Page 20 of Blood Marked

She kept her hood low, her steps steady. If she looked like she belonged, maybe she wouldn’t get ripped apart.

The deeper she went, the more the glamour of the place faded. The stone streets gave way to mud-streaked alleys. Laughter turned to growls. Tension thickened.

And then she heard it, a shout. Followed by a cry.

Selene stopped just behind the edge of a wall, heart slamming against her ribs like a prisoner rattling the bars.

Around the corner, under a flickering rune-lamp, two wolves in black leathers dragged a man to his knees. Blood streaked down his temple and soaked the collar of his tunic, staining it a deep, ugly red. His hands were bound behind him with thick cord, the kind enchanted to burn through flesh if he fought it.

A third figure, taller, broader, and cruelly calm—stepped forward. The golden sigil of House Fenrir shone against the black of his cloak. In his hand, he held a curved blade with runes etched into the metal, glowing faintly with ancient magic. It hummed in the air like it was hungry.

A crowd had gathered. Men and women, some armored, others in dark leathers, watched with folded arms and blank faces. No one stepped in. No one looked surprised.

The bound man tried to speak, his mouth working around slurred syllables, too wet and loose to form words. Blood bubbled from his lips.

The enforcer didn’t wait.

The blade came down in a vicious arc—not slicing flesh, butbrandingit. A hiss split the air, louder than fire on wet wood, as the metal burned through the man’s tunic and into his chest. The man screamed, a raw, animal sound that clawed through the square.

Selene slapped a hand over her mouth.

But it wasn’t over.

The enforcer stepped back. Another shifter emerged from the shadows—tall, with broad shoulders and a pelt draped over one arm. He held a collar made of bone and steel.

“No—” the man sobbed, voice finally audible.

The shifter didn’t respond. He clamped the collar around the man’s neck, and when it clicked into place, the runes on the bladeflared again. The man spasmed once, then twice, as a blue shimmer passed over his body.

Then… he shifted.

Not fully.

The bones beneath his skin cracked and twisted, but it waswrong—stunted, half-formed. A muzzle burst through his face, but the rest of him remained human. He collapsed, twitching, moaning like a broken thing.

The enforcer nodded, and the crowd began to disperse.

Selene stared, horror freezing her to the spot.

That wasn’t just punishment.

That was transformation astorture. A forced half-shift. A curse in motion.

She’d heard whispers, old files hidden deep in her father’s study, warnings about forbidden methods used by rogue enforcers or darker corners of the Dominion. But this… this wassanctioned.

“May the Mark remind him,” the enforcer intoned, sheathing the blade with reverence.

Selene’s stomach turned.

One of the onlookers, pale eyes and patchy facial hair—turned sharply, head tilting. She ducked back into the shadows, heart beating so loud she was sure someone could hear it. Her hand pressed against the stone wall for support.

This wasn’t justice.

It was dominance. Terror, dressed as ritual. A performance to remind everyone that weakness was not just punished—it wasdestroyed.

And she’d walked straight into it.

Her fingers trembled as they rose to her chest, to the mark burned into her skin days ago. It pulsed against her palm, faint but unmistakable.

---