I didn't sleep.
Not because I was afraid of the wolves outside—though I probably should have been—but because my mind wouldn't shut off. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw numbers. Red numbers, specifically. The kind that meant foreclosure, bankruptcy, and in this world's medieval charm, probably a noose.
Four thousand, two hundred marks.
Eleven weeks.
One useless skill.
By the time dawn crept through my window, I'd filled six more pages in Dietrich's journal with calculations, half-remembered game lore, and increasingly desperate contingency plans. Most of them ended with variations of "hope this works or you're fucked."
Not exactly confidence-inspiring.
A knock at the door interrupted my seventh cup of coffee. Hans entered without waiting for permission—a habit that would've annoyed me if I actually cared about noble propriety.
"My lord." He set a leather portfolio on my desk with the careful precision of a man delivering a death sentence. "The information you requested."
I opened it.
The list was... extensive.
Monster Sightings and Beast Attacks - 50 Mile Radius - Past 12 Months
Hans's immaculate handwriting filled eight pages. Dates, locations, descriptions, casualties. I scanned the entries:
Thornwood Forest (North Road, Mile 3): Pack of dire wolves, 6-8 individuals. Attacked merchant caravan. Three dead, five wounded. Cargo abandoned.
Thornwood Forest (East Ridge): Wyvern sighting, juvenile, bronze coloring. No attacks. Hunters avoid area.
Blackwater Marsh: Shadow cats, estimated 3-4. Killed two sheep from Millbrook village. Tracks suggest den nearby.
Thornwood Forest (Old Mill Road): Boar, magical variant, estimated 400 lbs. Gored hunter. Hunter survived, lost leg.
The pattern was obvious. Thornwood was infested. The blockade wasn't a military strategy—it was just predators being predators. The old trade route cut through their territory, so they treated every caravan like a free buffet.
"The wolves from last night," I said. "They were real?"
"Sir Jarred reported tracks this morning. Three individuals, possibly four. They circled the manor but didn't approach the walls." Hans paused. "He's... concerned about your safety, my lord."
"I'm sure he is." Sir Jarred, my knight-captain, had made his opinion of me abundantly clear. The original Dietrich had been a passable swordsman but no warrior. I was worse—a Seoul office worker in a nobleman's body. I'd tried sword practice once. Once.
"My lord," Hans said carefully, "if I may speak plainly?"
"Have you ever not?"
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "The task you're contemplating—using Tame to clear the Thornwood—is not merely dangerous. It's..." He searched for words. "The skill is unreliable. The beasts are lethal. Even if you succeeded in bonding one or two creatures, training them to your purpose would take months. Months we don't have."
"Noted."
"And the cost of feeding a dire wolf—"
"Is less than the interest on Voss's loans. I know." I stood, closing the portfolio. "I need to see them."
Hans blinked. "My lord?"
"The wolves. The ones from last night. If they're still in the area, I need to see them." I grabbed my coat—Dietrich's coat, worn at the elbows and missing a button. "Get Sir Jarred. And a horse. Actually, two horses."
"My lord, I must protest—"
"Protested and noted. Two horses, Hans."
Fifteen minutes later, I was regretting every decision that had led to this moment.
The horse—a chestnut mare named Copper—clearly sensed I had no idea what I was doing. She kept trying to turn back toward the stable, and I kept hauling on the reins like an idiot, which just made her more convinced I was incompetent.
She wasn't wrong.
Sir Jarred rode beside me on a black destrier, his expression carved from stone. He was forty-something, scarred, and built like a man who'd spent his life in armor. Which he had. He'd served Dietrich's father for twenty years.
He did not approve of the son.
"My lord," he said for the third time, "this is unwise."
"Your objection is noted."
"Wolves are pack hunters. If we encounter them—"
"Then we'll deal with it." I tried to sound confident. Probably failed.
We rode north from the manor, following the treeline where Hans had reported the tracks. The morning was cold, mist clinging to the ground like smoke. Copper's breath steamed in the air.
I'd been in this world for three months and I still wasn't used to the silence. No cars, no construction, no constant hum of electricity. Just wind and birds and the creak of saddle leather.
It should have been peaceful.
It wasn't.
"There." Jarred pointed.
Tracks in the mud. Massive paw prints, each the size of my fist. Four sets, maybe five, heading into the woods.
I dismounted. Copper immediately tried to bolt. I barely kept hold of the reins.
Jarred didn't dismount. "My lord. We should return. Get proper hunters, tracking dogs—"
"Stay with the horses," I said.
"My lord—"
"That's an order, Sir Jarred."
His jaw tightened. But he nodded.
I followed the tracks into the trees.
Stupid. This was stupid.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had spent a decade doing risk analysis—was screaming at me to turn around. I was alone, unarmed except for a belt knife I barely knew how to use, tracking wolves the size of ponies.
But the desperate part of my brain, the part drowning in debt and existential dread, kept walking.
I needed to know if Tame would actually work.
The game had been vague about skill mechanics. You selected a target, used the skill, and either succeeded or failed based on some hidden calculation. Helpful.
Dietrich's fragmented memories weren't better. He'd received the skill at his coming-of-age ceremony—sixteen years old, the day the System recognized you as an adult and granted your ability. Everyone got one skill. His father had been furious. A von Klause with Tame? Shameful. Useless.
Dietrich had tried it a handful of times and given up.
I didn't have that luxury.
The tracks led deeper into the woods. The mist thickened. I could hear something moving ahead—the snap of twigs, the rustle of undergrowth.
I stopped.
Focused.
Reached inside myself for that strange sense I'd felt with the stable cat. It was like a muscle I'd never used, dormant and weak. I flexed it, mentally, trying to—
There.
I felt something. A presence. Multiple presences, actually. Warm. Alive. Closer than I thought.
My heart hammered.
I took another step forward.
A low growl stopped me cold.
The wolf stepped out from behind a tree fifteen feet ahead. It was massive—shoulder height at my chest, fur the color of smoke, eyes like molten gold. Muscles rippled under its coat. Scars crossed its muzzle.
It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I'd ever seen.
Two more wolves emerged on either side. Smaller, but not by much. The pack.
Don't run, I told myself. Running triggers chase instinct.
The lead wolf—alpha, probably—stared at me. Assessing. I could feel its attention like physical weight.
I reached for Tame again, focusing on that mental muscle, and pushed.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. It felt like trying to grab smoke—there was something there, a connection, a thread, but it kept slipping through my mental fingers. I pushed harder, trying to force it, trying to—
The alpha snarled.
Not a warning. A rejection.
The other two wolves moved to flank me.
Shit.
I pushed again, desperate now, throwing everything I had into the skill—
The alpha lunged.
I stumbled backward, fell on my ass in the mud, threw my arms up in a pathetic attempt to—
The wolf stopped.
Three feet away.
It stood over me, teeth bared, growl rumbling through its chest. I could smell wet fur and old blood. Its eyes bored into mine.
But it didn't attack.
For a long moment, we stared at each other.
Then it huffed—a sound of pure contempt—turned, and walked away.
The other two followed.
In seconds, they vanished into the mist.
I sat in the mud, heart trying to punch through my ribs, and laughed.
It was either that or scream.
Sir Jarred said nothing when I emerged from the woods covered in mud and failure.
He handed me Copper's reins, mounted his destrier, and waited.
We rode back in silence.
The lesson was clear: I had no idea what I was doing.
Tame wasn't like the game, where you clicked a button and rolled dice. It was a skill—something that required practice, understanding, finesse. I'd tried to brute-force a bond with a wild alpha wolf and gotten exactly the response I deserved.
The wolf could have killed me.
It chose not to.
Why?
The question gnawed at me the entire ride back.
Hans was waiting in the courtyard when we returned. One look at my mud-covered state and his expression shifted from concern to resignation.
"Shall I prepare a bath, my lord?"
"And a brandy. A large one." I dismounted—badly—and handed Copper off to a stable boy. "Also, I need you to find someone."
"My lord?"
"A teacher. Someone who actually knows how to use Tame. I don't care if they're a peasant, a hedge witch, or a fucking circus performer. Find them."
Hans hesitated. "My lord... such individuals are not typically welcome in noble households. The skill is considered—"
"Beneath me. I know. I don't care." I started toward the manor, then stopped. "Hans. How much does a dire wolf eat? Per day?"
He blinked at the sudden shift. "I... approximately ten pounds of meat, my lord. Possibly more."
"And the market price of meat?"
"Roughly two silver marks per ten pounds. Why—"
"So one wolf costs two marks daily. Sixty marks monthly." My mind spun the numbers. "Three wolves, one hundred eighty marks. That's still less than the interest payments to Voss."
"My lord, you don't have three wolves."
"Not yet."
I continued inside, leaving him staring.
The bath helped. The brandy helped more.
I sat in my study, clean and slightly drunk, staring at Hans's list of monster sightings.
The failure in the woods should have discouraged me. It didn't.
Because the wolf had stopped.
That meant something. It meant Tame had done something, even if I didn't understand what. The skill had touched the wolf, and the wolf had responded—not with obedience, but with recognition.
It had seen me. Not as prey. Not as threat.
As... something else.
I needed to understand that. Needed to learn how to speak the language the skill was trying to teach me.
Which meant I needed a teacher.
A knock at the door. Hans entered with a silver tray bearing a sealed letter.
"This arrived while you were bathing, my lord. From Merchant Voss."
My good mood evaporated.
I took the letter, broke the seal, read.
Lord von Klause,
I trust this letter finds you well. I write to inform you that several of my business associates have expressed interest in your estate's timber rights, pending resolution of your outstanding obligations.
I assured them such transactions would be unnecessary, as I have every confidence in your ability to meet your commitments.
However, should you wish to discuss alternative arrangements, I remain at your service.
Your humble creditor,
Aldric Voss
I read it twice.
The threat was polite but clear: Pay up, or I start carving off pieces of your estate.
Timber rights meant the Thornwood forests—the only potentially valuable asset I had left. If Voss got those, he could log them, sell the lumber, and recoup his investment. I'd be left with farmland that barely produced enough to feed my peasants.
"My lord?" Hans asked quietly.
I set the letter down. "Find me that teacher, Hans. Today, if possible."
"It may take time to locate someone reputable—"
"I don't need reputable. I need competent." I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, started writing. "Also, send a reply to Voss. Polite. Reassuring. Tell him I'm pursuing new revenue streams and expect to make significant payments within three months."
"My lord, if you don't actually have such revenue streams—"
"Then I'll find them. Or create them. Or steal them if I have to." I kept writing. "One way or another, Hans, the ledger will balance."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "As you say, my lord."
After he left, I sat alone, staring at Voss's letter.
The smart play was to give up. Sell the timber rights, liquidate everything, pay off what I could, and run. Find some remote corner of the kingdom where nobody knew the von Klause name and start over.
But that would leave the peasants who depended on me at the mercy of whoever bought the estate. It would leave Elena without a dowry, without prospects. It would mean admitting defeat.
And I'd spent my entire previous life analyzing failures. I'd watched dozens of companies collapse because they gave up too early, lost their nerve, sold out at the worst possible moment.
I wasn't going to be one of them.
I opened Dietrich's journal to a new page.
Day Two of Project Taming Ruin:
Attempted to Tame a dire wolf. Failed spectacularly. Did not die. Progress?
The skill works, but I don't understand how. Need teacher.
Voss is circling. Three months until he starts taking pieces.
New timeline: 11 weeks to survive tax assessment, 12 weeks to show Voss real progress.
Problem: Still don't have any wolves.
Solution: Learn to speak their language.
I paused, then added:
Note: The alpha could have killed me. It chose not to. Why? What did it see? What did Tame show it?
Remember this: The skill isn't about domination. It's about communication.
Maybe that's the key.
I closed the journal and went to the window.
The sun was setting over the Thornwood, painting the sky in shades of amber and blood. Somewhere in those trees, the alpha wolf was watching.
Waiting.
I'd failed the first test.
But there would be others.
The next morning, Hans found me in the stable.
I was sitting in the hayloft with the stable cat—the same one that had pissed on my boots three months ago. It was watching me with the distinctive suspicion of a cat that knows you want something.
"My lord?"
"Did you find someone?" I asked, not looking away from the cat.
"Yes, my lord. Though I suspect you won't approve."
"Try me."
Hans climbed up into the loft, brushing straw from his coat. "There is a woman in Millbrook village. They call her Old Marta. She has... a reputation."
"What kind of reputation?"
"The kind that involves midnight rituals, talking to animals, and a cottage full of creatures that should by all rights eat each other." He paused. "The villagers believe she's a witch."
"Is she?"
"She claims to be a herbalist with an affinity for beasts."
"So, a witch."
"My lord, associating with such a person could damage what remains of your reputation—"
"Hans, my reputation is already 'the broke noble who's going to lose everything.' I don't think a hedge witch is going to make it worse." I held out my hand to the cat, slowly, palm up.
It sniffed cautiously.
I reached for Tame again, but gentler this time. Not pushing. Just... offering. Like extending a hand and waiting to see if it would be accepted.
The cat's ears swiveled forward.
For a moment, I felt it—that thread of connection, fragile as spider silk. The cat's wariness, its hunger, its vague curiosity about the weird human who kept sitting near it.
Then it bit my finger and ran away.
I sighed.
"Incremental progress," I muttered.
Hans looked like he was reconsidering his life choices.
"When can I meet her?" I asked. "Old Marta."
"She doesn't come to the manor, my lord. You would have to go to her."
"Even better. Arrange it. This afternoon, if possible."
"My lord—"
"Hans." I stood, brushing hay from my clothes. "I have eleven weeks to learn a skill that takes most people years to master. I don't have time for propriety."
He studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw in my expression made him nod.
"I'll send a runner to the village. Though I should warn you—Old Marta is... difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"She turned away the Duke's physician once. Called him a 'pompous fool who couldn't tell a healing herb from horse dung.'" Hans's lips twitched. "She was, reportedly, correct."
Despite everything, I smiled.
"She sounds perfect."