Chapter Text
Dania slipped through the heavy front door as quietly as possible, careful to not alert the innkeeper, who was muttering to someone in the kitchens. She knew it had been a long time since she last paid rent, but being a spy didn’t allow for constant remuneration, and the little magic she casted to entertain travellers at the port barely covered the cost of a hot meal for dinner, therefore she had to climb the steep wooden stairs quite quickly, careful not to make them creak, and once in her dusty room, get at least a couple hours of sleep, the bare minimum to have the energy needed to repeat that same routine the following day. In less than a week, Heimdall would reach her with new orders, and once she reported her discoveries, he would give her two, very useful things: enough money to pay off her debt and a new task, hopefully far away from the misty town of Bonduar. Born and raised in the small and sunny Republic of Witches, where winters were mild and summers perfect for swimming in the crystalline sea, Dania struggled to adapt to the dull climate of the Mortal Kingdom, but she used the thought of being able to return to her usual attire as a reward, a finish line that would help her endure what she had to undergo in order to mingle with the locals and not attract the Hounds. Every witch knew the story of the first werewolf: when a handsome and charming man was rejected by the woman he loved, he took her by force in a field; looking at the full moon through the tears, the sorceress cursed him to an endless torture, transforming him into a monster in disguise, unable to distinguish friend from foe, blinded by an insatiable hunger for human flesh and scourged by the thought of corrupting everything his teeth touched. The man paid no heed to those words, until the following month something horrible happened to his mind and body: on the next full moon, his nails became claws, and his eyes blood shot with pain; his teeth turned into fangs, while bones and ligaments broke and lengthened, only to find a new and unnatural shape. This soulless beast yelped and howled in the night, as it ran desperately away from the city, the witch watching from the very hill she was raped on how the once beloved man massacred and poisoned all his fellow villagers. Taking refuge beyond the Vanbalt Mountains, the first werewolf made his curse a blessing, as he was now the perfect predator, able to build the strongest army in the continent, endless battalions made up of his best subjects, poor wretches whom he and his followers met during the wrong night. In that sea of murderers, some excelled for their skills as hunters, so the Hounds were born, and specialized in finding witches powerful enough to be the one who casted the spell and who, in the blink of an eye, could’ve taken away all the Alpha’s power. Those who were captured were transported in the Land of the Alpha, an impervious and perpetually snow-covered region, where they were interrogated and summarily tried. Few returned from those frozen holdings, but none unchanged, and they were all considered traitors anyway, for only important information led to an effective release. The other option, the one many preferred, was death, even if it involved ending up at the stake with hands tied and eyes and mouth sewn up, for greater safety. If only the werewolves knew the witch they sought was able to perform magic only by thinking about her target, they might’ve stopped those cruel shows, but sometimes the journey was the only hope for the captured, and if they had know, Dania was sure they would begin to exterminate her race without rules nor mercy, reducing their already small population to the point of no return. Sure, they still had their protected borders, but how long would it take for the enemy to knock on their doors? And what would happen when a bunch of powerful being would start doubting the safety of their gilded cage? Anarchy, something the Council couldn’t afford. So there were people like her, who did dangerous jobs, even as baits sometimes, and perpetuated a century old cold war. The mortals decided not to take sides, dependent on both the great power of the witches and the metals werewolves extracted from their mountains, which made them untrustworthy, so unreliable when someone was in debt that Dania recognized the harsh and cruel language of the enemy even from the hall. One of them was shouting, but there was a group climbing the stairs, and she had little to no time before they smashed the door, which landed on the floor with a thud. Four men entered the dark room, all dressed in bare and rudimentary heavy clothes. Their faces were dirty from the long journey, but they didn’t look tired, their unnaturally golden eyes gleaming eagerly at the sight of the witch. Despite their physical strength, they were all armed and didn’t care to hide it, long daggers and throwing axes hanging from the thick belts they sported over the black coats. Before she could speak, two rushed to catch her, but she quickly dodged, knocking one upside down with a spell and hitting the other with her elbow square in the face. The third, a bald, long-bearded mastodon, punched her in the stomach, hard enough to throw her onto the bed. At her command, the window exploded into a thousand fragments, and although she heard a couple of pained moans, she didn’t have the time to check what damage she caused, too busy fighting against one of the first attackers, equipped with a pair of rowan handcuffs, able to at least partially suppress a witch’s powers.
“Shut her mouth,” said the older one, when they finally managed to subdue her. Although she was proud of the fight she put up, Dania would’ve liked to be that dangerous, to be able to cast the Grimoire’s spells without using her hands as catalysts, but it was an advanced level of study, time and effort they would never waste on a spy and, given the situation, something she would probably never learn. Those were the only gloomy thoughts flooding her mind as they dragged her toward the harbour and finally onto one of their ugly ships, dark and big boats made to last and endure even the coldest winter, and the mood didn’t change when she saw the damp hold smelling of mould, dry blood and old excrement. Other than the logs, hung from rusty chains set to the ceiling, there was no furniture, only the wooden walls, soaked wet and populated with lichens creating disturbing abstract designs. One of the Hounds was now waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his handsome shaved face illuminated by the depressed flame of a lantern. He had short blond hair, and a few strands fell over his pale forehead, crossed by a single wrinkle, caused by his slightly furrowed brows. He watched her with his human eyes, the same blue as the spring sky, but didn’t move when his companion pushed her down the stairs, letting her land with her face on the worn wood, Although she was never happy to tumble like a sack of potatoes, the fall freed her of the rudimentary gag, and she decided to immediately take advantage of the opportunity to speak. Looking around, she saw two other prisoners, hanging by their arms like lifeless puppets waiting for the master to pull their strings. One couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and Dania’s heart squeezed in her chest.
“Maybe you’re not the infamous Hounds,” she growled, trying to get on her knees. She tasted blood in her mouth, and she was sure she had at least a chipped tooth, but she would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her suffer, to the point she held back a sob even when he yanked her to her feet.
“Maybe you’re just slavers selling women. Do you choose them young because you hope to meet them at the next port where you will dock?” she asked, even though she knew it was a lie, just a provocation to get a reaction, whatever it was.
“I’m not a slaver,” he merely replied sardonically, while making sure the handcuffs were properly attached to the chains.
“And it should make me think better or worse of you?” she hissed, never looking away. She noticed her jailer was avoiding her gaze, she saw that in hearing her speak, something was stirring inside him, but after all, that was why most witches were silenced, not in fear of their power, but to minimize the personification of the prisoner. Dania, however, didn’t intended to be just a number, a notch on the belt of those assholes, she had fought, and she would’ve continued to do so, even if at the moment the most she could do was throw a few kicks. If her ribs hadn’t hurt so much, she might’ve even hit him in the face, but for now she had to be content with aiming for his shins, and dirtying his shiny black boots as much as possible. Let him bring Bonduar’s mud home.
“You’ll face a regular trial, as the law requires,” he replied, walking away to check on his work.
“How many of us are found innocent in your alleged trials?” she continued, even though she knew her time was running out. The Hound did a good job, she tested it herself, so soon he would be off to celebrate with his companions, leaving her to wonder if the other two girls were strong enough to try to free themselves as she intended to, although she still didn’t have a plan.
“Your laws are a farce,” she yelled after him, as he turned his back on her, “just like you and your friends. Big, bad Hounds, four grown men against a young women! How honourable, so noble! I thought you respected your women!”
“But you’re not a woman,” he replied, already on the stairs. She couldn’t see his face, but his tone was as cold as the ice of his land, therefore she could imagine what disgust bore his piercing blue eyes. “You’re just a witch.”
In all honesty, the one you can only have with yourself, he hadn't said it because he really believed it. If it had been a catch like any other, it would’ve been true, but she resisted not only with her powers, she even fought like a mere mortal, and continued to do so even when she had evidently lost. She hadn’t given up even as he tied her to the chains, and she hadn’t complained, she hadn’t shown pain for even a second. She must’ve possessed considerable fortitude, but it was her courage that stuck him, the fact that despite he could’ve made her suffer the worst pains, she insulted his pride anyway. Besides, she was beautiful, all over the Rift, the region he came from, he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a gorgeous woman. It was probably something in her eyes, dark, observant, in such stark contrast to the vital, rosy skin of her bruised cheeks. Little did he know of lively things in the Land of the Alpha, with everything covered in snow and moss. Sure, there were the forests, with their ancient evergreens so high they could touch the sky, but it too was always gray, cloudy, and the sunlight rarely reached the mining villages unfiltered. However, it was evident he was the only one with thoughts of that kind, his companions content in their noisy drunkenness.
“Always serious, Captain Rogers,” teased the Sergeant Major, a huge man several years older than him and too empty-headed to step up through the ranks. In fact, Steve already considered it a miracle that he made it this far, but given his fondness for violence, he had no doubt he might’ve killed his superior to get there. The thought of being his next target didn’t bother him, as he knew his fighting style by heart and it was full of flaws both on the defensive and offensive side. Being a malnourished kid who barely survived the bite taught him a lot, and analyzing what and especially who was around him was perhaps the most useful skill.
“Were you hoping to fill the hold again in just one week?” asked a Private, the latest addition of the team, with widened eyes. If he considered him valuable, Steve would’ve learned his name as well, but from how the witch hit him first, he had no doubt his stay would be too short to be worth it.
“Undoubtedly,” he lied, but no one noticed, and not just because of the amount of dark beer ingested. He honed that sardonic tone for years, starting when he was just a tall, thin kid getting ready to go through training as a Hound, and now that he was high ranked and as big as the others, it was even easier to use it. Surprisingly, the Alpha appreciated it too, but after all, under his control, there wasn’t much room for feelings and free will: his every word was an order, and those who didn’t respect it had no option but to walk away, become an Omega, destined to die alone, one way or another. Some whispered rumours of minor packs, who lived on the edge between the Land of the Alpha and the Mortal Kingdom, but Steve could hardly believe them, given the attention their master put into tracking witches and deserters alike.
“Do you think one of those we caught is the right witch?” the boy pressed him, and for a brief moment Steve wondered if he shouldn’t have growl to make him stop talking. It would’ve been obvious even to a blind man that none of the young women in the hold were the sorceress they were looking for, but each of those damn bitches could have useful information, something that would bring them closer to breaking the spell, so it was those same words he said to the Private, and without further explanation, he disappeared into the dark room, where the prisoners dangled like sausages waiting to be smoked. For some reason, the youngest looked ill, while the other, the first they captured, was dozing with her head resting on her right arm, stretched beyond belief, just the tips of her toes touching the floor. He didn't care about their comfort, and no one would’ve worried much if they all died on the journey, but he really wanted to do a good job, and armed with a crust of bread and a flask full of water, he walked over the only one awake, who looked at him with eyes full of terror, even if she tried to dissimulate it. As useful as it would’ve been, Dania never spoke to anyone who survived the trip or the captivity under the werewolves, so she just didn’t know what to expect when the young man came close enough to feel his breath on her face, but she would never, ever dreamed of hearing him say he brought her something to eat. Her stomach had been rumbling for a while now, and although she was much more concerned about her dry throat, she certainly wouldn’t say no to the shadow of a meal, poisoned or not. Of course, a kindness from one’s oppressor was never just a kindness, which she didn’t fail to point out, but to her utter amazement, her jailer told her it was just good manners, though probably a creature accustomed to deceit like her couldn’t know what they were.
"Strange to hear of good manners from someone who kidnapped three girls, chained them to the ceiling and left them for who knows how long without water,” she snapped, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn’t gone too far, if her sharp tongue didn’t sign her own death sentence, but seeing the food wasn’t removed from her reach, she relaxed and listened to her tormentor’s questions without saying a word or give any sign of understanding. The men wanted answers, but different ones from what she expected from an interrogation.
“What exactly do they teach you, apart from the fact we’re evil and should burn at the stake?” she finally asked, suspicious. Over the years, she developed a theory, but she would’ve never thought she was so close to the truth: the Alpha didn’t instruct its subjects, he kept them completely in the dark, feeding them sip of propaganda that vaguely tasted of reality. He wasn’t the leader the witches believed they were fighting, but a dictator, and while she couldn’t be sure that all Hounds were so naive, civilians certainly were.
“That you kill us whenever you have the chance,” he replied, coldly.
“Because you persecuted us for almost a century!” she exclaimed, exhausted. If he wanted to give her food she was more than eager to accept, but she had no intention of arguing much longer, knowing nothing she could say would change his mind. He didn’t care specifically about her, he was just doing his awful job, but then why did he have that wrinkle crossing his forehead again? Why didn’t he leave, or hit her, as any other Hound would’ve done? Maybe he was just curious, or maybe their interrogations weren't as cruel as the witches', but it surely was strange to bite into the bread he held between his fingers, her dry lips lightly brushing his fingertips. She chewed for a long time, slowly, trying to savour the taste of rye as much as possible. Though she doubted there might be anything better awaiting her north, she prayed this wasn't her last meal.
“Give some to the other too,” she whispered, her tone pleading. She didn’t think either of the young witches was capable of practicing the same magic she hadn’t been taught, but maybe if they’d been a little stronger they’d be able to come up with a plan.
“I can’t risk it, I’m sorry,” he murmured, but before he disappeared on the deck again, Dania swore she saw a hint of regret in his blue eyes.