Chapter Rating: PG

Word Count: 9,387
Pairings: Derek/Stiles, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Jackson
Warnings: none for this chapter


Of Honour, Power, and Wolves

chapter one


Stiles pressed closer to the trunk of the large oak tree, knuckles turning white and thighs starting to tremble with the effort it took to hold on. He squinted in the low light of the dusk, trying to decipher the figures gathered around the caged wagon. The horse-drawn contraption was oddly altered, boarded up across the sides as if to keep the prisoner inside a secret. Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes at that; given the meddling minds of the locals and general lack of interesting events in the area, something like that could only serve to add intrigue to an otherwise mundane sight.

The wagon had stopped near the back entrance of the Tower Capalláidir and Stiles recognized the profile and gait of his father as the commander of Duke Guaire's personal regiment walked out to meet the two soldiers who had jumped down from the sides of the wagon. The men spoke in hushed voices before all turning to look at the wagon that currently looked like a wooden box on wheels.

The horses hooked to it were acting uncharacteristically anxious for creatures as well trained as they. Four other men came out of the tower carrying long metal poles with chains on the end. Stiles saw his father's minute nod, a movement so familiar that he could recognize it even at a distance. At his father's signal, the group of men all moved to the back of the caged wagon. With a dull, heavy sound of metal and wood moving, the back opened and the men were quick to move forward and reach inside. They must have hooked the chains at the ends of their iron poles to the shackles around the limbs of their prisoner, because moments later they were leading the staggering figure out of the wagon.

Who was this person who needed such secretive and heavily armed transport? Stiles leaned forward on the bulky tree branch as far as he dared. Suddenly, one of the horses bolted forward and a shout echoed in the quiet evening as the men worked to keep hold of the prisoner while others moved quickly to grab at the horses. The prisoner, however, did not move; he simply stood silently, watching the mess of nervous men try to quiet the riled animals. With the help of one of the soldiers, the driver was able to get the horses under control, and Stiles' father waved him off. He drove away, the sounds of hooves echoing through the quiet evening. Stiles turned his attention back to the prisoner.

The captive man was dressed in clothes that more closely resembled torn rags, his chest nearly bare. He walked with a stoop, his back hunched and his knees bent as if he couldn't straighten them. His torso looked bulky as if he worked a hard job like in the forests or mines. The men led him to the tower door using the poles as leashes that could lead him without allowing him to get too close to them. Odd. The poles resembled something that would be used on wild animals, not simple humans.

Stiles furrowed his brow wondering how any single person could possibly be such a threat as to require that sort of treatment. The prisoner looked angry but calm. It seemed, really, a little ridiculous that even though he was the one being led to face however long in a dungeon and perhaps even some torture, he was the only one who seemed calm. His face was in shadow, but his movements were easy for Stiles to see. They were stiff as if all his muscles were bunched, gathered and ready if opportunity arose. He moved slowly, deliberately, taking in his surroundings and seemingly unbothered by the number of armed men around him. Stiles was watching from a fair distance and it was steadily growing darker with the encroaching night and yet, the man in chains had eyes that seemed to flash with colour. Stiles nearly fell out of his tree when the man looked in his direction. His breath left his lungs as he imagined that the prisoner looked directly at him, seeing him in his hiding spot. He couldn't have seen him, though, could he?

The group of men led the man into the stone tower, Stiles' father following at the back. Being the commander, it was part of his job to oversee such things.

Once the large iron doors were shut, Stiles was left in near silence. The crickets in the fields and gardens near the castle chirped, a soft breeze rustled the leaves, but otherwise, everything was still and quiet. He climbed down from the tree as gracefully as he could manage, which in the end wasn't very graceful at all. His muscles were stiff from being still for so long after hours of training and his 'graceful' landing consisted mostly of him falling on his backside and scrambling to find his footing. Grabbing up his sack of training gear - ugh, it smelled foul, it badly needed to be laundered - and jogged down the dirt path toward home.

Night had truly fallen by the time Stiles' father arrived home a few hours later looking worn and tired. Stiles had used the time to bathe, to wash his gear and hang it to dry, and to set about starting their night time meal. He nearly dropped the wooden spoon into the stew in his haste to approach his father once the man had set foot into their small manor.

"Hey! Uhh..." Stiles stammered out, coming to an awkward halt in front of his father. The older man paused in peeling off his boots to tiredly regard him. "Sorry, just... what's going on with the caged wagon? Why was it all boarded up?"

"What?" asked his father sharply. "How do you know about..."

Stiles slapped hand over his mouth, he had meant to inconspicuously wheedle it out of his father, not just ask it straight out.

"Stiles," sighed out his father in a long-suffering exhale. "Must you always poke your nose into private matters?"

"Just a healthy dose of curiosity, pops," said Stiles, toeing the ground and feeling sheepish. "You know how I am."

"Mmhmmm." His father sighed, finishing his task of removing his boots and tabard before stepping into the worn turnshoes he kept for wearing inside their home - humble for the abode of the duke's commander.

Stiles followed after him when he strode through the great hall toward the kitchen. His father sniffed appreciatively at the air before picking up the long-handled wooden spoon and giving the pot of stew a stir.

"I just stirred it," said Stiles, trying not to sound too annoyed. He wasn't some infant who knew nothing of cooking. He'd had a hand in doing it since - well; better to not think on that.

His father didn't respond, but simply set the wooden spoon back down and left the kitchen through the opposite doorway. He stepped past the heavy fabric partition that covered the doorway to the solar and Stiles stopped short at the drapery, not following him in. He could hear the rustling of his father changing out of his royal uniform and waited impatiently for him to finish.

"But seriously," said Stiles once his father had reappeared, "that was a lot of swords for just one skin."

"We were just being cautious," replied his father, simply, before flopping down in the wooden armed, red chair that sat in the corner of the small area between kitchen and solar.

"No wonder the taxes are upped so often if it takes six men and the commander of the ducal guard to move one criminal," said Stiles, grinning because he knew something was up and he just loved juicy information.

"Stiles," replied his father in the deep, commanding tone he usually saved for speaking to his men. It sounded slightly resigned, though, as he spoke to his son, as if he knew the lad would get it out of him, eventually. "Just leave it alone."

Stiles frowned but nodded, anxious as he was to solve the mystery, he still knew enough not to push his father after such a long day. The sound of sizzling startled him forward and he quickly moved back into the kitchen to move the pot to a cooler section of the wood stove. The mixture had boiled over just a little, but it was enough to momentarily fill the room with the putrid scent of burning gravy.

"Smells good," his father offered before pulling out two wooden bowls to hand to Stiles. "Is Mistress 'Lissa still sick?"

"She's much better," replied Stiles, ignoring his father's weak compliment considering the room smelled of the burnt bubbled-over stew. "Resting, though."

"Good," replied his father, distractedly.

"Yeah," agreed Stiles absently as he scooped a few spoonfuls of stew into the first bowl before passing it to his father.

"How was training today?" his father asked before turning to take his seat at the bulky wooden table in the far corner of the kitchen, no point eating in the great hall.

"Fine," replied Stiles, filling his own bowl and then taking a seat diagonally from his father.

"Learn any new moves?"

"Nope."

Stiles took a bite of his stew, breathing in through his teeth when he realized it was much too hot for his mouth.

"What did you cover?" asked his father before blowing on his spoonful.

"Hand to hand, then piking."

"Yeah?" asked his father, looking suddenly more interested. "Who were you paired with for hand to hand?"

"Scott."

His father made a noise of amusement in the back of his throat before shaking his head.

"Of course."

"Yep," replied Stiles before standing up. "We should have bread with this."

"How'd it go?" asked his father as Stiles left him.

Stiles ground his teeth and rolled his eyes while retrieving the loaf of bread where it was wrapped in cloth on the far counter.

"Well," said Stiles, setting the bread down on the table and breaking off a piece for his father. "We'll both be sore in the morning."

His father nodded, smiling in a strained way that showed good humour while also giving away his weariness. Stiles sat back down and watched his father dip the chunk of bread into his bowl of stew before turning his attention to his own meal. They ate in silence; his father a man of few words and tired from a long day and Stiles not wanting to talk military training any more than he had to. After a while, though, his curiosity about the happenings earlier that evening had him bouncing his leg under the table. He watched his father slowly eat as he turned over what information he had gathered from spying.

"So, is he like a warrior or something?" Stiles couldn't help but burst out a few moments later.

"Stiles," warned his father in monotone.

"Maybe he's a personal guard to one of the opposing dukes."

"Stiles."

"Or maybe he is one of the guys leading the miners' protest... wait, no, why so much security for just some peasant miner guy?"

His father sighed in annoyance.

"Is he a spy?" asked Stiles in an excited hiss, his eyes widening in excitement. "Oh! Like one of the ninja rogues from the East?"

"Stiles!" bellowed his father, slamming an open hand down on the wooden table.

Stiles jumped in his seat before shooting him a guilty smile.

"Sorry."

"Can you please just let it lie?"

"Yeah, of course!" replied Stiles, nodding emphatically before taking a bite of his stew. He mumbled "like a sleeping dog" before scooping another spoonful from his bowl.

They sat in silence for a few moments before being interrupted by a knock on the door. Stiles' father rose from the table and left to answer it. Once he was out of sight, Stiles quickly set his spoon down and stood from the table, hurrying over to the doorway between kitchen and great hall to see who had come.

Two of the higher ranking guards stepped into the manor, speaking to Stiles' father in hushed tones. His father turned back in that moment and his eyes landed on Stiles who grinned sheepishly.

"Come, sit," said his father to the two men. "I was just eating a late supper."

Stiles had the sense to grab his father's bowl and spoon and quickly bring it out to the long table at the front of the great hall.

"I can bring more for you, sirs," he said to the men as he placed the bowl at the table.

"No," said one, even though the other was looking at the half-finished rabbit stew with hungry eyes. "We came to speak on matters of the..."

"Stiles," cut in his father, suddenly. "You should leave us. I am sure you are tired from your training."

"Yes," said Stiles, regrettably. "I was finished eating anyway."

His stomach growled in hunger as he ducked through the second door at the end of the great hall to the family solar. He flopped down on his bed once he had reached his bedroom. He stared up at the fabric hanging above his bed for a few moments before the low murmur of voices was too much to bear and he was up and creeping back to the edge of the hall and crouching next to the doorway.

"The full moon is two nights away," spoke one of the men.

His father hummed in response.

"He will turn," spoke the other.

"He could turn tonight," countered Stiles' father.

"Will the cell hold him?" asked the first man, sounding fearful.

"We shall hope," said Stiles' father.

"What does the duke want with him?"

"I am not certain," answered Stiles' father. "He is calling a meeting on the subject."

"What are we to do in the meantime?"

"Make sure he does not bite you," replied Stiles' father gravely, though there was some sardonic humour in his voice.

Stiles was confused; what did it all mean? He crept away from where he had been listening and looked out his bedroom window, watching as the stars were appearing in the sky. Who was this prisoner? Why were the guards so on edge? Why was his father being so secretive?

He needed to know.

Feeling antsy with curiosity thrumming beneath his skin, Stiles decided to sneak out to find his friend. Together they could wonder at the facts.


"Stiles! What are you doing in my bedchamber?" hissed Scott. "I almost called the guards! Think of the scandal!"

Shrugging off his best friend's reaction, Stiles finished climbing into the bedroom through the castle window.

"I came bearing news of something much more interesting than the nighttime endeavors of the duke's son," said Stiles, smirking. "Oh, and I brought you this, too," he hastily added, pulling a folded paper from inside his cloak.

Scott quickly took it.

"A letter from my mum?" he asked.

Stiles nodded.

"Why does she insist on sending letters?" he complained as he unfolded it. "Why will she not come speak to me herself?"

"She does not wish to disgrace you with her presence... as you know."

"How is it a disgrace?" asked Scott in frustration. "She is allowed to visit her only son! She has permission and it isn't as though the entire dukedom doesn't already know of my bastard...hood."

Stiles winced.

"You've been recognized by the Duke," said Stiles. "Let it lie, Scott, you do not need to label yourself so vilely."

"The duchess thinks it," said Scott, staring unseeingly down at the letter.

"Nothing is keeping you from visiting your mother, you realize," said Stiles, moving the conversation forward with the knowledge of how his friend was prone to mope.

"I would not embarrass her with my presence in the house she serves," said Scott detestably.

With quick movements, Stiles smacked Scott on the back of his head.

"Ow!" gasped Scott, bringing a hand up to the back of his head. "Damnation, Stiles! I'll call the guards yet!"

"You will not," scoffed Stiles. "Now listen, I have news."

Scott sighed and plopped down in an armchair by the open window Stiles had clambered through moments before.

"Let's hear it, then," he said in resignation. "What town gossip have you gotten hold of this time? You're practically an old woman, Stiles."

"I resent that," said Stiles, shaking his head at Scott. "No, this news is my own first hand account."

"Of what?"

"Scandal! Intrigue! Mystery!"

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"There's a new prisoner in Tower Capalláidir," explained Stiles.

"Is that all?"

Stiles made a face, twitching in frustration at Scott's lack of enthusiasm.

"Are you not even the slightest bit curious of this news?" he asked.

Scott let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his armchair letting his head fall heavily to the dark red fabric at his back.

"I'm more curious of this Allison of the house of Argenté," he said in a whoosh of breath. "I am to meet her in just over a month's time."

"You're already betrothed," replied Stiles with the annoyance of having said it all before. "You already know she is considered plus belle la terre," he continued with sarcastic flourish. "You have heard the descriptions sung of her, of her long brown hair, her soft red lips, and her deep warm know that their family is of very high standing and this can only mean good things for your future, you lucky... horse's... ass. What else is there to be curious of?"

"But will she like me?" he asked, staring off into some unseen place with the face of a lovesick puppy.

Stiles faked a gagging sound as if he were to vomit.

"Shut up," exclaimed Scott, grabbing a fringed cushion from his side and throwing it at Stiles.

Stiles effectively ducked the pillow before leveling Scott with a glare.

"You don't even deserve my news," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," said Scott, frowning apologetically though it wasn't very persuasive because the corners of his mouth kept flickering with amusement. "Please tell me about the new prisoner."

Stiles looked like he would hold out on Scott as punishment, but began twitching shortly after with the desire to share. Finally, he dropped down into the chair opposite Scott's, leaning forward in excitement, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

"So, I stayed late after practise today..."

"I am aware."

Stiles gave Scott a look, clenching his jaw in annoyance. Scott put up his hands in surrender, before nodding for him to go on.

"...and when I went to leave, I saw the caged wagon coming through the castle gate," continued Stiles. "The thing was, it was boarded up instead of open like usual."

"Why would they do that?" asked Scott, finally starting to be pulled in.

"Because they don't want us to see what's inside," answered Stiles, grinning excitedly.

"But you did," prompted Scott, leaning forward in his seat.

Stiles bit his lips together and nodded.

"What was it?"

"I don't know who he was," said Stiles. Scott looked unimpressed seeming to have realized it was just some guy and this story was growing quickly uninteresting again. Stiles quickly continued. "I've never seen him before. He was built like a soldier, like really built. He was dressed in torn rags. I don't think he's from here."

"A spy?"

"Maybe?" answered Stiles with a shrug. "That's not the best part, though... They had him in chains like they would an animal. It took six men plus my father to take him into the tower."

"Was he violent?"

"That's the thing," said Stiles, shaking his head. "He just walked in for them, no problem."

"Why would they need so many men?" mused Scott.

"I don't know," said Scott. "Then, later when we were having our supper, two soldiers came to talk to father. They were asking strange things about the prisoner."

"What kind of strange things?"

"They were worried that the tower wouldn't be able to hold him," said Stiles giving Scott an incredulous look as he said it like he couldn't believe it though he had borne witness.

"Tower Capallaidir?" asked Scott in surprise.

Stiles nodded emphatically.

"That..." started Scott, furrowing his brow. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Father said something about not letting him bite them," added Stiles.

"Wh..."

There was a knock at Scott's door. Scott and Stiles stared at each other with wide eyes for a moment before Stiles was practically falling out of his chair in his haste to get to the window.

"Lord Scott?" asked the voice of an elderly woman from behind the heavy wooden door. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," called back Scott, his voice slightly more shrill than usual.

"I heard voices," spoke the voice again.

"I was dreaming," answered Scott.

"Tomorrow," hissed Stiles as he was crawling through the window. "After practise. We're going."

"Going?" whispered Scott looking back over at Stile in confusion.

"To see the prisoner," whispered back Stiles.

"What?" exclaimed Scott.

"I asked if I could come in," replied the elderly woman's voice from the other side of the door.

Scott's eyes widened in fear and he looked between the large wooden door and Stiles face where he was looking in the window after climbing out. Stiles shook his head at Scott.

"Uh, no, I'm fine, you shouldn't... trouble yourself," exclaimed Scott.

The door began to creak open and Stiles quickly ducked down, nearly losing his footing on the stone wall and falling to his doom.

"STOP!" exclaimed Scott. "I... I'm NAKED!"

"What?" asked the old woman standing in his doorway, quickly covering her face with her hand. "Why are you naked, my lord?"

"I... I was... I took off my bedclothes in my sleep," said Scott.

Stiles was trying not to laugh.

"I... I was sleepwalking and I... took them off," answered Scott. "I'm fine, please just go. I was talking in my sleep and walking in my sleep and... yeah, I am sorry if I woke you, Madame Eithne."

"Tis not a good omen, sleepwalking," said the stooped, old woman before turning to leave, one hand still over her eyes. "Not good 'tall."

"I'll try not to do it again," replied Scott.

Once the door was closed, he ran across the room and looked out his window to see Stiles halfway down the wall.

"I'm not going to Capalláidir," called out Scott in a low voice. "We're not permitted."

Stiles didn't answer, just kept climbing down the side of the wall like a spider. Scott watched him until both feet were safely on the ground.

"I'm not going, Stiles," he called out, unsure if the other actually heard him over the sound of the ocean and wind, and the distance now between them.

He watched Stiles run across the grassy cliff and out of view before letting out a frustrated huff and turning to his bed.


The next day, hot and sweaty after spending the morning and much of the afternoon training with Armsmaster Finstock, Stiles and a very hesitant Scott made their way across the first bailey to the tower. They walked past the oak tree where Stiles had perched the evening before, then they walked down the dirt road to the entrance of the tower.

Stiles stumbled into the tower, missing the last step in the dim lighting and nearly faceplanting on the straw covered stone floor. He quickly regained his balance, righting himself and straightening his clothes while glancing around. Scott stepped down the stray stair next to him looking nervous.

"What are you doing here?" asked the soldier standing guard.

"Finstock sent us," Scott tried, though it came out stuttering and obviously a lie. Stiles gave him an annoyed look.

"He said something about a training exercise and touring the tower and keep," offered Stiles since it wasn't actually a lie, the man had said something about it at one time.

"Huh," exhaled the soldier, relaxing his stance a little. "Sounds... unnecessary."

"Yeah, well, you know him..." trailed off Stiles awkwardly.

"He is an odd man," agreed the soldier. "Don't cause any trouble while you're here."

Stiles nodded and walked around the round ground floor of the tower. It was an open alley with three cells on its sides. A few paces forward was the base of the spiral staircase that would take soldiers up to the higher levels of the tower for defensive measures. The three cells to the sides were barred in with iron bars, only one was in use. The prisoner Stiles had seen the other night was crouched in it and looking at Stiles with feigned disinterest but genuine suspicion. He was slumped in a corner looking very cold in his torn rags, Stiles wanted to pity him but the prisoner's eyes were unsettlingly piercing.

"So, you, uh, put the dangerous criminals in here?" asked Stiles, kicking lightly at the bars of one of the empty cells and trying to appear nonchalant.

The soldier huffed at him like he was an idiot.

"Dangerous criminals?" he said. "We just kill them. This is for people who need a trial or are of particular interest."

"So, who's that guy?" asked Stiles, nodding toward the silent prisoner.

"No one of importance," said the soldier, his jaw flexing.

"So, he's just waiting for a trial?" asked Scott.

The soldier looked annoyed.

"Perhaps it would be best if you toured the keep now, lads," he said gruffly.

"Yeah," stammered out Stiles, jerking toward the door while glancing back and forth between the soldier and the prisoner. "Uh... thanks... bye."

Scott and Stiles left through the second entrance that would take them to the other bailey where the keep stood only paces away from the tower. They blinked in the bright sunlight once outside of the darkness of the tower.

"That was odd," said Scott.

"It was," agreed Stiles, glancing back at the tower they were slowly leaving behind. "There's something that soldier didn't want us to know about."

Scott nodded. They stopped just before the keep and Stiles looked back at Scott.

"So," he said, nodding his head at the venerable fortress. "Would you like to go tour the keep?"

Scott frowned in confusion.

"Why?"

Stiles huffed out a breath and gave Scott a mildly annoyed look before saying, "well, it would be suspicious if we didn't since you said..."

"You mean what you said!" cut in Scott.

Stiles scrunched his nose in irritation before shrugging and continuing toward the keep.

"Liars get their tongues cut out," he called over his shoulder, "good thing you're a duke's son."

He grinned when he heard Scott groan before hurrying to catch up to him.


The moon was watching Stiles through his bedroom window. Okay, it wasn't really watching him, it was just a piece of cosmic stone floating in the heavens. No matter what the kaillek said, it wasn't an actual being with the ability to watch or see or comprehend. Still, Stiles couldn't help but feel that odd unsettled feeling one might get when they were being watched. He buried his face in his feather pillow and groaned in frustration at his sleepless night before turning to the side to peek one eye out at the moon. It had the audacity to still be there hanging just off centre in the frame of his window and the black space of the night sky. Stiles let out another annoyed sound before pushing up and out from his pile of blankets to storm across his room and shut the drape across his window. As he reached for the rope pull, though, he heard a wolf howl in the distance.

He stood still, peering out into the night, his eyes naturally searching for the source of the sound though he knew he wouldn't see it; the wolf's voice had carried from far away. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms and quickly began to rub them away as if he could rid himself of the eerie feeling the mournful howl had caused.

The air was sharp in its chill and Stiles shivered before grabbing his robe and putting it on. He stared out the window at some of the faster moving clouds as they lazily glided across the nearly-full moon's face. His thoughts turned unbidden back to the mystery prisoner, not wanting to give up on the puzzle before it was solved. He pulled his clothing a bit closer, the air by the window being so much chillier than further into his room by his fireplace, and it made him think of the man's clothes. The prisoner had been wearing the most tattered of rags that barely looked recognizable as once being clothing. Stiles shivered sympathetically imagining how cold he would be in the unheated tower dungeon.

Stiles decided to take him a blanket and perhaps one of his outer garments in the morning. Whatever the guy had done, he was already paying for it with his imprisonment, it didn't seem right that he would be left to freeze to death, too. Who knew what other fate he had in store on top of that, or what else had been taken away from him when they had taken his freedom. Yeah, Stiles was definitely not cut out for this whole soldier thing.

He let out a sigh and left the window, letting the heavy drape fall back over it to hold in the heat and keep out the light of the moon. He climbed into bed and closed his eyes hoping he wouldn't think of wolves or prisoners in towers and just fall asleep.


Stiles awoke the next morning to the sound of his father and Mistress Melissa conversing in the hall. He groaned, tired from lack of sleep, and rolled out of his bed. Groggily, he went about getting dressed for the day before slipping out of his room and into the grand hall. His father was sitting at the long table eating his morning meal and going over some papers.

"Good morning Master Stiles," she said brightly. "Let me go fetch you a plate."

"Uggh," groaned Stiles rubbing a hand harshly over his face. "Thank you, Mistress 'Lissa."

He sat down heavily diagonally from his father and let his head fall to the heavy wood of the long table.

"Didn't you go to bed early last night?" asked his father after taking a bite of cheese.

"Couldn't sleep," muttered Stiles, not lifting his head.

Only when Mistress Melissa set a plate down in front of him did he finally sit up.

"You are feeling better?" he asked leaning his head on one hand and reaching for the bread on his plate with the other.

"I am, thank you," she replied. "Did you give my message to Scott?"

"Sure did," replied Stiles before taking a bite of his bread. "He hasn't written back yet," he continued through a mouth full of food.

Melissa tutted at his table manners before asking his father if he wanted more ale. When he waved her off, she patted Stiles' shoulder before leaving the great hall. Stiles thought of his plan to take blankets to the prisoner while he slowly ate his bread and cheese. He cringed when he thought of the fact that he was sitting near his father, the commander, while thinking of how he would get in to see the secret prisoner. Quickly, he chipmunked the rest of his breakfast before pushing back from the table to hurry back to his room.

"Suddenly in a hurry?" questioned his father from behind him.

Stiles stopped and forced himself to swallow the last mouthful of his breakfast, it was scratchy and underchewed as it travelled down his throat, before spinning around and grimacing a weak smile at his father.

"Uh... yeah," he said. "Got something to do before training."

His father gave him a long, calculating look before shrugging to himself and turning back to the papers sitting next to his plate that he had been reading through.

"Train hard."

"Grow strong," answered Stiles, nodding.

He pulled a couple wool blankets from the large wardrobe in his room and stuffed them in his burlap sack he kept his training gear in. Then he pulled a dark grey outer garment from his wardrobe and held it garment up to inspect. It was one of his warmest, made for wearing during the winter months, but he kind of hated it for how itchy it could be at the base of his throat. It would be good for the prisoner in the cold stone tower except... except it probably wouldn't fit him considering his bulky torso. Stiles put the tunic back and instead grabbed a heavy wool cloak and shoved it in his sack.

He hurried out of the manor with the stuffed sack heavy on his shoulder hoping he wouldn't look suspicious to his father. Luckily, his father was no longer in the great hall when he passed through to the front door. The morning sun was already hot in the sky overhead and Stiles could feel sweat moistening his brow when he passed through the castle gates.

As he was stumbling down the main path through the first bailey of the castle his mind filled with thoughts of how he would go about getting the supplies to the prisoner, the sweet smell of baking reached his nose. He followed his nose down the path and through the tunnel gate of the second bailey where most of the castle fair lay. He grinned when he saw the red headed baker girl step out of the little stone house with a tray of freshly baked foods to try to sell that morning.

"Gooood morning sweet lady Lydia," called out Stiles.

She frowned when she saw him rushing toward her.
"You know I'm betrothed, Stillinski," she said before turning her back to him to start placing the baked goods out on the table to sell to those looking for breakfast.

Stiles frowned and scrunched his nose at the obvious shut down she was giving him, but he wasn't deterred because trying to win Lydia's heart wasn't actually his goal that morning.

"Those pies smell amazing," offered Stiles, taking an exaggerated sniff.

"That is because they are amazing," she replied, still with her back purposely to Stiles. "The recipe is a family speciality that goes back generations."

"How much does one cost?" asked Stiles, dropping his sack to the ground to rifle through his garments to look some coins.

Suddenly, Lydia turned around and gave him a bright smile. All her irritation gone and an almost flirty expression on her face and in her demeanor.

"How much do you have?" she asked.

Stiles awkwardly pulled out his coin purse and showed her the silver and bronze coins he had in his possession. She grinned and grabbed a few, shoving them into the small sachel hanging from her belt.

"Which one would you like?" she then asked.

Even though he knew it was her saleswoman face, Stiles was momentarily speechless having her smile turned on him. She must make her family plenty of money just by smiling at men because Stiles would buy a pie from her every morning just to get a smile from her.

"Uh," he finally replied in a strangled voice. "Actually, I am buying it for someone else. I will send him in a short while to pick it up."

"Whatever pleases you, lord Stiles," she said with a wink before going back to her work.

Stiles swallowed dryly before turning to head back up the path to the first bailey. A few paces later he began to grin. By the time he made it to the Tower Capalláidir the grin had taken over his entire face and he knew he looked like a fool. He paused in front of the tower door and schooled his expression into something less manic before knocking on the door and pushing it open.

"What are you doing here?" asked the soldier, a tall, stout man with a full, chestnut beard falling out from beneath his helmet.

"Hey, uh, I was just..." Stiles stopped and took a deep breath. "You know lady Lydia, the baker's daughter?"

"Who doesn't?"

"She, uh, I think she might fancy you or something?" tried Stiles.

The soldier's brow furrowed in surprise and confusion for a moment before the corners of his mouth began to turn up.

"You sly dog," exclaimed Stiles, grinning in return and stepping into the tower to smack the soldier on the arm. "She does fancy you."

"Nonsense," said the soldier though he looked pleased. "Everyone knows she's betrothed to Jack's adopted son."

"Well, you must have caught her eye because she asked me to tell you she has one of her family's special pies waiting for you."

The soldier's eyes widened in surprise and disbelief before he tilted his head to the side like he was trying to remember what he could have done recently to warrant a gift from the beautiful girl.

"She says they are the best pies, that they are made from an old family recipe," said Stiles, trying to tantalize the man.

"Well, she has seemed to have her eye on me the last few times I met with her father at her house," said the man and suddenly it was Stiles' turn to look surprised, but he quickly covered it with a grin.

"There you go!" he exclaimed, pushing the soldier toward the tower door. "You better go get that pie while it is still fresh and charm your way into that girl's heart while you're at it!"

"I can't just leave my post," complained the soldier.

Stiles glanced over at the lone prisoner who looked as if he were sleeping where he was curled up in the corner of his cell.

"I'll stand in for you," offered Stiles as if that weren't his goal all along. "He looks to be asleep anyway."

"Okay," answered the soldier hesitantly, "but if this should get back to your father..."

"Commander Stillinski will never hear a word from me on the matter," promised Stiles.

"Alright, alright," said the soldier, straightening his uniform and pulling his helmet off his head to brush his fingers through his hair. "How do I look?"

"Dashing," answered Stiles instantly.

The soldier grinned and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, though, and turned back to Stiles.

"You really think she fancies me?" he asked.

"Who wouldn't," answered Stiles shrilly while gesturing to the soldier.

The soldier grinned and pushed through the heavy door. Stiles let out a sigh of relief once the man was gone and the door shut behind him. He took a deep breath and then turned to the prisoner whose eyes were open and trained on him. Stiles startled having really thought the mysterious man had been asleep.

"I don't like to lie," said Stiles as he approached the prisoner's cell. "So you should feel really very grateful for what I am doing for you."

The prisoner just looked at him, his face neutral, completely devoid of emotion. Stiles twitched under the gaze.

"I brought you some blankets and this outer garment," he said while pulling them out of his sack. "You can't be very warm in here at night, I bet you're freezing with only those torn rags."

The prisoner just continued to stare, silent and unreadable.

"Okay, I'm going to just..." Stiles moved toward the cell to pass the fabrics through the bars. Which was when a low, feral growl started to sound from deep in the prisoner's chest. It wasn't a human growl. Stiles froze before looking up at him with wide eyes. "Wow.. okay, I was just trying to give you these blankets, no need to go all wildman on me."

The growl only grew.

"Errm.. okay, I'll just put this... down... here," stuttered Stiles before dropping the blankets and cloak. He kicked them toward the cell, pushing them through the bars with his toe. It took some time to get them through the bars and the growl just continued to vibrate through the cold room. Finally, successful in his endeavor, Stiles looked up just in time to see the prisoner's eyes flash red.

"Oh, Holy, Mother, of... WOW.. okay... sorry...I just thought you might be cold in those rags..."

The growl grew in decibel and ferocity, then, and Stiles stumbled backward.

"They're very nice rags, don't get me wrong.. I just figured it is getting cold and this tower isn't warm or anything... there's no fireplace or whatever... even the soldiers complain about having to take shifts in here and they wear more layers than your rags."

The growling only grew worse the his eyes kept glowing red.

"Yeah, okay, I'm going to.. stop... talking.. now.. yep... so.. yeah.. enjoy the.. erm.. blankets.. no need to thank me..."

Stiles backed away from the cell, nearly stumbling over himself in his haste and before leaning against the cold, stone wall. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing knowing that his nightmares would forever be filled with glowing red eyes from then on. The growling died off and Stiles looked up to see that the prisoner's eyes, though still focused on him, were no longer red. He took a deep breath and turned away from the prisoner again, not able to keep looking at him, his heart pounding and mind reeling.

Finally, the soldier returned with a smug grin on his face and a skip in his stride.

"Everything okay here?" he asked as he grabbed his helmet from the bench behind Stiles and replaced it on his head.

"He's still in his cell," offered Stiles in a wobbly voice.

"Good," said the soldier before grinning at Stiles. "You were right, she did have a pie for me and it was the tastiest pie in the duchy, no, the kingdom."

"Awesome, great... awesome," sputtered Stiles, trying to smile for the soldier. "Well, I better get going, I have... training! YES! Oh, damnation! I'll be late!"

With that, Stiles grabbed his sack and hurried out of the tower leaving a bewildered soldier and a smirking prisoner behind.


"SCOTT!" bellowed Armsmaster Finstock "Do you think you can move faster than the lifeless corpse of my dead grandmother!?"

Stiles could hear Scott, to his right, mumble something angry in response and snickered to himself before falling to one knee at the armsmaster's command and pulling his sword from his waist with his opposite hand, pike in his other. He worked extra hard that morning, pushing himself harder than he had before, even earning some surprised and impressed looks from Finstock. He worked himself into a stupor, not wanting to think about the prisoner and his crazy red eyes and animalistic growling.

When the small group of young men were finished their grueling hours of training, they moved to stand in a semicircle around armsmaster Finstock, panting and sweating, some crouching forward with their hands on their knees. Jackson, a tall, square-jawed soldier in training who was the swiftest in the group clapped Stiles on the shoulder in an unusual show of camaraderie. Stiles stared straightened to look up at him in surprise.

"You did well today, Stillinski," he said while giving him a grave look as if it were painful for him to admit to the shorter boy. Stiles wondered why he even did it, honestly.

"Alright men," spoke Finstock. "You're finished for the day, good work."

His eyes flashed in annoyance, suddenly, and he called out "Straighten up Greenberg! You think training is hard? This isn't anything! You sissy little baby boys still suckling from your mother's teats within the safety of the walls of the duke's castle! One day you'll be called to do a man's work.. to be a real soldier! The things you will see once you are out in the real world will forever be your personal hell when your memories come back to haunt you in the dark nights."

Finstock suddenly stopped talking and he looked off into the distance with unseeing eyes for a few tense moments before shaking himself and giving the group of young men a grin.

"Let me give you a little advice," he said. "There's three rules that I live by; never get less than twelve hours of sleep, never play cards with the guy with the same first name as a city, and never go near a lady who's got a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick with that and everything else is cream cheese!"

Stiles grinned to himself before looking sideways to catch Scott's eye. They shared a knowing look before turning their attention back to the odd armsmaster.

"Alright, pack it up, lads," he said to the group. "The duke doesn't pay me enough to look at your sorry asses this long."

The group of boys headed to the side of the castle stables where they had changed into their training gear. Stiles and Scott stuck together, finding a corner of the dusty room to change out of their training gear drenched in sweat and caked in dirt.

"Ugh," groaned Stiles as he pulled on his tunic. "I think I pulled a muscle today."
"You really pushed yourself today," replied Scott as he pulled on his own clothing. "Your father will be proud."

Stiles let out another groan, this one more to do with thoughts of his father congratulating him on his effort once he heard.

"Why couldn't my father have been a carpenter or a blacksmith or something?" whined Stiles.

"You would hate being a blacksmith," laughed Scott. "The heat alone..."

"Your father is a duke," grumbled Stiles.

Scott simply rolled his eyes.

"And yet," he said, hitching his belt at his waist, "here I am training along with the blacksmith's son."

Stiles smirked at Scott before bending down to put his soiled garments in his sack. More laundering when he got home, hurray.

"Someone saw you flirting with my betrothed this morning," came Jackson's angry voice from behind Stiles.

Stiles quickly straightened, not wanting to be in a compromising position in the other's presence. Scott stepped to Stiles' side, giving Jackson a hard look.

"You know she doesn't spare me a second thought," replied Stiles carefully.

"Stay away from Lydia," ground out Jackson stepping forward and jabbing a finger into Stiles' chest. "I don't care if you're the commander's son, if you come near her again... not even the king could save you."

Stiles tried not to tremble under the cold stare of Jackson. He looked from the finger still poking him in the chest up to the angry face of the young man before grinning nervously and pushing his hand away.

"No problem," said Stiles, nodding emphatically. "Don't even worry about it, I mean, who cares if I was just buying a pie, right? I'll stay away, no need to give my money to your soon-to-be inlaws."

Jackson's jaw clenched before he let out a long breath.

"FINE," he groaned. "You can see her to buy pies, but nothing else."

Stiles nodded, trying to keep the amusement out of his face because even if Jackson's threat sounded weak, he did have the ability to back it up. Once Jackson had stormed off, Stiles let out a breath and looked at Scott.

"What happened to 'you did well today, Stillinski'?" asked Stiles doing a poor impersonation of Jackson's voice when he quoted him.

Scott laughed and patted Stiles on the picked up their sacks and walked together out from the side of the castle stables, following the dirt path to the main one.

"It isn't right that Lydia is to marry Jackson," complained Stiles. "She's the most beautiful and intelligent girl in the entire duchy and Jackson's just a dimwitted, power-hungry..."

"Yes," sighed Scott. "I know, Lydia is wonderful and Jackson is so wrong for her and if only Lydia would give you a chance you could show her how good for her you could be."

Stiles harrumphed at Scott.

"Well, it's true," he said.

Scott nodded mock seriously and Stiles grinned and pushed him lightly.

"I don't talk about her half as much as you do Allison," said Stiles.

"And I haven't even met her yet," moaned Scott, throwing his head back and groaning at the sky.

Stiles rolled his eyes. They walked together in companionable silence after that before reaching the main path where they would part ways.

"Oh, before you go home," said Scott, suddenly, reaching to pull a paper from inside his tunic. "Could you please give this to..."

Stiles took the folded paper before Scott had finished speaking.

"Yes, I'll give it to your mother," he sighed.

Scott grinned brightly at Stiles and Stiles just shook his head.

"You have eyes like a puppy," said Stiles. "It is upsetting how you can get whatever you like with them."

"Thanks Stiles," said Scott. "You are a true friend."

Stiles nodded and turned to leave.

"Just come speak to her yourself one of these days," he called out over his shoulder as he started toward home.

"See you tomorrow, Stiles," called Scott.


The moon was full that night. Stiles lay tucked in his bed under his massive pile of blankets. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see bright red glowing ones peering back at him. So, instead, he had opened the drape of his bedroom window and lay watching the round, pale moon make its journey across the night sky. In the distance he heard a wolf howl just like the night before.

It was unusual to hear wolves so near the town and castle Sabhrick. The nearest pack of wolves were the nightwolves of the Oíche Forest in the South of Sabhrick, and the Southeastern side of Rathuno. Stiles shivered at the sound wondering why a wolf or pack of wolves had moved so closeby.

He had finally fallen to sleep despite the bright moon, the sound of wolves, and his memory of the prisoner's nightmarish eyes when a loud bang at his window woke him. Stiles jumped out of bed, falling in a pile of blankets on the floor, his heart pounding in his ears. He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the tall, simplistic candelabrum standing next to his bed. Struggling out of the confines of the blankets, he stood up and pointed it at the intruder, candles falling to the floor, as if it were one of the pikes he trained with before he realized the dark form was Scott.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Stiles in a low hiss, dropping the candelabrum with a dull clatter.

"Stiles," gasped Scott falling to the floor out of Stiles' window. "Help me."

Chest still heaving at being awoken so rudely, Stiles took in how Scott lay on the floor clutching at his side. He edged closer to Scott where he lay in the light of the moon shining through the window and then noticed the growing pool of crimson blood at Scott's side.

"WHAT?!"

"I was bitten... by a wolf," panted out Scott.

"WHAT!" exclaimed Stiles a third time, shaking his head and gesturing wildly. "What do you mean you were bitten by a wolf? Why were you even out? It is the middle of the night.. SCOTT! Wolves don't just bite a person and then run off, this doesn't make any sense..."

"Stiles," cut in Scott his voice hoarse but cutting with frustration. "I have more important issues right now than learning about the habits of wolves."

"RIGHT," gasped Stiles, rocking back and forth on his feet with adrenaline. "Of course, if it were mad with rabies and that was why it bit you..."

"Stiles!"

"I'll go get your mother," decided Stiles before turning to his door.

"No!" exclaimed Scott. "No, no no, Stiles! No! I haven't seen her in months. I don't want to upset and this would definitely be the kind of thing to upset her... just... just get something to stop the bleeding."

"Ugh," groaned Stiles, thinking Scott an idiot. "Fine."

"And some ale," whined Scott. "Definitely ale. This hurts so much, Stiles."

Stiles nodded and hurried out of his room. He hurried into the kitchen to fetch the things he might need. When he returned, Scott was still laying in a fetal position on his bedroom floor.

"I'm back," whispered Stiles before crouching down beside Scott.

He set the things down beside Scott before pulling him up.

"You've gotta sit up if you want this ale," said Stiles while directing Scott to lean back against the wall below his window.

As Scott shakily raised the cup to his lips, Stiles pulled his other hand away from his side and let out a long whistle.

"Sweet mother of calamity," hissed Stiles. "That is nasty."

He wet a cloth in the small basin of water he had brought and held it to the wound. Scott flinched away from him exhaling heavily.

"Damnation, Stiles," he exclaimed in a low voice. "That feels like ice."

"Would you rather I took the time to start the fire in the kitchen and heat the water?" asked Stiles in a deadpanned voice. "Stop being a baby and let me tend to you."

He washed the wound the best he could and wrapped Scott's side with clean linen, but the wound didn't stop bleeding and the fabric quickly pinked and then turned crimson.
"You do realize I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" asked Stiles as he watched the blood tint the white fabric. "Your mother would do a much better job."

"My mother can not know about this," replied Scott. "No one can."

"Why were you even out?" asked Stiles pressing more linen scraps against the wound hoping the pressure would help slow the bleeding. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with wolves?"

Scott hissed in pain.

"I wasn't playing with wolves," said Scott in a strained voice. "I was... it just... I heard father speaking of Duke Thomas and how he wanted my marriage to help strengthen our ties with the Argentes... and you know how Gerard Argente is known for his hunting... and there was a wolf howling.. and I went out riding.. and it just... it came out of nowhere."

Stiles furrowed his brow, Scott's story too discombobulated to follow, and decided to just latch onto the last thing he said.

"It came out of nowhere, bit you, and then ran off?" questioned Stiles.

"Yes," replied Scott simply.

Stiles' eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Seriously?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, seriously," ground out Scott. "Are you done torturing me?"

"What?" asked Stiles before realizing he was still pressing the rag against Scott's side.

He pulled all the fabric away to see if the bleeding had slowed.

"If I didn't see the teeth marks myself," said Stiles. "I wouldn't believe you. It really just ran off after biting you?"

"Yes," groaned Scott. "Stiles, it hurts so much. The ale isn't helping."

"I'll get you some wine from the kitchen," said Stiles, getting to his feet and picking up the soiled rags he had piled in the basin of water.

"Thanks," sighed Scott.

"You're shivering," said Stiles. "Go get in my bed, just.. don't bleed on my blankets."
"Don't tell anyone I'm here," ordered Scott as he shakily got to his feet and began to creep toward Stiles' bed.

"I know... you don't want to worry your mother," sighed Stiles, wishing his friend were a little more sound of mind.

"No one must know I was out," exclaimed Scott crawling into Stiles' bed.

Stiles watched him before turning to leave.

"It is going to be kind of hard to hide," he said.

"Just hurry," pleaded Scott.

"Fiiiine," replied Stiles before leaving the room.

He cursed under his breath as he hurried to the kitchen, hoping Scott's life wasn't in danger from the wound in his side and trying not to think about the fact that an actual wolf had attacked him. What was going on?