Chapter 79: The Price of Usefulness

The light through the slit was back to gold—midday, maybe later. I’d lost track again. Hunger gnawed low in my gut. Talon had fed twice from what little I had left to give. Now he was quiet, dozing against my skin. Still too pale. Still too still. But breathing.

I cradled him close and stared at the wall.

Waiting.

I didn’t expect him to come to me.

And yet—

Bootsteps.

Two sets.

No idle pacing this time. Purposeful. The air changed before the door even opened.

The lock turned.

The hinges groaned.

Roran Vale entered.

He didn’t bring a chair. Didn’t bring a scribe. Just himself—and the same flint-eyed guard from yesterday. He stood just inside the door, posture relaxed, coat draped loosely, hands behind his back.

He looked at me like he’d been thinking about this conversation for hours.

Like he already knew the shape of it.

“Good morning,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

He glanced at Talon, then back to me. “You slept?”

“Some.”

He nodded once. “I’ve come for your answer.”

I held his gaze. “I’m not here to beg.”

“I assumed.”

“I’m not here for charity.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.”

I shifted Talon in my arms, covering more of him beneath the cloak. “But I’m not without value.”

Roran said nothing.

So I filled the silence.

“I’ve tracked and hunted since I was old enough to hold a blade. I’ve fought rogues. Fought men. I’ve scouted through war lines and burned camps to the ground. I can kill clean, move quiet, survive in conditions most wolves wouldn’t last an hour in.”

I paused.

“I’m fast. I’m smart. I don’t give up. And I don’t lose.”

Still, he said nothing. He wasn’t writing it down. Not weighing it. Just… studying me.

I went on. “If you turn me out, I’ll survive. But you’ll be wasting something that could’ve served you.”

Roran tilted his head slightly. “You’re very good at selling your usefulness.”

“I’ve had to be.”

“But you’ve told me nothing about where you came from.”

“I told you I wasn’t Hollow.”

“You did.”

“I came from the Nightfall Pack.”

That made something flicker in his eyes. The name wasn’t obscure. Not anymore.

He waited.

I went on, voice level. “They turned on me. After the war. My mate was killed. I was sent out. Hunted.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t roll over and let them own what was left of me.”

A beat passed.

Another.

Roran shifted slightly, just enough to study the line of my face.

“And this mate of yours—was he high rank?”

“No.”

The lie tasted bitter, but I wore it clean.

Roran didn’t flinch. “What was his name?”

I didn’t answer.

“I assume your silence means he was someone important.”

I said nothing.

He let it go. That easily. Which somehow made it worse.

“You have a child,” he said. “Unregistered. Concealed. Protected like a weapon or a weakness—depending on how you view the world.”

“He’s mine.”

“That much is obvious.”

“He’s not your business.”

“Everything in my territory is my business.”

I met his gaze. “Then make me part of it.”

That surprised him. Just a flicker. His lips twitched—half a breath from a smirk.

I kept going.

“I’ll work. I’ll prove myself. But I won’t crawl for scraps. If you want my help, you’ll take it on my terms.”

“You’re in chains.”

“You’re still listening.”

Silence again. Heavy. Electric.

Then—

“Ten days.”

I blinked.

“You’ll stay in the Hollow. Train. Work. Prove you’re what you say you are.”

“And after ten days?”

“You’ll be evaluated.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

“And if I pass?”

“You get to stay.”

“And if I fail?”

“You leave. On foot. With what you carried in.”

I nodded. Once. “Deal.”

He moved toward the door. Then stopped.

Glanced back at me. At Talon.

“Does he have a name?”

“No.”

A longer pause. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t owe you everything.”

Roran looked at me like I was a page in a book he’d half-read and already planned to return to.

He opened the door.

Stepped out.

Said nothing more.

The door shut behind him.

And I was alone again.

But not uncertain.

Ten days.

That was all I needed.

The silence left behind by Roran’s exit wasn’t like before.

It had shape now. Expectation. Tension that wasn’t quite threat, but wasn’t comfort either.

I sat still for a long while, Talon tucked against me, listening to the fading echo of his footsteps. Ten days. No more, no less. Just enough rope to climb—or hang.

Eventually, I laid back against the wall. The chain at my ankle clinked softly as I adjusted, just enough to rest without letting myself collapse. Talon was too quiet, his breathing shallow but steady. My heartbeat thudded through my ribs, slow but solid.

I didn’t close my eyes.

I didn’t sleep.

An hour passed, maybe more, before I heard the footsteps again.

I recognized the pattern—shorter stride, heavier boots. The same guard.

The lock turned, and the door creaked open.

He stood in the threshold, expression unreadable. “On your feet.”

I rose slowly, one hand on the wall, the other cradling Talon. I waited for him to tell me where we were going. He didn’t.

He turned and walked.

I followed.

We moved through the corridor in silence, our steps echoing through the stone halls. The torches had burned lower now, casting everything in a deeper amber. It wasn’t cold—but the Hollow never quite felt warm, either. Like the place itself didn’t care if you were comfortable.

We climbed a set of narrow stairs carved straight into the stone. At the top, a different scent greeted me—wood polish, old leather, hearth smoke. The floors changed beneath my bare feet, from rough stone to smooth timber. I’d stepped out of the prison and into a house.

The Packhouse.

The Hollow’s heart.

The guard led me through a long corridor. Everything here was utilitarian—nothing soft or frivolous. No rugs, no wall hangings. Just clean lines, dark wood, and hard light.

He stopped at a door near the end of the hall and opened it.

Motioned me inside.

The room was small, square, and plain—but it was more than I expected.

There was a bed in one corner. A crib beside it—sturdy, pine-scented, freshly built. A table against the opposite wall held a covered tray, a pitcher of water, two cups. A bathroom branched off through a narrow door, just wide enough to see a sink and what looked like a deep claw-foot tub.

The guard stood in the doorway as I stepped inside, taking it all in.

He didn’t close the door yet.

“You’ll stay here for the trial period,” he said. “You’re not to leave the Packhouse after dark. No wandering. No visitors. Someone will come for you in the mornings.”

I didn’t answer. I was staring at the crib. Clean linen. A folded blanket inside. No scent of other pups. New.

“You’ll clean up tonight,” the guard added. “You’ll report to the kitchen staff at sunrise.”

He pointed over his shoulder. “Take this hall to the main stairwell. Down to the first floor. Kitchen’s at the back, past the mess hall. You’ll be expected to help prep and serve. You’re not too good for grunt work.”

“Didn’t say I was.”

He gave me a look. Not hostile. Not warm. Just wary.

“There’s food on the table,” he said. “Real food.”

Still, I said nothing.

He left.

Closed the door.

And locked it from the outside.

For a long moment, I just stood there.

Talon stirred, soft against my chest.

I turned toward the bed. Sat. The mattress dipped under my weight, springs creaking. Real blankets. Thin but clean. There was a small window above the bed—a square of glass paned with wooden slats. No view, just moonlight and black sky.

The meal sat untouched on the table.

Eventually, I rose and set Talon in the crib. His lashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake. I smoothed the blanket over him, tucked it close to his chin, and brushed my fingers across his soft hair.

Still breathing.

Still warm.

Still mine.

I crossed to the table and lifted the tray lid.

Meat. Stewed, spiced, and still warm. A wedge of bread thick with butter. Roasted root vegetables. Even an apple. Not luxury—but fresh. Heavy with intention.

I ate fast, but quiet. Not out of fear of being heard. Just—reverence. I’d had worse meals after hunts. But I couldn’t remember the last time something had been made for me without expectation of payment in blood or bone.

The pitcher held water, cold and clean. I drank until I couldn’t anymore, then splashed the rest into the bathroom basin and washed my face, hands, throat.

I stripped out of my cloak. The shirt beneath was stiff with blood and dirt. My pants were worse. I peeled them off, grimacing at the ache in my joints, the pull of the half-healed wound at my ribs.

The bathroom had a mirror.

I didn’t look at it.

I turned on the tap and waited until steam rose, then filled the tub. I sank into it slowly, muffling a groan as the water wrapped around me. The heat stabbed through the chill still buried in my bones. My body hummed with it. Everything stung—every scrape, every bruise, every patch of skin that had gone too long without rest.

I scrubbed. Gently. Then harder. Until the blood came off in swirls. Until the grime gave way to something like flesh again. Until I felt like I belonged to myself again, even if just barely.

When I climbed out, I toweled off, wrapped the thin robe left on a hook around my body, and returned to the crib.

Talon hadn’t moved.

I touched his cheek.

Still breathing.

Still here.

I crawled into the bed and lay on my side, watching him.

The Hollow hadn’t killed me.

Not yet.

Tomorrow would start whatever this trial was meant to be. Ten days. Just ten. I’d survived worse.

But I had to be more than a survivor now.

I had to become someone useful.

To them.

To him.

To Talon.

The light in the room dimmed as clouds crossed the moon. The wind whispered against the windowpane. My eyes burned. My body ached. But I didn’t sleep. Not fully.

Not yet.

I kept watch.

And I waited for morning.