Deal with the werewolf king

it, the cold bit down hard, sharp as fangs, and the mist coiled low around her boots like smoke from a funeral pyre. "You must walk the forest," said the King, watching from the bone balcony

d scream, a second figure slammed into it from the trees, snarling, slashing. Blood sprayed the path like ink. The attacker lay twitching, ribs crushed, its breath rattling like broken glass. The one who saved her stood tall, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. He wasn't the King. But he wore the same fur. And his eyes-green, glowing, vicious-locked onto hers with a strange hunger. "You're the girl," he said, voice low, rough with a rumble of accent she couldn't place. "The Moon's pick. Hmph. Doesn't look like much." She found her voice. "I didn't ask to be chosen." He laughed once, sharp and mirthless. "None of us did." He circled her like a predator sizing up prey. Close enough that she could see the scars under his jaw, the old claw marks trailing down his neck. When he spoke again, his breath smelled like iron and herbs. "Name's Kael. Firstborn of the Bloodhowlers. Brother to the King." She flinched. "You're his-?" "Rival." The word was heavy, bitter. "But don