Chapter 3 - The King in the Barn
The barn was cold, but it was sheltered from the killing wind.
Dorothy didn't rest. The adrenaline of survival burned through her veins like fire. She stumbled around the dusty, dim interior, gathering dry wood from an old stack and sparking a small, hidden fire in the iron brazier her father used for shoeing horses years ago.
She brought over buckets of clean snow to melt over the flames, gathered clean linen rags from an old storage chest, and hauled out her father’s rusty leather tool bag, which held needle, thread, and sharp bone saws.
The wolf lay on his side in the deep hay, his breathing shallow and erratic.
"This is going to hurt," Dorothy whispered, kneeling beside his massive chest with a pair of heavy iron pincers and a flask of cheap, high-proof whiskey. "I'm sorry. But I have to take the arrowheads out, or the rot will kill you by dawn."
She poured half the whiskey directly over his wounds. The wolf’s body convulsed violently, a sharp, deafening roar erupting from his throat that shook dust from the barn rafters. His golden eyes flared with terrifying light, his claws digging deep trenches into the wooden floorboards beneath the hay.
"Hold on!" Dorothy cried, setting her knees against his shoulder to pin him down.
She took the iron pincers, clamped them around the shaft of the first arrow in his ribs, and pulled with all her weight.
The barbs tore through skin and muscle with a sickening sound. The wolf snarled, his jaws snapping shut right beside her neck—so close she could feel the wind of his fangs. But he didn't bite her. Even in his delirium of agony, his teeth refrained from sinking into her skin.
She pulled the second arrow from his hip. Blood gushed out in a thick, hot pulse. Dorothy instantly slammed a pad of linen mixed with crushed wintergreen herbs onto the open hole, pressing down with both hands until the heavy bleeding slowed.
The third arrow was the worst. It had struck near his heart, buried deep between his chest bones.
Dorothy looked into his eyes. He was staring at her, his golden gaze heavy with unutterable pain. "Stay with me," she sobbed, tears cutting clean lines through the soot and blood on her face. "Stay with me, big guy!"
She gripped the shaft and yanked backward.
The arrow came free, accompanied by a thick spray of dark blood.
Instantly, the wolf’s entire body went rigid. His chest gave one final, violent heave—and then collapsed. His golden eye rolled back, turned dull, and closed.
The heavy thudding of his heart ceased completely.
Silence descended upon the barn, broken only by the crackle of the wood fire and the howling of the wind against the walls.
"No," Dorothy whispered, her hands covered in his hot blood. "No, no, no! Don't you dare!"
She dropped the iron tools and slammed her ear flat against his wet, fur-covered chest.
Nothing. No movement. No air.
"Wake up!" she screamed, taking her fist and slamming it hard into his massive ribs. "I didn't drag your heavy ass ten miles through a blizzard just for you to quit in the straw! Wake up!"
She pressed her chest against his, trying to force air into his massive lungs, pressing her ear back to his ribs, sobbing hysterically into his silver fur.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Thump.
A faint, heavy tremor struck her cheek.
Thump... THUMP.
The wolf’s massive chest expanded with a violent, gasping breath. Air rushed back into his lungs like a sudden storm, his limbs twitching as his powerful constitution fought back against the abyss of death.
Dorothy threw her head back and laughed—a broken, weeping laugh that echoed off the high roof. "You stubborn, impossible bastard," she wept, pressing her forehead against his massive snout. "You absolute stubborn bastard."
For the next four hours, she worked like a woman possessed.
She used needle and heavy thread to stitch the gaping wounds shut, cleaning the skin with whiskey and binding the flesh tight with torn linen. She built up the fire, wrapped him in dry horse blankets, and sat beside him in the straw, holding his massive, heavy paw in her lap to keep him warm.
As the first faint light of grey dawn crept through the cracked wooden walls, Dorothy sat back against a bale of hay, exhausted beyond measure.
Now, with the wolf clean and resting peacefully, she truly took in his staggering appearance.
Under the firelight, his grey fur shimmered with silver and black markings that formed subtle, intricate crests down his spine. His paws were the size of dinner plates. The pure aura of raw, crushing dominance that radiated from his resting body was staggering—even unconscious, he filled the entire barn with a weight that made the air feel thick.
This was no wild rogue wolf. This was an Alpha. An high alpha of a rank she had never encountered in her simple life.
The rusted latch of the barn door suddenly clicked.
Dorothy snapped awake, grabbing an iron pitchfork from the wall.
The heavy pine doors creaked open, admitting a blast of swirling snow and a figure wrapped in a dark fur coat.
It was Roland Thorne.
He was pale, holding a half-empty bottle of rye, his eyes bloodshot from a night of drinking. "Dorothy?" he called out, his voice thin. "You foolish girl... Voss said you ran... the guards are looking..."
He stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes fell upon the blood-soaked linen rags scattered across the floor, the bloody arrows lying in the dirt, and finally, the massive grey beast lying under the horse blankets near the fire.
Roland dropped his whiskey bottle. It shattered against the stone floor, dark liquid spilling across the wood.
He inhaled sharply—and as he caught the faint, lingering scent in the barn air, every drop of color drained instantly from Roland Thorne’s face. He stumbled backward, his knees knocking together in sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Father?" Dorothy said, stepping forward with the pitchfork. "What is it?"
"Dorothy..." Roland’s voice fell to a terrified, raspy whisper. He raised a trembling hand, pointing a shaking finger at the wounded wolf. "What... what have you done? Do you know who that is?"
"No," Dorothy said, frowning. "It’s a wounded wolf I saved in the forest."
Roland fell to his knees, his eyes wide with absolute horror.
"That is not just a wolf, girl!" Roland shrieked under his breath. "That coat! That mark on his shoulder! That scent! That is King Davian Silver!"
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Dorothy’s heart stopped.
"The Supreme Alpha," Roland whimpered, pressing his hands against his face. "The butcher of the Western Reach... The Alpha King!"
