the dance habitually. He clearly didn't enjoy the act, moving stiffly and purposefully through the notes of the song, paying little attention to the moment. His eyes fixated over her head and he kept his nose dipped close to hers. "I imagine your parents will demand a courtship. Wolves," he drawled, lip curling in distaste, "and their traditions. I'll never understand the caution around mating."

"Well," Sarrassin said blithely, before she could help herself. "Wolves mate for life. Caution seems fitting under such circumstances."

Jalal snorted. "Another ridiculous notion. Wolf pride is so... tedious. You don't have to mate for life, obviously. Any of you could choose to be with as many partners as you like. That choice is aged and, honestly, ridiculous."

Tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, Sarrassin looked away from the smugness in his face before she said something damaging, like reminding him that his own kind, throughout history, had structured themselves similarly to wolves with packs and hierarchies and lifelong pairings. Monogamy among the wolves was not something Sarrassin thought was tedious. It wasn't as popular a practice as it used to be, but she thought it was one of their better ones. Traditional, yes, but also romantic. The idea of such devotion and loyalty was what she'd imagined for herself. Her heart ached, realizing now that she'd never have it.

"Come," Jalal said, stopping abruptly. He gripped her upper arm tightly and led her through the crowd. "We shall inform your parents forthwith."

As they approached the table, the music shifted into an upbeat jaunt and the crowd cheered, laughed, and sped their steps accordingly. It was nearing the height of the celebration, and Sarrassin quietly realized she'd missed her last Litha here in Thilineal. Her future, previously uncertain, slowly materialized before her. Solemn and stuffy and confining. A cage. This man she was to marry would never give her the freedom she desired.

The King and Queen smiled and cheered at Jalal's announcement and were oblivious to the way Sarrassin's heart shriveled in time with all her hopes.

.

Her parents did, in fact, demand a courtship.

Sarrassin had hoped for a lengthy period of infrequent visits and gifts, perhaps the exchanging of letters to better get to know one another. But her intended was a busy King, and he hadn't the time for her whims. Whims. As if knowing the male she was to marry was irrelevant. She supposed, in a sense, it was. She had no choice in the matter. Whether she knew him beyond a name and title, whether she liked him or despised him, whether she wanted this marriage or not, it was going to happen. Had been set into motion before she could walk or talk or know any better. So, when he suggested she travel with him as he visited parts of the territory beyond his usual purview, her parents agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Sat atop a beautiful white, unevolved, mare, Sarrassin stared at her parents as they spoke with Jalal, sitting rigidly upon his own mount. His stiffness was amusing to her. Endril held the slack of her reins, patted her horse's cheek gently, and smiled coyly at his father's words.

"We've kept her chaise for your marriage," Estodan explained. "We expect that she'll remain that way until the two of you are wed. It is only proper."

Jalal, mouth pinched into a thin line, hummed his agreement. "So it is and shall be. You need not worry, Thilineal King. I understand your traditions and will honor them, as we are soon bound to one another."

"Very good." Estodan bowed shallowly. "You will be held to your word."

Their talk returned to politics, as it had at dinner the night before, and at breakfast that morning. The visiting leaders had discussed their issues and Jalal had told them of his troubles with the north, as well as his country's annexation of Bellharbor. Mabria's King Olan had confirmed this, seemingly relinquishing his claim to Bellharbor without fuss. The two Kings spoke quietly now, excluding Sarrassin, Eldril, Aradora, and Jalal's men that surrounded them.

Endril turned to her, blue eyes as stormy as ever, embattled with concern and anxiety. "Stay close to the caravan. Do not stray from the guard. Ride carefully and be aware of your surroundings. Do not rely on them to hear and sense danger around you; do that for yourself. Protect yourself."

"And those I travel with?" Her lips quirked. "Should I warn them of whatever danger I sense?"

Endril shook his head and remained serious, ignoring her attempts to be lighthearted. "I don't care about the others. My concern is for you and you alone. Should you find yourself in peril, flee if you can, fight if you can," he tapped the hilt of her sword, sheathed and tightly holstered on her saddle, "and should those options fail, use your weapon on yourself. Do not allow yourself to be taken. What follows capture is often a fate worse than death. Do you remember how?"

"The arteries, yes, I know." She didn't want to discuss this. Had hated it whenever he brought it up. For someone who lusted so desperately for life, Sarrassin wasn't sure there was a fate worse than death. "Sever one deeply with the sword. It will do the work for me."

He nodded. "Which one will you use? Come now, sister, I want to hear you say it. I want to know that you'll be prepared."

"The femoral. My thigh." She swatted at his hand, still lingering around her sword. "I know, Endril. Now can we stop this depressing talk and say our goodbyes?"

He rolled his eyes. "Depressing or not, we both know what happens to those captured during raids. That is a trauma you do not deserve. And let's not forget what would happen after: a ruined reputation, an empty place at court, and no respectable prospects for marriage. Can you imagine father's shame?" At her look of indignance, Endril lifted a shoulder. "Right or wrong, it is the way of things. That I love you does not change what would happen should you find yourself returned to our parents ruined and useless to them. I would still love you, and your life would still be ruined. So you see that our feelings matter very little, which is why we shouldn't use them when making decisions. Emotions only complicate things."

"And yet it is impossible to ignore them." Sarrassin glanced at her future husband and winced. "Am I truly expected to play this character, his Queen, for the rest of my life?"

Endril patted her mare's side kindly and released the reins. He took her paw and squeezed, kissed her digits formally, and said, "As I will be expected to play dutiful King to whoever father chooses as my wife. Our long lives will have meaning in some ways, if not in others."

"Empty, except for what is expected of us," she murmured bitterly, and watched his eyes roil with all of the sadness and uncertainty he would never speak aloud. "What of the things we want, brother? Does none of it matter?"

His expression was as fathomless as his gaze; overfull with emotion he could not express. "No, sister, it does not. No matter how desperately we might wish otherwise." He kissed her digits once more and released her. "Mind yourself on the road, as well as with your company."

Her parent's goodbye was shorter and far less meaningful than her brother's, and she was on the road within the hour. Jalal headed up the front of the caravan, surrounded by his advisor and his captains. Wagons full of supplies brought up the rear, while Sarrassin and the rest of the guard filled out the middle. No one spoke to her. No one really spoke at all, and Jalal was so far ahead of her that she could barely make out his armor and mount from the others. They rode slowly, at first, and then picked up speed, travelling north instead of west, likely to make for his newly acquired lands in Bellharbor.

When they made camp, Sarrassin was given a large, insulated tent with a thickly padded matt, fluffy pillows and blankets, and access to all of her things. They ate around a large campfire and still, there was little conversation. Most of the sound came from birds and crickets and cicadas wailing into the summer air. The days were hot during this season and the nights were only marginally cooler. As she undressed for the night, folding her dress and stuffing it back into her luggage, the silk of her shift stuck to her fur uncomfortably. She was sweaty and needed a thorough grooming after such a long ride, and regretted with renewed fervor having to leave her lady's maids behind. No bath and no staff to brush and comb through the mess. Sarrassin unzipped the "windows" of the tent, allowing a breeze into the stifling space, and laid down on her mat. She tossed and turned and hardly slept, bored and anxious and suddenly feeling very alone.

The next several weeks passed in much the same. By the time they were within a few day's ride of Bellharbor, Sarrassin was reaching the end of her patience, and possibly her sanity. She'd begun to wonder if Jalal had ordered his men not to speak to her, for not matter how hard she tried, they would not engage in conversation with her. Barely looked at her. Gave her what she needed but never anything more. Jalal, for his part, was no better. He refused to allow her to join the evening hunts for their meals, was monosyllabic in all of his answers, and could spare no time to _indulge_her with his company. His words. So when he came to her one evening after their meal, dipping into her tent as if it were his own, her hackles rose in suspicion.

"Evening, lady," he greeted, glancing over her things, neatly organized and arranged to her liking. "I trust you had your fill at dinner?"

Seated at the edge of her mat, Sarrassin crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, well aware that she was wearing nothing but a white silk shift. "I did, my lord. Thank you."

"Good."

Jalal's attention shifted to her abruptly and he crossed the space so that he was standing less than an arm's length away. She watched his pupils dilate as his gaze lingered on the low neckline of her shift. "I must ride ahead tomorrow. You will remain with the caravan and the majority of my men, and we will rendezvous in Bellharbor."

Sarrassin felt her eyes straining to go wide and tried to maintain a neutral visage. It was difficult. Her heart sped up a beat and she felt her skin heating beneath her fur. There were ways to deal with men such as her future husband; cunning and patience and wiles would aid her in getting her way. There was no room for anger, yet that was what she felt in this moment. Angry that he'd drug her along only to ignore her. Angry that he was leaving her, now, to be brought to him when it was convenient, the way his servants brought his luggage. She'd never been treated so poorly in her life, had never been so thoroughly denigrated.

"With respect, King, shouldn't I ride in with you, as your betrothed and future Queen?"

Jalal snorted. Reached out to pinch the material of her shift, gathered between her breasts, between his digits. He rubbed it absently. "I think not. You'll not be presented to my people until we've arrived at my home, and my staff can be sure your manners and etiquette are acceptable for social and diplomatic engagements."

She very suddenly wanted to rip out that rude tongue of his. Her face flushed as the thought took hold; such a violent, unladylike idea. Yet, she couldn't shake it. Her back ached with the effort it took to remain still as one of his claws brushed against the top of her cleavage. Her feelings, as Endril had so kindly pointed out, didn't matter. This male was a King, and a powerful one. An ally to her people and her father. A man that, if slighted, could wreak havoc on her home. Withdraw his support. Cease trade, crippling their economy. The repercussions of her failure to secure this marriage were endless. And so, despite the way her skin crawled at how it felt to be touched by him, she remained.

He continued, oblivious to her anger, "Fret not. We will be together soon. I will take you and knot you, you will bare my children, and your purpose will be fulfilled."

With that, he released her shift and turned to leave, not bothering to look back as the tent flap fell into place behind his retreating form, and she was alone again.

.

Jalal and his most trusted left the following morning at a neck-breaking pace, and she and the others lollygagged until around midday, when the caravan finally set out at the speed of a snail. Her mare shifted impatiently as they passed a lush meadow, set at the base of a collection of hills peppered with pink and yellow flowers. It was cooler here than in Thilinael, and there was an increasing amount of flora she didn't recognize. Ahead, in the distance, she could see the outline of the towering mountain ranges of the north pressing into the clouds. Sarrassin let her mind wander there; imagined a cold and harsh place covered in snow, jagged with rock and dead things; dark and desolate and frozen. Wild and without the restrictions of her life. It all sounded very fanciful. Yet she knew she'd never seek out such adventure. Her loyalty to her family and home were too deeply ingrained.

Besides, she'd been doted on and sheltered her whole life. That fanciful illusion wasn't grand enough to imagine she would survive such a place on her own.

"Hold!" One of the guards at the head of the caravan raised a fist in the air and reined in his mount. The majority of Jalal's company were Fennec, like him. This one was different, a little more orange than cream, so he stood out, was easy for her eyes to find amid a sea of others dressed exactly like him. Everyone slowed to a stop and the company was completely still, ears twitching attentively, eyes scanning their surroundings.

Sarrassin did as her brother advised and took her own measure. There was a steady breeze coming over the top of the largest hill to their right, across the meadow. Both sides of the road were bordered by dense forest, full limbs creaking and bustling, leaves shivering on their stems. She could hear the wind catching and slipping through the foliage, heard the soft rustle of grass, the trickle of water from a stream nearby; to their left, she thought. Downhill. Her nostrils flared around the scent of onion grass and a dozen or more flowers that blended together oddly, bark and soil and sunshine. When nothing immediately stood out, Sarrassin turned her head back to the front, wondering more urgently what it was that stopped the guard. That turn caught something, though, on the edge of the breeze; thick and heady and male. Leather and earth. Before her mind could register exactly what she was on the trail of, the world erupted into madness.

The wagons were overturned violently, and wolves - enormous, terrifying wolves - materialized from the shadows of the trees and overtook the guard Jalal had left with her. Sarrassin's mare screeched at the onslaught of brutality and reared up, nearly unseating her. She held on long enough to turn her mount, aiming to flee across the meadow, but was knocked from her saddle by something or someone to the left. Sarrassin hit the ground back-first, all the air in her lungs leaving with a whoosh. For a long, impossibly still moment, she couldn't breathe. Her mare was rearing, snorting, and stomping the ground as the raiders clashed with Jalal's men; screams for help and shouts of anger; blood and bodies and weapons clanging. When Sarrassin could finally draw breath, it was shaky and burned her chest. She clamored up and back to her mare but couldn't calm her enough to mount. One of Jalal's men fell at her feet, bloodied and wide-eyed, gasping for air, and fear pumped adrenaline into her limbs, spurring her to move.

She grabbed her sword from the saddle and ran; a straight line from their place on the road to the meadow. If she could make it to the trees, if she could put enough distance between herself and these beasts -

Something hard hit her back, sent her toppling back to the ground, face first. She was numb with terror and her blood was a rush of rapids, keeping her sharp and quick and hyperaware. She rolled with the fall and, still half sprawled, faced her attacker. A tall, lithe wolf in all manners of gray, a smattering of white across her muzzle and around her eyes. She wore nothing but a vest of leather armor over her chest, stomach, and back. Everything else... everything else, was bare. Sarrassin gripped the hilt of her sword and raised it, inching backward slowly.

"Take what you will," she told the she-wolf. "Leave me be."

Her attacker tilted her head curiously, a thick silver braid falling over her shoulder with the movement. "What is your business with this company?"

Sarrassin didn't know much about negotiating with hostile forces vying to do her harm. Her parents hadn't included that in her tutor's weekly lesson plan. Still, the female's body language spoke of relaxed caution, rather than aggression. That might change if she sensed she was being lied to. "These men were escorting me to Bellharbor."

"Why?"

"I'm to meet King Jalal there."

The she wolf glanced over her shoulder as a male, dressed in precisely the same manner, approached from her right. The female was not small, yet he seemed to dwarf her. Dark gray with sharp, steel-colored eyes, his neck and shoulders, chest and back, were broad in a way that was uncommon to Gray or Red Wolves. It made him seem top heavy, though she had no doubt he could sprint on all fours if the need arose. His body, and the thick, elongated snout made her pulse quicken. This, she thought, was a Dire Wolf. Had to be.

"Cerise," he greeted, and then turned his gaze to Sarrassin. "Bind her. She was the only civilian."

Two more males made their way over, both so similarly colored in white and grays that they could have been twins. Cerise, as she'd been called, moved to do as she was told, and Sarrassin scurried back, jabbing the sword at her with emphasis. "Stay back." She put adequate distance between them and felt safe enough to rise to her knees. Her dress, in all the madness, had been thoroughly ravaged. One strap hung pathetically from her shoulder while the other clung to its last thread; the hem had been ruined entirely, ripping upward, nearly to her thighs. She realized, suddenly, that she still had her shoes on. No wonder she'd been caught. "I have no quarrel with you," she told them collectively, arching the blade to encompass the group. "Take what you came for and leave me. There is no need for further bloodshed, and to take me or harm me would only bring trouble to whatever house you serve."

The large gray wolf glanced at Cerise. "Mouthy thing." To Sarrassin, he asked, "Who are you again?"

"Who I am is of no import."

"Answer the question." This voice was not the gray Dire Wolf's; nor did it belong to Cerise or the two dappled wolves watching from a few feet away. Cerise and the gray moved aside, and the owner of that deep gravel stepped through. Taller than the rest and broader still, he was a Dire Wolf, certainly, and made gray seem mild in comparison. Black as pitch with glowing eyes the color of moss and earth, he moved with a fluidity that seemed unnatural for someone so large. Sarrassin's heart hammered against her rib cage. "Who are you to Jalal?"

She opened her mouth to respond but hadn't the breath. Her blood rushed too quickly, making her head spin. The black wolf's eyes snared her, pinning her in place. With the rise of government systems and monarchies across the Continent, there were fewer and fewer true Alpha wolves left among the ordinary populace. Sarrassin was not so young or so sheltered that she'd never met one. Still, the Alpha she'd met in the presence of her family when she was nine seemed minimal now that she was face to face with... this. Whoever this was.

"I don't have time for games," he growled, and she felt it all the way down to the pads of her hind paws. "Tell me who you are and what you're doing with this company."

Sarrassin swallowed and glanced over the group of them. Her brother's words replayed in her ears as if from a dream. Two Dire Wolves, their attire, an Alpha. These raiders were from the north. Were targeting Jalal. Once they realized who she was, they'd defile and kill her in the worst ways possible, simply to strike at him. Her history lessons had taught her much about the ugliness of war. Though it had yet to be declared between her betrothed and the north, they were fighting cold battles all the same, and the situation grew worse with each strike. Still on her knees, Sarrassin turned her blade quickly so that the point hovered just above her femoral artery, the tip pricking her skin.

The black wolf's eyes widened and instantly his body language shifted. "Now, girl, don't be rash. We mean you no harm." He looked torn between moving away from her and darting forward for the weapon, hovered there, far less arrogant and imposing than he'd been a few seconds before. "I only want answers."

"And then what?" she demanded, firming her grip on the hilt. "I give you these answers, and what happens to me? You just let me go?" An unhinged laugh bubbled up her throat. "I highly doubt that."

The black wolf looked at the dappled pair and inclined his head, did the same to Cerise and the gray. Though reluctant, each turned and moved a dozen or so paces away, behind him. He raised his paws in surrender. "Will you move the sword away now?"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" She shook her head and the adrenaline kept any uncertainty at bay. "I put it down and then you lunge. Or you let me stand, let me think I'm safe, and lunge."

He raised a brow. "Is there a scenario in which I don't lunge?"

"Not at this moment, no."

"You have my word that I, nor any of my people, will do you harm."

Sarrassin snorted and took in a deep breath. The movement nudged the tip of the blade and she suppressed a wince. "Your word. What does your word mean?"

"To me?" The black wolf dropped his arms and leveled her with his full attention. A heady and immersive experience. The air felt thick and warm. Her skin tingled with awareness. "My word, my honor, mean everything."

She felt the truth of the words in the same way many of their kind could pick out a lie; heartbeat, breathing, the quickening or calm rush of blood, dilated eyes and varying facial tics. He was as steady as he'd been the first time he spoke. The only change she'd noted was when she'd brought the blade to her thigh; the slightest uptick in his pulse. Some distant part of her mind warned her not to trust it. He was an Alpha, and Alphas were known for their control. Perhaps he'd had practice lying. Perhaps he was simply lulling her into a false sense of security. Sarrassin held his eyes and tried to make herself believe that; believe he would go back on his word and rape and murder her the moment he had a chance. She could not.

But then she hadn't answered his question.

"I am Princess Sarrassin of Thilinael. I am engaged to be married to Jalal," she blurted, watching closely for his reaction. His brows raised slightly, but little else. "My parents have demanded a courtship and I've been traveling with him for weeks. He rode ahead, I don't know why, and instructed me to rendezvous with him in Bellharbor, where we would depart for his home in Casafair. I don't know anything about his political affairs, his businesses, or him, really. I only just met him at our Litha celebration. That is all the information I have."

The black wolf nodded once. "Then that is all you have."

"And you'll still give me your word, knowing what I am to Jalal, that no one will harm me?"

He took one step forward, another. Stopped when she arched the blade warningly. Perhaps two of her shorter strides away from where she sat perched on her knees, the wolf crouched down so that they were more evenly met. She still had to look up to meet his eyes. "You have my word, Princess. You are safe."

"There was talk of binding me. I won't be tied and thrown over the rump of a mount. Your word."

"You have it."

Sarrassin thought wildly for something else to demand. Surely that wasn't everything. Her mind was in scatters. She nodded at the hilt of her sword. "I'll be keeping my sword. Your word."

"You may keep your sword," he began, voice a low drawl. "Though I'll need _your_promise not to do something like this again."

She blinked at him. "I - well. If your word holds, then I'll have no need. You have my promise."

"Is there anything else?"

Glancing beyond him at the carnage on the road, her brave face slipped a little. "Will you let me go home?"

"No."

Her breath caught in her throat. "But -"

" - Jalal will hear of this and will be gathering a force far beyond what I have here today. I will not risk my warriors to return you. We will ride for the north and, once safely beyond our borders, will send word to your father." He lifted a shoulder. "On that I can give you my word. Nothing more."

Another thought occurred to her. "Will you use me as leverage? Ransom?"

"My dispute is with Jalal. Not you or your family. We will deal directly with your parents regarding your safety and return." His eyes dipped to the tip of her sword, buried in the fur of her thigh. "I can smell your blood."

Sarrassin, exhausted and emotionally spent, finally relented. She pulled the sword away and laid it in the grass by her opposite knee. The black wolf closed his eyes and released a slow breath. "I will travel with you, lord, and agree to your terms."

"Lord," he repeated, lip curling in distaste. His eyes glanced briefly over her face and then he stood. "I am not your lord, nor lord to anyone else."

Lips pursed, she said, "Then shall I call you Alpha?"

"You are not a wolf in my pack, and so I am not your Alpha."

"Well, I must call you something."

He approached her, then, closing the small distance until his hindpaws were nearly touching her knees. Sarrassin's head spun, her nostrils flaring around an intoxicating combination of earth and soil, leather and fire, and a male tang that was specific to him. His fur was impossibly thick and so black she'd swear it hinted blue when the sun hit it right. The hair on his head was left in its natural state, blending seamlessly with the unruly mane that stretched from the ruff behind his head, around his neck, and nearly halfway down his chest, coming to a point between his pectoral muscles. A far cry from the fancy, cropped cuts of her father and brother, or the thin, slicked over style of her future husband.

"You may call me Rowan."

"Because that is your title?"

His brows furrowed. "Because that is my name." He extended a paw and, reluctantly, she slid her paw into his. "We need to move quickly," he said. "Are you good to ride?"

"Yes." She looked to the last place she saw her mare and frowned. "Though it seems my mount is not." Rowan turned and led her back across the meadow, to the side of a monster of a horse, black, like its rider. Her head barely reached its shoulder.

Rowan bent slightly and linked his paws. "Step up."

Ass situated comfortably in the saddle, Sarrassin couldn't comprehend managing such a creature. She realized too late that Rowan intended for them to ride together. He mounted behind her and she was suddenly flush against his front, one of his paws gripping the reins loosely, the other wrapped around her middle. "Mind yourself," he said in her ear. "We ride hard to safety."

Unsure of where to put her paws, she gripped the horn of the saddle with both. Rowan made a sweeping motion with his arm, one that the entirety of his group understood, and they were off, the pounding of hooves drowning out everything else. The jarring was too much for the awkward way she was holding on, so she readjusted her left paw to hold tight to his thigh and grasped his forearm with the other. As they passed a sign pointed northwest scrawled with Bellharbor, Sarrassin felt her stomach roll miserably.

Her brother's voice echoed in her mind; useless, ruined, without prospects. A small and bitter part of her thought she'd be labeled those things even if she was returned in one piece, that merely being in these wolves' presence would be enough to destroy her. She was alive, though. That seemed the most important thing at the moment. Sarrassin could only hope her parents would feel the same. And, of course, that she survived long enough to find out.

.