THE GUEST

  Drak awoke to the familiar pre-dawn light filtering through the thin curtains of his room. The early morning hours were his favorite time of day; the quiet stillness provided a sense of peace before the hustle and bustle of the day began. He relished this solitary time, believing that getting an early start helped him complete his chores before his father could begin his relentless tirade of tasks to be done.

  As he stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his thoughts wandered to the day ahead. Today, he was considering a trip into Tribute. His steam-bike, a gift he received from his parents for his 18th birthday, had been in need of a new gyroscope to improve its performance. The bike used the gyroscope to prevent it from unexpectedly tipping over while riding, and the current part was aged and unreliable. Drak hoped that a new one would make a big difference.

  He quickly dressed in his work clothes, a simple but functional outfit suited for the vineyard and his various tasks. After a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, he set about his morning duties with haste. He worked briskly, eager to finish his responsibilities before his father stirred from his own sleep.

  Drak’s mind kept drifting to the city and the prospect of upgrading his steam-bike. The thought of exploring the city’s many shops and marveling at the latest technological advancements excited him. It was a welcome distraction from the usual pressures of the vineyard, and it would give him something to take his mind off yesterday.

  As he worked on his chores, he glanced towards the distant city skyline, its steam-powered airships and towering structures filling him with excitement. With his tasks nearly complete, he made a mental list of what chores he needed to do before heading to the city. Ensuring the vineyard was well-tended and prepared for his absence was a priority, but the allure of the city and the chance to upgrade his bike promised a much-needed break from his routine.

  With the morning's tasks almost done and the thought of the city visit providing that much-needed spark of anticipation, Drak felt a renewed sense of purpose. Today might be a day of change, or at least a day away from the confines of the vineyard.

  A couple hours later, Drak finished his morning chores, ready to head to the city when he ran into his father in the courtyard. His father greeted him with a curt nod, his attention already diverted to the day’s tasks.

  “Morning, Drak,” his father said, his voice carrying the usual undercurrent of authority. “Your mother and I are planning a trip to Monument City today. We didn’t get the chance to tell you over dinner last night..., but we’ll be gone for a few days to taste-test some new wine samples we might bring into the business. I… expect you to take care of the vineyard while we’re away. Are you okay with that?”

  Drak’s stomach tightened at the news. He had been hoping for a day off from the vineyard, a break from the relentless cycle of work and familial expectations. Instead, his father’s words seemed to drive home the inescapability of his responsibilities.

  “Sure, Dad,” Drak replied tersely, trying to keep his disappointment in check. “I’ll handle things here.”

  His father gave him a nod of approval and turned his attention back to a stack of tools he had been organizing, evidently unsatisfied with the arrangement. The conversation, brief and to the point, left Drak feeling more frustrated than before. It was as if every moment he thought he might break free from the monotony of his life was met with another reminder of his entrapment. The only thing he could look forward to now was the absence of his parents.

  Drak sighed as he watched his father move to walk away. The prospect of tending to the vineyard alone for the next few days felt like a heavy burden, especially given his longing to explore the city. The brief encounter with his father only renewed his frustration.

  Drak took a deep breath and caught his father before he could get too far, trying to mask his bitterness. “Actually, Dad, I was planning to head into Tribute today to pick up that new gyroscope for my steam-bike. I’ve been meaning to upgrade it for a while now.”

  His father paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studied Drak. “I see,” he said, the words hanging in the air, scaling his thoughts. After a moment, his expression softened, the lines of his face easing as a quiet understanding settled over him. He placed a reassuring hand on Drak’s shoulder, his tone gentler now. “Well, I’m glad you’re taking some time for yourself. I don't give you enough credit, son. You’ve been working hard, and I want you to know I appreciate everything you do around here.”

  Drak looked up at his father, surprised by the gesture. His father’s tone eased more, and he continued, “Don’t worry about the vineyard for the rest of the day. You can't work all the time. You’ve earned it, and… I have a tendency to be too hard on you. I’ve poured my whole life into this place. This vineyard is all we’ve got, so I worry about its future. I’m sorry about last night.”

  The unexpected kindness and genuine apology from his father eased some of Drak’s irritation, and hearing his father’s own concerns brought him some understanding. In his heart, he knew that Dona must have spoken to Jaemes last night. She always had a habit of being the loving mediator.

  Drak nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it.”

  His father gave him a nod of approval before turning toward the steam-powered carriage that awaited them. The old machine, a three-wheeled, enclosed-cab contraption with a wooden box bed and siding, had been in their family since before Drak was born. It still functioned, but the rust on some of the metallic surfaces betrayed its age and it had seen better days.

  Dona exited the house shortly after and gave him a loving embrace. “I love you, sweetie,” she said as they exchanged kind pleasantries.

  “Love you, too, Mom.” he replied with a heart-felt sigh.

  With a final wave, Drak watched as his parents climbed into the vehicle and departed. The old steam carriage let out small puffs of steam as it turned west and puttered down the road, but as it did, Drak heard the engine ticking louder than it usually did. The sound stirred a flicker of concern within him, but he let it be.

  The sight of them driving away left Drak with a sense of mixed emotions. He felt gratitude for his father’s understanding, but also a lingering frustration of being left alone to tend the vineyard for multiple days.

  As the steam-powered carriage disappeared from view, Drak took a moment to gather his thoughts. He reminded himself of the excitement of his trip into Tribute and the chance to upgrade his steam-bike. The opportunity to explore the city and indulge in a bit of personal freedom would provide a welcome sense of relaxation.

  Drak headed back to the house, grateful for his father’s unexpected leniency. The rest of the day off was just what he needed, providing him with the perfect window to focus on his steam-bike project.

  He climbed the stairs to his room, where the old gyroscope lay disassembled on his personal workbench after his attempts to refurbish it. The device’s intricate gears and mechanisms lay scattered in pieces on his desk, but he was quick to piece it back together. He nodded in satisfaction once it was back in one piece. The new gyroscope he planned to purchase would hopefully offer better performance and reliability; but this one would still at least get him into the city now.

  Drak carefully hefted the old gyroscope, placing it into a small, sturdy box. With the box in hand, he made his way to the old barn where he kept his steam-bike. The barn was a short walk from the main house, nestled among the outbuildings on the northern end of the vineyard. As he approached, however, he noticed something peculiar that caught his attention.

  “That's odd…” he whispered, his brow furrowing. The large barn door stood slightly ajar, though he was certain he had shut it after removing the gyroscope from his bike yesterday morning. It was possible his father had been to the barn since then, but Drak doubted it. He would have noticed his father crossing the vineyard from the house to reach the old structure. It wasn’t the kind of thing that escaped his attention.

  Drak approached the barn full of curiosity and caution. The sight of the door slightly ajar was unusual. He paused, setting down the box with the old gyroscope, and took a moment to assess the situation.

  He carefully peered through the gap in the door, trying to see inside without making any noise. The interior of the barn, usually orderly and neat, seemed different. Shadows were cast differently, and the hanging ceiling light illuminated the inside of the barn at a strange angle.

  It wasn’t completely uncommon for the odd animal or two from the neighboring lands to wander, but Drak’s major concern was vagrants. Traveling strangers have been known to occupy unattended places.

  Taking a deep breath, Drak pushed the door open with deliberate caution, the heavy wood creaking faintly on its hinges. He slipped inside, careful to keep his movements quiet as his eyes swept over the barn’s interior. The air carried the faint, familiar sweet smell of wine, and the tang of oil and aged wood, mingling with the steady hiss of the steam machinery, which continued its rhythmic work undisturbed. The lone ceiling light flickered weakly, casting uneven shadows that danced across the walls, while a soft, golden glow spilled through the high windows above, illuminating dust motes swirling lazily in the air. Drak’s senses piqued, scanning for any sign of disturbance amid the barn's usual stillness as his eyes adjusted to the lighting.

  As Drak entered, his gaze swept over the barn. The steam-bike was in its usual spot to his left, tucked away in between the steam equipment, but something else caught his attention. Near the back of the barn, partially hidden among the hay bales, was a large, unfamiliar dark shape. It was covered in a layer of hay, and at first, it was hard to discern exactly what it was.

  What in Ardraelion…

  He approached cautiously, each step slow and muted, his heart pounding like a hammer against his chest. As he drew nearer, the silhouette resolved into something unmistakably alive: a direhound, massive and injured, its light gray fur striking against the golden hay it slept upon. The creature’s chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, the sound faint but ragged in the otherwise quiet barn.

  Drak froze, his eyes widening in shock. He had never been this close to a living, breathing direhound before. The sheer size of it, even in its weakened state, was awe-inspiring and terrifying all at once. But there was something profoundly unsettling about seeing such a proud, formidable creature brought so low. The direhound’s unexpected presence raised a storm of questions in Drak’s mind, each more urgent than the last.

  Instinctively, he took a step back, his boots crunching softly against the scattered hay, careful not to startle it. His gaze swept over the direhound, taking in the matted fur caked with melted snow and streaked with dried blood. The wound on its body looked severe, its pain etched in every strained breath. A pang of unexpected empathy tightened in Drak’s chest. This was no wild predator to be feared, not in this moment. It was a wounded being, vulnerable and suffering.

  After a moment of hesitation, he made the decision to retreat and rethink his approach. He needed to understand what was happening and how best to handle the situation. With a final glance at the direhound, Drak quietly backed out of the barn, closing the door behind him to keep the creature hidden.

  He stood outside, his mind whirling with conflicting thoughts. The barn had always been a place of routine and maintenance, but now it held a mysterious and potentially perilous secret. Drak knew he had to be cautious, but also felt a strong urge to help the injured direhound.

  As Drak stood outside the barn, the memories of the previous day flooded back into his mind. He recalled the rogue direhound. The creature's struggle and eventual demise. The haunting image of that majestic being, brought low by the containment unit's cold indifference. The memory lingered painfully in his thoughts.

  The injured direhound in his barn rattled Drak's emotions. His heart ached with empathy and frustration. He couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu, and the feeling that he was about to witness another tragedy unfold before him.

  But, this time…

  He remembered how he had tried to offer a final moment of respect to the direhound he saw perish. He had felt helpless then, but now, after standing in front of this injured being, he wanted to prevent another irreplaceable loss of life.

  Drak’s conviction manifested as he thought more about what he could do. The direhound’s injured and emaciated presence in the barn could mean it had sought refuge, possibly drawn by the warmth and shelter it provided. He knew that if the creature was discovered, it would likely be taken away or euthanized.

  With a deep breath, Drak made a crazy decision. With his parents gone for a few days, he would do what he could to protect the direhound and, if possible, find a way to help it recover. However, he needed to keep it hidden and safe until he could figure out a proper plan.

  Drak turned back toward the barn, his mind racing with possibilities. He had to be careful and think quickly. He delicately entered the barn again, moving with soft steps to avoid startling the direhound.

  He approached the creature slowly, his heart pounding as he assessed its condition. Drak knew that he needed to act with both compassion and caution. He was determined to make a difference. He needed to prevent this direhound from suffering the same fate as its fallen kin.

  As Drak edged closer to the injured direhound, he couldn't help but marvel at its unique appearance and wild beauty. Upon closer inspection, she was definitely female. Her form was more slender than that of the male he saw yesterday. Except her powerful build was extraordinary. Larger than the direhounds he was accustomed to, her body was defined by strong, lean muscle. Her fur, a luminous light-gray, shimmered faintly in the barn's dim glow. Captivating him still, were the short strands of purple-tinted hair that adorned her head, cascading back along her neck like a regal mane. Even her nose was remarkable, heralded in a deep plum hue that stood out vividly against her pale fur. Adding to her mystique was what looked like a hand-made, brown-hide waistcloth tied around her midsection, its rough edges falling to her knees. She wore nothing on her upper body, but that was expected; direhounds had no anatomical need for such coverings. Everything about her presence radiated a sense of wild, untamed individuality, completely different compared to the subdued direhounds of Tribute.

  Drak initially wondered if she might be a rare mix, perhaps the product of selective breeding by one of Tribute's wealthy elite, designed to showcase a unique or prestigious lineage. Such direhounds were rare, and their appearance was a sign that whoever owned her held high status within Tribute’s upper-class; But, as he examined her more closely, another detail caught his attention that startled him with shock: she wasn’t wearing a control collar.

  In human-held land within Ardralion, every direhound was required to wear a control collar. An advanced device engineered to ensure obedience and mastery, these collars were equipped with various enforcement mechanisms, including fine-tuned pheromonal sprays and sonic deterrents; but, their most formidable feature was their electrical application system. With the ability to deliver shocks of varying intensity, the collars could swiftly subdue or incapacitate their wearer, making defiance virtually impossible. The absence of this collar on the direhound was both astonishing and worrying. It told him that she was not a typical, domesticated direhound but rather someone who had either escaped or somehow avoided the standard means of control.

  Or worse.

  Drak’s heart pounded as he pondered the implications. The lack of a control collar meant she was not under the usual constraints placed on direhounds, which also suggested that she had a freedom of action that others in her position did not. This fact only deepened the mystery of her presence and her current predicament.

  Drak's mind raced with possibilities. Could she be a direhound from beyond the borders of Tribute, perhaps from the north? The Nightmoon Veil or another distant land? The vineyard’s proximity to the Frostspire Mountains suggested as much, and the unique markings and the absence of a collar made her an anomaly. Because of that, he felt a strange surge of protectiveness towards her. The fact that she had managed to evade capture and still end up in this situation left Drak bewildered. He couldn't help but think that she must possess incredible strength and resilience.

  He knelt beside her, carefully assessing her damage while keeping his movements gentle. His goal now was clear: he needed to help her recover and keep her safe from any potential threat. The danger of a containment unit discovering her was very real, and he needed to act quickly to prevent that from happening.

  Drak took a deep breath, resolved to do everything in his power to protect this mysterious direhound and uncover the truth about her.

  Drak’s mind raced as he assessed the situation.

  I’m going to help you, whoever you are…

  His mind was now full of determination. He knew that helping her would require careful planning and resourcefulness, and thankfully, with his parents out of town, he had the means to do just that.

  First on his mental checklist was finding a way to secure her temporarily. Though he was certain that if she truly wanted to, she could easily break down the barn door. In the meantime, he needed to make sure she didn’t accidentally injure herself or make a panicked escape. His immediate task was to keep her calm and stable while he worked on her wounds.

  He recalled seeing Mr. Ellendale tend to his horse that had cut its leg open on a sharp edge. The memory of the stitching techniques came back to him vividly. He had watched and learned how to handle the deep wounds and how to use improvised tools and supplies. He figured this knowledge would be crucial for treating the direhound’s severe side wound, which upon closer inspection was still lightly bleeding.

  Next, he thought about the supplies he would need: clean cloth for dressing the wound, antiseptic to prevent infection, and of course, something to use for stitching. He knew he had some medical supplies in the house, including a practitioner’s kit that could be useful. He would also need some sturdy rope to secure the barn door.

  Drak made a quick plan in his mind. He would first need to head back to the house to gather the necessary supplies. Once he had everything ready, he would return to the barn, tie up the door, then carefully approach the direhound, and try to wake her up gently. He needed to ensure she remained calm and cooperative throughout the process. They were intelligent beings, and he hoped that his offer of help would be enough to keep her relaxed.

  As he prepared to leave, Drak took another look at the direhound. Her breathing was shallow but steady, and he hoped that everything would go smoothly.

  At least, so he hoped.

  With a final glance, Drak quietly slipped out of the barn, heading towards the house to gather the supplies. He knew that time was of the essence, and he needed to act quickly and efficiently to make sure the direhound received the help she so desperately needed.

  Drak sprinted across the vineyard, heart pounding in his chest, and burst through the back door of his family’s house. He hastily grabbed the practitioner's kit from a cabinet in the kitchen, his mind racing. Disinfectant, bandages, needle, thread. He could stitch the wound. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would keep her alive. His hands hovered for a moment, then he grabbed a coil of thick rope hanging by the door, reasoning it would buy himself some time if things went awry.

  As he turned to leave, Drak hesitated by the pantry. Food. She’d need food to recover her strength. Without thinking, he turned to the kitchen ice chest and pulled out a slab of uncut bacon, then hurried to grab a griddle iron from an upper shelf. A hot meal might do wonders, and he could use the steam vents in the barn to cook. It was a half-baked plan, but it would have to do.

  Arms full, Drak rushed back outside, nearly tripping over himself as he ran to the barn. His breath came in short bursts, but he couldn’t slow down. The direhound was counting on him.

  He slowed down as he reached the barn, his heart pounding in anticipation. Once there, Drak slipped inside and tied the rope around the barn door, securing it with a knot he hoped would hold.

  Moving quickly but carefully, he placed the griddle on one of the hot steam vents and laid the slab of bacon on top. The griddle, however, was slow to heat, and the minutes stretched endlessly. Drak fidgeted, his nerves fraying as he anxiously glanced between the raw meat and the injured direhound. Each passing moment felt like an eternity as he sat on the edge of his seat, willing the steam vent to work faster. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the meat began to hiss, and the first sizzle of cooking bacon broke the tense silence. Soon, the savory aroma of warming meat wafted through the barn, mingling with the faint metallic tang of steam. Drak could only hope the scent would stir the direhound gently from her slumber, rousing her slowly rather than startling her awake.

  Drak sat cross-legged on the barn floor, his pulse quickening as he kept a watchful eye on the direhound. She lay near motionless where she had collapsed, her chest rising and falling in shallow but steady breaths. Drak’s mind raced with what-ifs, his stomach tight with nerves. Please let her be calm, he thought, his silent prayer a fragile hope against the unknown danger she could present.

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  A faint twitch of her ear caught his attention, and his breath hitched. Slowly, the direhound began to stir, her limbs shifting slightly in the hay. The tension in the air was heavy, almost suffocating as Drak sat frozen, his fingers white-knuckling as he gripped the edge of his knees. Each tiny movement she made sent a ripple of anticipation through him, his eyes darting between her face and the bacon that continued to sizzle and fill the barn with its rich aroma.

  Then, with a low, groggy growl, she shifted again. Her large claw nudged against the hay, and an empty wine barrel rolled free, its hollow thud breaking the strained silence. The barrel wobbled unevenly before coming to rest across from Drak. His brow furrowed as he glanced at it, the faint smell of wine still lingering. He flicked his eyes to the right and made a quick accounting of the full casks in the barn. One was missing.

  Did she drink that? he wondered, his curiosity warring with his growing anxiety.

  The direhound, still groggy, used one arm to prop herself up and rubbed her head with the other. Her movements were sluggish, and Drak could see signs of discomfort in her posture. She scrunched the muscles in her angular face, her large claw rubbing the side of her temple as if battling a nasty headache. The realization hit him: she wasn’t just injured, she was also hungover.

  The sight of the empty barrel and her current lethargic movements made it evident that she had consumed a substantial amount of the wine. All of it, in fact. The alcohol, combined with her injuries, was likely contributing to her sluggish behavior. Drak wondered if this factor would be a bad omen.

  Will she be aggressive? His heart pounded at the thought.

  He watched as she struggled to orient herself towards the scent of the cooking meat, her nose twitching and her eyes slowly scanning the barn with disorientation. In her state, she was particularly vulnerable, and Drak knew he needed to proceed carefully.

  Despite her condition, Drak clung to an ounce of hope. The bacon’s enticing aroma and his sitting, deliberately non-threatening posture were his best attempts to introduce himself, to reassure her that he meant no harm. He remained still, every movement slow, ready to act the moment she showed signs of distrust. His teeth pressed into his lower lip as he waited, his pulse quickening... until she saw him and their eyes met.

  In the blink of an eye, her yellow gaze blazed with raw, feral rage. Whatever frailty her injuries and exhaustion might have implied was instantaneously capsized by instinct and fury. She rose abruptly, her massive frame swaying as she fought against her body’s injuries, her movements erratic yet undeniably powerful. With a guttural snarl, she lunged at Drak, her sheer desperation overriding her drained strength.

  Drak barely had time to throw himself sideways, rolling clumsily across the hay-strewn floor as her momentum carried her forward. The direhound's arm flew out as she barreled past him, the back of her hand striking him square in the side with devastating strength; the impact threw Drak aside like a rag doll as he crashed against the barn’s wooden wall. His heart thundered as he scrambled to his feet while trying to ignore the shock of the collision, his mind racing for a way to de-escalate the situation. The direhound’s size and speed were overwhelming; even weakened, she hurled herself toward the barn door, each movement strained yet forceful enough to send crates and barrels tumbling in her wake.

  Reaching the door, she slammed her massive body against it, the wooden frame groaning under the impact. Even with her drained energy, she strained against the barrier with every ounce of strength she could muster, her breaths ragged and labored. The rope holding the door creaked and stretched, barely keeping the door shut against her relentless assault. Yet her movements betrayed her state. There was none of the fluid grace or precision Drak might have expected from a creature like her. Every shove and slam carried a note of desperation, her dwindling stamina crystalized by the tremor of her limbs and the uneven force behind her attempts.

  She was exhausted.

  Drak, frantic, lunged to the right of her, his hands fumbling for the length of rope as it threatened to give way. “Wait! Please, stop!” he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “You can’t go outside! They’ll send a Containment Unit after you!”

  Her ears flicked slightly at his voice, but her focus remained locked on the sliver of light streaming through the narrow crack between the barn’s double-doors. With another strained shove, she ignored his words, her determination undeterred. Drak’s grip tightened on the rope, his palms slick with sweat as he struggled to reinforce the knot.

  “They won’t hesitate to put you down just like they did to the direhound I saw yesterday!” he shouted desperately, the words tumbling out in a panic. “I don’t want to see that happen to you!”

  Her movements faltered. At the mention of another direhound, a flicker of hesitation rippled through her. Her snarling breaths slowed, her amber eyes snapping toward Drak as she towered over him. For the first time, her gaze lingered, her expression torn between rage and fear. She stood motionless, her chest heaving, the raw tension in the air thick enough to choke on. Drak held her stare, his own fear evident, but so was his sincerity. His words had cut through her blind panic, if only for a moment.

  Drak, his clothes now dishelved and face smeared with dirt, stumbled forward, letting go of the rope and falling to his knees in front of her. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. “I just want to help you. I promise I won’t hurt you. If you let me, I can try to get you out of here safely. It’s clear that you came here looking for shelter. Just, please—I can’t see another direhound hurt like that...”

  The direhound’s gaze snapped between Drak and the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The sheer exhaustion and pain from her injuries caught up to her, weakening the remnants of her aggressive instincts.

  Drak remained on his knees, his hands held out in a gesture of surrender. “I know you don’t know me, and it’s probably hard to trust me,” he continued softly, “but I want to help. I don’t want you to be hunted down and killed. Please, let me help you.”

  The barn fell into a tense silence. The direhound’s powerful frame was still, her eyes locked onto Drak’s pleading expression. Slowly, she relaxed her stance, though her eyes remained wary. The rope at the door strained under her weight, but for now, she stayed put, watching him with suspicion and reluctant contemplation.

  Drak remained on the floor, breathing heavily as he looked up at her. “You probably can't even understand what I’m saying…,” he said quietly. He prayed on the hope that the tone in his voice would be enough to convince her as he continued, “But I just want to do what’s right. I don't know what happened to you, but if you’ll let me, I can help you, please.”

  The direhound's expression softened slightly, though she remained guarded. She glanced at the struggling rope and then back at Drak. The confrontation had left her worn down, but the bizarre sincerity in his eyes was making her reconsider.

  With a tentative nod, the direhound took a step back from the door, her anger cooling into wary acceptance. Drak steadied himself as her amber eyes, still sharp with suspicion and fatigue, locked onto his. Then, to his astonishment, she spoke. “How can you help me?” she demanded, her voice rough yet carrying an undertone of vulnerability.

  Drak froze, momentarily stunned. The realization hit him like a steam piston. She could speak his tongue. He had heard rumors of wild direhounds from the Nightmoon Veil possessing such intelligence, but to witness it first hand was utterly jarring. Her words, clear and concise, clashed with every assumption he’d made from even subdued direhounds of Tribute.

  “You—you can speak my language?” he stammered, his voice tinged with disbelief. For a creature of her immense size and raw power, her voice was unexpectedly soft, almost disarmingly so, despite the tension that laced her tone.

  Her eyes narrowed as her suspicion deepened. “I can.”

  Drak's heart still pounded “S-sorry,” Drak stammered. “I was just surprised,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with awe and curiosity.

  Regaining his composure, he drew in a deep breath and carefully chose his words while slowly pointing to the direhound's injury, “Your wound. It’s serious. If you don’t treat it soon, you might get an infection. I know how to stitch it up and clean it properly.” He kept his tone calm and steady, though his mind raced with more questions about who this direhound truly was.

  The direhound’s expression hardened, her fur bristling with indignation. “So you want to use me as your experiment, fur-wearer? Just like all the other humans that inhabit these lands? You think you can fix me up and then… what? What are you really after?”

  Drak shook his head urgently. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m not interested in using you for anything. I just want to help. I promise that’s all I intend to do.”

  The direhound’s eyes narrowed, but she suddenly became overwhelmed by fatigue. The stress of her escape and her injuries, combined with the wine-induced hangover, had finally taken their toll. With a soft growl of irritation, she slumped down onto her haunches, sitting heavily on the barn floor.

  Drak took a cautious step forward, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. “Please,” he said gently, “let me help you. I can treat your wound and get you some food and water. If you don’t let me do this, you might die.”

  The direhound’s gaze remained fierce, but her energy was clearly draining, her mind elsewhere, thinking about something more important. She looked at Drak, and after a long, tense pause, she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. But if you try anything… anything at all, I’ll make sure you regret it. I will crush your head between my fangs without a second thought.”

  Drak nodded quickly, relief mingled with a hint of fear. “I understand. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I won’t do anything to hurt you. I’ll get the supplies and start treating your wound.”

  As he moved to gather the medical supplies he’d brought with him, the mysterious direhound watched him with a wary but resigned expression. The threat in her voice was clear, but for now, she seemed to accept his help as her fatigue overpowered her anger.

  Drak grabbed the medical supplies from the table and returned to her, trying to steady his nerves. This was his first time being so close to a living, breathing direhound. It was both exhilarating and intimidating. He was aware of her formidable size and strength, which made every movement he made feel all the more nerve-wracking.

  “Can you tell me how you got this wound?” Drak asked, focusing on the injury as he prepared to clean it.

  The Direhound’s amber eyes flickered with a storm of emotions. “Tillia-Kattak,” she replied cryptically in her own language. “A vermin.”

  Drak nodded, he didn’t know the meaning behind the word, but he could sense there was more depth behind it than she was willing to share. Stranger, still, was the foreign tongue she spoke with, implying even more secret surrounding her presence. He decided to leave it be, thinking it better to not upset her by bringing up anything she wasn’t comfortable parting with.

  Drak then carefully uncorked a brown glass antiseptic bottle, and applied the solution to the wound. The direhound immediately tensed, letting out a low growl of displeasure. “That stings!” she snapped.

  Drak offered a reassuring smile, regardless of the pressure placed on him in the moment. “I know. It’s okay. The sting means it’s working. The pain is only temporary and helps to clean the wound properly. I promise, it'll help you heal faster.”

  While the solution worked, the smell of sizzling bacon from the steam vent continued drifting through the barn. The direhound’s stomach growled loudly, betraying her hunger. Her eyes were drawn to the slab of bacon, and she looked at it with an unmistakable longing. Drak could hear the low rumble from her stomach and saw the slight bit of drool at the corner of her mouth, and she licked her lips in an involuntary response.

  Noticing her stare, Drak took a deep breath, trying to mask his nervousness with a smile. He glanced up at her with sympathy and understanding. “Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone gentle. “I brought that meat for you earlier. I wasn't sure what you'd like, but I can give you some if you want. It's just bacon—erm, pig.”

  The direhound's eyes narrowed as she stared at the meat, clearly reluctant to accept any kind of food from a human. Yet, her hunger was undeniable, and she knew she needed sustenance. Her pride clashed with the growling in her stomach. After a tense moment, she finally relented. “Anga. Give it to me.”

  Drak carefully retrieved the large slab of uncut bacon from the steam vent, making sure to move slowly to avoid startling her. The meat was hot in his hands, but manageable. He held it out to her, his hand trembling slightly from both the excitement of interacting with a direhound and the fear of her potential reaction.

  She took the bacon in her large palm with a wary glance, eyeing the meat up and down before she slowly bit into it, her hunger and the sweet greasy smell of the meat overcoming her skepticism. As she chewed, her posture relaxed slightly, though she still kept a cautious eye on Drak. After a few moments, she took another bite of the meat and swallowed.

  Drak watched her, satisfied that she was willing to eat his offering. “I know it's not a lot, but I have a bit more in the house if you'd like some.” Drak told her, feeling a bit more at ease.

  The direhound didn’t respond, her focus entirely on the food, but the fact she wasn’t growling at him felt like a minor victory. With her momentarily distracted, Drak turned his attention back to the wound. He threaded the needle, trying not to let his hands shake as he prepared to stitch her up.

  “Alright,” he warned, glancing up at her. “This part might poke a little. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but… well, you’ll feel it.”

  The direhound shifted uncomfortably, her amber eyes narrowing as she braced for the pain. When the needle pierced her skin, she let out a low, involuntary whimper. The sound surprised Drak. He hadn’t expected to hear something so small from such a powerful creature.

  He hesitated for a second, glancing up at her. In a moment of nervousness, he took a risk and let out a small, awkward laugh. “Come on,” he teased lightly, “You’re a direhound. A little needle shouldn’t bother you, right?”

  The direhound’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Drak immediately regretted his attempt at humor. For a tense moment, he thought she might lash out at him, but then she snorted, whether in amusement or annoyance, he couldn’t tell. “Mitappuks? Don’t push your luck, human,” she growled, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.

  Drak let out a breath he’d been holding. “Right. Sorry,” he muttered, focusing back on stitching her wound. Each time the needle went in, the direhound’s body tensed, but she didn’t make any more sounds of protest.

  The barn was quiet except for the occasional hiss of steam and the distant twittering sounds of the birds outside. Drak worked carefully, trying to be as gentle as possible, all while keeping a wary eye on her reactions. He could feel the strength of her gaze on him, watching his every move, but she stayed still, allowing him to do his work.

  As he finished the last stitch and tied it off, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of relief and pride. He had managed to help a direhound. That was something he had never imagined himself doing. Wiping his hands clean, he glanced up at her. “There. All done. Just try to keep it clean, and it should heal up fine.”

  She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes narrowing as if she were still sizing him up. Then, with a begrudging nod, she muttered, “Took you long enough...”

  Drak smiled, though it was more nervous than anything. “You’re welcome. I’m just glad I could help.” He stood up, brushing the hay off his clothes, and took a few steps back to give her some space.

  The direhound stayed seated, her eyes following him closely, as if still deciding whether or not to fully trust him. For now though, the tension between them had eased, even if just a little.

  Drak leaned back against the warm metal pipes of the barn, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground with his arms resting on his knees. He could finally exhale, the adrenaline of the moment beginning to fade. His eyes settled on the direhound, who was now calmer, and for the first time, he could truly admire her for what she was.

  He took in every detail: her thick, powerful tail resting beside her, the sharp wolf-like ears that twitched with every sound, and those bright, intelligent, amber eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light of the barn. But what captured him most was her odd colored hair, flowing with its distinct wolven mane from her head, and the unusual plum-colored nose that set her apart from any Direhound he’d ever seen. She was unlike any of the direhounds in Tribute, and something in her posture and presence suggested she was far more than just a servant.

  Her eyes narrowed as she caught him staring. “Why are you looking at me like that, human?” she asked, her voice filled with not only curiosity, but also mild annoyance.

  Drak blinked, realizing he had been caught. “Oh, uh…,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just, I’ve never seen a direhound like you before.”

  The direhound tilted her head slightly, her expression softening for a moment. Though she wouldn’t admit it to him, there was a flicker of pride in her eyes. She knew she was different. Stronger, faster, more skilled than most, and hearing a human acknowledge it, even if unintentionally, stirred something in her. She quickly masked it, narrowing her eyes again. “Is that so?” she said, feigning indifference.

  Drak nodded, still in awe of her. “Yeah, you’re… well, unique,” he admitted, his gaze lingering on her vibrant purple-streaked hair on her head for a moment before quickly averting his eyes, not wanting to “push his luck.”

  The direhound huffed, turning her attention away from him and focusing on a spot in the distance. She wasn’t about to let herself be flattered by a human, of all things; Yet, the way he had spoken, without fear and without malice, was different from what she had expected. It disarmed her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

  Drak, sensing the shift in her mood, hesitated before asking, “Where are you from?”

  There was a pause as she considered how much she should reveal. She turned her gaze back to him, her eyes fierce as she calculated his intentions. “Why do you care?” she asked, her tone guarded.

  Drak shrugged, leaning his head back against the pipes. “I don’t know. I guess… I’m just curious. You’re not like the direhounds here in Tribute. You clearly don’t belong here. So, I guess I’m wondering where you do belong.”

  The direhound’s eyes eased of her judgement for a brief moment, but she quickly stifled it with a guarded expression. She wouldn’t let herself get too comfortable. Definitely not with a human. However, his words struck a chord with her, and for just a moment, she found herself contemplating how much she should share.

  “I’m from a place far from here,” she finally said, her voice low and distant. “A place where direhounds like me are free. A place where we don’t answer to humans.”

  Drak’s eyes widened, but he didn’t interrupt. He just listened, sensing that she was only giving him a small piece of the truth. Although, it was more than he had expected.

  “Must be nice,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live free, unburdened by expectations or responsibilities. “To be free.”

  The direhound looked at him, studying his face. She could sense the longing in his voice, and for a moment, she was curious by what he meant, but she quickly pushed the thought aside, reminding herself that he was still a human.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said, her tone dismissive, though there was a hint of sadness in her voice. “But… I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  Drak didn’t press her further. He could see that whatever she was running from, or towards, was important to her. And despite everything, he wanted to help her if she’d let him.

  Drak shifted uncomfortably against the warm metal pipes of the barn, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second. He wasn’t sure what else to say, feeling the awkwardness settle in like a slow rolling fog. His eyes wandered to the spot where the direhound had been sleeping earlier, and then to the empty cask of wine that lay tipped over on the ground. He noticed the direhound subtly rub the temples on her head again, her features filled with discomfort.

  Trying to break the tension, he gingerly asked, “Did—did you drink that entire cask of wine?”

  The direhound’s amber eyes turned to him, narrowing slightly as if she were assessing whether or not to dignify the question with a response. After a moment, she let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Anga, what of it?” she replied simply, her tone flat. “I was thirsty and needed something to nourish me.”

  Drak couldn’t help it. A soft laugh escaped his lips before he could stop himself. “That’s a lot of wine, even for a direhound,” he commented, the amusement clear in his voice.

  The direhound’s ears flicked in irritation, and she shot him a sharp look, though there was no real malice behind it. “It served its purpose,” she said defensively, though she winced slightly as her head throbbed.

  Drak withheld another chuckle, shaking his head. “I guess so. But, just so you know, next time you’re thirsty, there's water here. It won’t make your head feel like it’s getting rung by a hammer,” he offered, half-joking, though there was sincerity in his tone. He was trying to lighten the mood, hoping to ease some of the tension that still lingered between them.

  The direhound huffed, clearly unimpressed by his humor, but she didn’t snap back at him. Instead, she just closed her eyes for a moment, trying to ease the dull ache in her skull. She was still so exhausted. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. And despite the fact that she was in the presence of a human, there was a strange sense of calm in the barn now that the initial tension had subsided.

  Drak slowly got to his feet, the floorboards of the barn creaking beneath him. He dusted off his shirt and pants, trying to shake off the lingering anxiety from earlier. He turned back to the direhound, who now sat quietly in observation, her golden amber eyes watching him closely.

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” Drak said, his tone softening now that things had calmed. “My parents are gone until the end of the week, so you’ve got a safe place to recover for a couple days.”

  The direhound’s gaze bore into Drak, unblinking and intense. Her silence stretched while she continued to think, weighing her options. Despite the human's apparent kindness, there was still uncertainty between them, and she didn't trust him. How could she? A human offering aid so willingly was an anomaly in her world, a world shaped by stories of subjugation and betrayal. She wrestled with her options, each one leading to an uncertain path.

  After a moment, she exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging slightly under the stress of her injuries. “I’ll stay,” she said at last, her tone heavy with reluctance. “But only until I recover. Then, I’m gone.”

  Drak nodded slowly in understanding, his expression softening as he gauged her mood. He turned to the barn door and walked over to the rope he had tied earlier to prevent her escape. With deliberate movements, he untied it, letting the now frayed cord fall slack. “You’re not a prisoner here,” he said, glancing back at her. “You can leave whenever you want.”

  Her eyes narrowed at his gesture, suspicion flicked across the features of her face. “I am not naive, human,” she said sharply, her voice low and edged with warning. “If this is some kind of trick, if you intend to betray me…” Her clawed hands flexed out in the air in front of her, their sharp tips glinting in the light. “I'll kill you before you have the chance.”

  Drak's breath caught in his throat, but he didn't look away. “I understand,” he replied, his voice steady even though he felt an icy chill run through his body. “I only want to help you, nothing more.”

  She studied him for a moment longer, her bright yellow eyes searching for any hint of deception. At last, she gave a curt nod, though her posture remained rigid, her muscles coiled and tense. “Good,” she said simply. “Because I've heard enough about human nature to last a thousand moon cycles. Don't give me a reason to regret this.”

  Drak swallowed hard, nodding again as he glanced over towards the empty griddle. “I'll bring you more food and something to drink,” he said, keeping his voice calm and measured.

  Her eyes followed his every movement, a quiet tension hanging between them. “That will suffice,” she murmured, her voice softening just enough to show that, for now, she was willing to tolerate his presence.

  Drak took a step toward the door, but hesitated. Something was nagging at him. He turned back to her, rubbing the side of his arm awkwardly before speaking.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” he questioned, his voice gentle but filled with genuine curiosity.

  She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up for a moment before scoffing. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it if you tried, human.”

  Drak smiled faintly. “Maybe not, but I’d still like to know.”

  After a brief pause, the direhound seemed to relent. She sighed, her voice taking on a regal tone as she spoke. “Nalligik-Paunngak Kutsutak-Ijik.”

  Drak’s mouth hung open slightly, struggling to form the words in his head. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. After all, he'd never met a direhound in-person before, so it made sense that she would have a completely outlandish name. He let out a light laugh. “That’s… a bit hard for me to say.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I told you.”

  “Is there something simpler I can call you?” he asked, hopeful.

  She considered for a moment before responding. “Nalli. You may call me Nalli.”

  Drak smiled warmly. “Nalli… It’s a noble-sounding name.”

  Her ears flicked slightly, betraying the hint of pride she felt, though she remained stoic.

  “And I’m Drak,” he added, placing a hand on his chest and giving her a slight bow. “Nice to meet you, Nalli. I’m going to go inside my house and try to find you more food, okay?”

  Without waiting for a response, Drak turned and exited the barn, the door creaking shut behind him. The warmth of the midday sun greeted him as he walked back toward the house, his mind spinning with thoughts.

  I can’t believe that a direhound—no, Nalli, stumbled into your life, but here she is, proud and fierce, and in need of help, he thought with an apprehensive smile.

  As he made his way across the vineyard, Drak couldn’t help but feel all of the nervousness and excitement building inside him. Whatever the next few days held, he knew his life would never be the same again.

  A

  AkKalajuks – Ants

  Anniasuitik – Shaman of Medicine

  Anirnaq – The First Direhounds

  Anirniq – Soul

  Anga – Yes

  Atsinguak – Gift

  Auka – No

  I

  Ijik – Eye(s)

  Ikialuit! – Damnit or damn you, depending on phrasing.

  Ilisimaik – Craziness

  Ipatsik – Understand

  Ipvit – You

  K

  Kaijuuti – Coyote Tribe

  Kakiannangituk – Unpleasant

  Kavinguak – Much noise

  Kulgoskarrik – A lizard, known for dropping its tail when frightened with a sudden loud burst

  Kutsutak – Yellow

  Kuviasotikak – Ridiculous

  M

  Mitappuk(s) – Joke(s)

  N

  Nakummek – Thank you

  Nalligik – Love(s)

  Nokel-katantik – Honorable

  Nuni Lunikk – Moon Mother

  Nunivak – Pick berries

  Nutaqq – Child

  O

  Omajualuk – Monster

  P

  Paunngak – Berries

  Pattangaititsik – Protecting

  Piujuk – Good

  Piunngituk Silatsuak – Bad Earth

  Pijagia-keh – Different

  Pilluak – Smart, clever, skillful

  Pitsatujuk – Powerful

  Q

  Qilakpaangut – sky-eyed wanderer who flies like a startled birdling

  Qimmit – Dog (or like a dog)

  S

  IkKumanngituk – Stupid

  Siku – Ice

  Siitani – Star cycles, or revolutions around the sun

  Sungittotanuk – A symbol

  T

  Tatannamek – Amazed / How Fascinating!

  Takutsuapuk – Kindness

  Tatsika Napattulik – The Darkened Forest

  Tillia-Kattak – Vermin (More than one meaning?)

  Tikatsiak – Strong twine

  U

  Ukalik – Hare

  Ukausik – Language of Direhounds

  Ukiuq – Winter

  Ullak – Morning

  Nalligik-Paunngak Kutsutak-Ijik (Nalli) – Love(s) Berries Yellow-Eyes

  Akkitu-kumik Taggana-Tak (Umbra) – Soft-Scratch Shadow-Side

  (Uvaguk or Uvak)-kaik sollu pitsiak. Pik sivo-ganik – (We or I) Come as kin. Do not fear.

  Sakkik sollu pitsiak! Ipvut napaq kunulik… Amarik! – Appear as kin! But stand with… enemy!

  Qamut qimmit! Pilluq! – Cowardly dogs! Move!

  Sunas pait mittsikappuk, atiq? – What is your real/true name?

  Nuti Nannguk Kunnak – Great Fault of Kunnak

  Takutsuapuk aje atsinguak – Kindness is a treasure

  Vine & Fang posted for free reading. Redistribution prohibited.