From her memories, the villagers had once feared Sloane's true identity. And there was a time when they'd dreaded the bloodthirsty duchess. But she'd long made a shitty name for herself as the destructive, pathetic drunkard with only one mate. Too many had seen her drunk, passed out in the gutters with mud-caked hair and vomit all over her clothes. And conveniently, that had erased her previous identity, turning her into the infamous gin-loving recluse.
They called her Useless Alpha, and she was the joke of the town, for even in the little village, monogamy made her undesirable and a stupid weakling.
Sloane scoffed. But this world was built on polygamy.
An Alpha female had to have at least three mates to serve her in a pack. It was necessary for sustenance and survival; a pack of four would be able to protect their land from ferals, care for the farm and work for coin. And so, having only one man was either because of an Alpha female's youth, her pickiness, or it was a symbol of her inadequacies.
They'd long collectively agreed that Sloane was of the latter.
That had a smile twitching across her face.
It was naturally easy for all women to find mates, as rare and as sought-after as the women here were. They didn't have enough girls, and many men found themselves desperate to mate with a female to survive. This made her painfully pathetic, and the villagers turned their noses up whenever she visited the village.
The people used to be a little more respectful when they were a pack of three, partly due to Veyr's status as a soldier. And they had even been a tad envious of the salary the duo received monthly. But now? Everyone knew that Veyr was dead, and Sloane and Riven were just two useless beggars in their midst.
There were even people cajoling Riven to leave and find a better, prettier Alpha.
The thought of that had a shiver of displeasure running up her spine. Her eyes slid to Riven, lips pursed. If she wanted him to stay, she had to prove herself, prove her worth. But did it really matter? Sloane had been alone for years; she didn't need a man. He could fuck off, and she wouldn't really give a damn.
Still, he'd taken care of the duchess, and some part of her wanted to repay him.
It was the least she could do.
Their basket was now filled to the brim with silver fish, still cold from the stream, scales glistening in the sun, and they shared the weight between them. Sloane bore one handle, and Riven the other, their steps slightly uneven on the rutted farm road. But the weight felt good, the burn in her muscles had her smiling, and she noted the bounce in Riven's step.
He was hopping.
Cute.
She hid a grin at that, turning her head to the side. Sloane had attempted to appear to at least struggle to catch some of the fish, hands flailing over one or two. But Riven had already seen how ridiculously easy it was for her. Curiosity had drawn him in, wanting to try to catch some fish.
He hovered by the edge of the stream when she waddled out, hands reaching forward. But a scowl deepened on his brow when they swam off immediately, almost as if he stank. She couldn't help the grin from flooding her cheeks. A small rush of pride ironing out her shoulders and trickling down her chest.
It was odd that she could catch them so easily, and now it had her mind pondering over the situation. It didn't make sense. She'd caught plenty of game in her past life, enough fish to know their behaviours. Those fish had been attracted to her fingers. But there was no time to dwell upon it, with her belly already growling for food.
The plan was simple: they were going to sell some of their loot in exchange for provisions.
The farmer's market was at the very centre of the small village, and the first houses came into view quickly. Cabins pressed close to each other, bottomed with timber and lined with straw, their roofs patched with shingles and sod.
Dark smoke drifted from the chimneys, and chickens roamed within low fences, clucking as they strolled over home-grown vegetables. It was pretty primitive, exposing the lack of wealth in the area.
She couldn't help questioning its state with a frown. "It doesn't look that well-protected."
Riven merely gave her a look, eyes flecked with judgment. And Sloane pursed her lips; she supposed he assumed that her question stemmed from her upbringing in her old, stone mansion. "No one can afford anything better."
"These fences aren't going to keep anything away from the chickens," she explained.
"There's always someone at home," he said. "The packs will do patrols at night here, and the people come together to defend their homes." Riven bit his lower lip. "The ferals wouldn't be deterred by any wooden gate. They could just crash right through it."
"So, they're like giant, overpowered beasts," she said. It would be easy to take one down if that were the case. "Can they speak?"
"Who knows?" Riven shrugged with a frustrated huff. "But they're not stupid, if that's what you're thinking." He gave her a scathing look then, but seemed to hold himself back when his eyes darted over the fish. "They have to survive the winter months, too." He raised a hand to scratch at his ears with a sigh. "They've given in to their animals completely, so they're unpredictable and bloodthirsty. But Veyr says they can be like religious, cannibalistic fanatics; he's seen evidence of their rituals."
"Cannibalism?"
Riven's lips quirked downwards, a sudden pallor ghosting over his beautiful face. "They'll eat weaker beast men if they have to, to survive. Veyr's seen them consume their young in winter. Found the bodies of kits and fawns, half-animal, half-human. Fresh bone with carvings, meat scraped clean, mouths open in agony." He shivered. "It scared the shit out of me."
Half-human young. That surprised her, but her memories tumbled within her head. The ferals were a phenomenon that had existed for centuries; those who were consumed by their animal side would transform completely into their respective beasts, but wild and hungry for blood.
Once a beast man had turned feral, there was no hope of turning back, which was why those who experienced the phenomenon were now killed on sight. But the ones that had escaped in the distant past now formed dangerous packs within the forests, multiplying tremendously. The fact that they still produced children who were half-human and half-animal was interesting.
Curiosity bubbled within her. "What kind of carvings?"
"Pictures of the moon," Riven replied.
"They can draw?"
"They're wild, but they're pretty much still humans who've just lost their minds to their animals. They can trap, hunt, and kill. And they will kill you for fresh meat." He exhaled. "They're smart."
Sloane gaped at him, then snapped her mouth shut. She had assumed that they'd be just like the mutated monsters back home, crazed, zombie-like, but simple-minded. It seemed that the ferals were more like cult-like, intelligent monsters. Her frown deepened. They might be a thousand times more dangerous than she believed them to be.
She turned to Riven then.
"If I find a massive footprint in the woods, could I assume that it's the feral?"
Riven paused at that, pondering her words. "I think so?" He tilted his head then, ears flopping. He squinted at her. "You don't remember any of this?"
Sloane shrugged. She might as well succumb to her fate. "The details are pretty foggy."
"But you know how to catch fish and forage?"
"Muscle memory remains."
He scoffed. "Do Duchesses catch fish?"
She shot him a look then, eyebrow raised. He was honing in on her excuses, picking her words apart for secrets. But the look in his eyes told her that he wasn't too serious. She just had to be better at telling lies. "I was a kid once." She nudged her chin at the basket. "Even rich kids can learn to fish."
"Fine," he grumbled.
The roads now narrowed into a square. Smoke hung in the air, thin and oily from fires kindled behind the rows of stalls where kettles steamed and meat smoked. The space was roughly set up, merely boards covered with tarp. Wood over barrels. Baskets turned over and covered with cloth. Goods hung from poles in baskets, tied with straw.
Everything was makeshift and small, pressed in tight by the patched cottages, but alive with activity.
Voices carried loud in the markets, the sound of coins jiggling every so often. The shrill cry of a peddler hawking colourful ribbons, the thud of a cleaver on a butcher's block, the hum of bargaining voices rising and falling like the tide.
Hunters stood with their game in neat rows, rabbits and squirrels on cords. Men displayed their onions, cabbages, and potatoes. An old man stood with barrels of grain. A boy fanned flies from a tray of baked bread, still warm from a stove. The smells were sharp, of smoke, drying hides, damp earth, and the sweetness of bundled herbs. The spread was abundant despite it all.
Sloane noted down the prices roughly scratched into wooden planks. She'd use that as an estimate of the market prices for her goods.
It was clear that the number of men here outnumbered women, for most of the sellers were male. In fact all of them were, save for the occasional older grandmother who ambled along the path, flanked by her pack. It disturbed her a little, but the men paid her no mind.
Sloane tried not to stare at the animal ears and tails attached to each beast man, unused to their appearance despite her memories. She was grateful that despite the masses of people, their scents were muted in the fresh air. Merely whiffs of musk spilt from their designation, but nothing quite like the sweetness Riven presented to her. Even now, he perfumed like glazed honey, sweetly tickling her nose.
But what did that mean?
Sloane frowned. The duchess was a sheltered noble who barely interacted with society. And so she did not have the ability to pick out the designations of individuals. But Sloane supposed it would not matter. The second gender was mostly just a depiction of their levels of dominance and submission. And to ask him why he smelled so good seemed almost derogatory. The thought disturbed her, old memories tumbling within her as if ruffled by the mere suggestion.
They eventually found a spot at a crossing of two roads, between a hunter selling eggs in cracked clay bowls and a man displaying tins of oozing honey. It was no more than a bare patch on the ground. But flanked by vendors selling eggs and honey, it seemed like a good spot.
Riven set the basket down. Sloane unfolded the cloth she'd picked from their home, laying it smooth on the ground. Then, she began to lay out the goods. The silver fish, still damp from the catch, the green shoots of wild fiddlehead fern, the bundles of mushrooms from fallen logs, and the garlicky ramps, spicy in the air.
Riven sneered when the crowd pressed past, ignoring their store and heading for the honey. "Don't be disappointed if no one buys our goods—"
"Fresh fish and wild vegetables from the mountains!"
Her voice was high and clear, standing out easily amongst the crowd. And she gave them all an easy smile, ignoring the bunny. It helped that she was a woman, and her tone seemed to cut cleanly through the waves of male chatter. It did not take long for a man to approach, bending low over the fish, lifting one by the gills to inspect it with a sniff. Riven stared in astonishment, and Sloane smiled pleasantly.
"It was just freshly caught. Two coins," she said calmly, "or trade."
The man scowled, setting the fish down. A pause, and he muttered. "I have cornmeal, a small bag." He showed the sack to them, half-filled with yellow grain.
Cornmeal, coarse flour made from dried corn. She did not hesitate, bagging the fish quickly. "Three for the sack." She wrapped the catch quickly in straw. "I'll throw in an extra ramp," she said, picking out the greens. "It goes well with the fish if you cook them together." The man smiled, tail wagging, but he left without another word. The bag of cornmeal now sat heavily in Riven's arms, and he gawked at her.
She grinned.
More came after, drawn by the shine of the fish and later by the greens. A deer beast man offered a wedge of lard in exchange for some greens, and she agreed, throwing in the dandelions with a quick lesson on nutritious tea. A boy came running barefoot, with spines for hair, clutching a small bundle of coarse salt. Sloane gave him a fish, taking the salt with a nod. And he darted back into the crowd, clutching his prize to his chest.
The morning wore on, and their display on the cloth grew emptier while their basket filled. Two eggs. A small jar of honey. Potatoes dusted with soil. A bundle of dried herbs. A bag of oats and wheat. Coins clinked faintly in Riven's pocket. All around them, the market churned: men shouting the weight of game, women squabbling over the price of beans, the sharp sound of laughter rising for a moment before sinking back into the dull roar.
But the sweetness in his scent seemed to grow, delight pouring off him in waves. And she was starting to understand the difference in his scent. The way it sweetened when a customer came, and then ebbed when none approached. It was somewhat a representation of his feelings. A fact that she noted down quickly in her head. The Duchess Sloane had never been able to smell anyone quite so strongly, she was pretty damn sure of that.
So what was this ability to taste Riven's emotions like that?
The sun climbed higher, its heat pressing against shoulders and backs, glinting off the glistening jars of honey set in rows from the seller by their side. By midday, only a few fish remained upon their cloth, and a handful of greens. Sloane gathered the last and folded the fabric carefully, tucking it into the basket.
Riven counted the coins in his palm, slow and deliberate with wide, almost watery eyes. When he slipped them deep into his pocket, his face eased, the annoyance softening just enough that Sloane saw it then. That faint gleam of satisfaction. When he turned to look at her now, it was filled with a touch of respect and thanks.
His smile was pretty.
"Shall we sell the rest?" he asked, ears twitching on his head, voice noticeably softer.
She shook her head. "There must be something for dinner."
He looked again at the coins in his pocket, then at the fish glimmering faintly in the sun. His jaw tightened, but he only nodded. Sloane knew that hunger stirred within him. "We should buy rice," he said at last. "It'll taste good with the fish."
Sloane grinned. "Lead the way."