The crimson wake
1006 Words
Episode 2: The Crimson Wake
The iron-reinforced doors of the Great Hall didn't just open; they disintegrated.
Malakai didn't flinch. He adjusted his grip on me, his large hand splaying across my ribs as he tucked my head into the crook of his neck. The scent of him—that intoxicating mix of rain and woodsmoke—was the only thing keeping the rising panic in my gut from boiling over.
"Shield the girl!" Malakai roared.
His guards, six massive men who looked like they were forged from the same dark stone as their King, instantly formed a circle around us. They shifted mid-stride, their bones snapping and skin tearing as they transformed into midnight-black wolves the size of grizzly bears.
I peered over Malakai's shoulder, my breath catching. The figures in the snow weren't wolves. They wore silver-threaded cloaks that shimmered against the moonlight, and their bows weren't made of wood. They were pure silver—the one thing that could kill a Lycan.
"Sentinels," Malakai hissed.
"The Order?" my father’s voice rose from the back of the hall, sounding both terrified and hopeful. "They’re here for the abomination! Give her to them, Malakai, before they burn us all!"
The King’s response was a low, guttural laugh that made my bones vibrate. "They can try."
An arrow whistled through the air, a streak of silver light aimed directly for my heart. I closed my eyes, bracing for the cold bite of metal, but it never came. Instead, I heard a wet thwack and a grunt of pain.
I opened my eyes to see Malakai’s hand inches from my face. He had caught the arrow out of mid-air. The silver was already sizzling against his palm, his skin blackened and smoking where it touched the metal, but he didn't let go. He snapped the shaft like a toothpick and dropped the pieces into the snow.
"Run!" he commanded.
We hit the tree line at a pace that made the world a blur of white and grey. Malakai ran with the grace of a predator, his heavy boots barely making a sound in the deep powder. Behind us, the forest erupted in snarls and the frantic twang of bowstrings.
The heat in my blood was no longer a hum; it was a scream. My skin felt like it was being pulled too tight, and my vision began to fracture. I could see the heat signatures of the wolves around us—pulsing orbs of red and orange—and something else. Further back, in the shadows of the pines, were flickers of cold blue.
"Malakai," I gasped, my voice sounding strange and multi-layered. "The trees... they're in the trees."
He glanced at me, his golden eyes narrowing. "You can see them already?"
Before I could answer, a Sentinel dropped from a high branch, a silver dagger aimed at Malakai’s throat. The King didn't slow down. He pivoted, using his momentum to slam his shoulder into the attacker’s chest. The sound of ribs snapping echoed through the quiet woods.
But there were too many of them.
We reached the Blackwood carriage—a massive, iron-clad beast of a vehicle hitched to four black stallions that looked more like monsters than horses. Malakai threw me inside, slamming the door just as a volley of arrows peppered the wood.
"Stay down!" he shouted through the small, barred window.
"Wait! You're hurt!" I screamed, looking at his burned hand.
He didn't answer. He vaulted onto the roof of the carriage as it lurched forward. I tumbled onto the floorboards, gasping for air. The violet light was leaking from my skin now, thick and hazy like smoke.
I looked at my hands. The black talons were retracting, but my skin was turning unnaturally pale, almost translucent. My hunger, which had been a dull ache from years of pack rations, suddenly sharpened into a jagged, agonizing knife in my stomach. It wasn't bread I wanted. It wasn't water.
It was the copper scent of the blood on Malakai’s hand.
The carriage rocked violently as something slammed into the side. I heard the scream of a horse and the frantic shouting of the guards. A silver blade sliced through the leather curtain of the window, inches from my eyes.
I scrambled back, my heart hammering. The violet smoke around me began to swirl, forming a protective barrier that hissed when the silver touched it.
Suddenly, the roof above me groaned. The metal peeled back like parchment, and Malakai dropped back inside, his chest heaving. He was covered in dark blood, but his eyes were fixated on me—on the violet mist and the way my pupils had swallowed the irises.
He didn't look disgusted. He looked... relieved.
"The shift is coming, Elara," he said, reaching for a heavy iron chest bolted to the floor. "But it's not a wolf you're turning into. If you don't drink this, the change will tear your heart in two."
He flipped the lid. Inside were glass vials filled with a thick, dark crimson liquid.
"What is that?" I whispered, even as my mouth began to water.
Malakai pulled a vial out and uncorked it. The scent hit me like a physical blow—sweet, metallic, and ancient.
"Life," he said darkly. "And your death sentence."
Outside, the carriage came to a bone-jarring halt. The sound of fighting had stopped, replaced by a silence so absolute it felt like the world had died.
"Why did we stop?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Malakai didn't answer. He stood up, his head nearly touching the roof, and looked out the ruined ceiling. His face went pale.
"Because," he whispered, "the King of the Sentinels doesn't want to kill you anymore. He wants to talk."
A heavy knock sounded on the carriage door. Not a frantic beat of war, but a slow, rhythmic tap.
"Open the door, Malakai," a cold, melodic voice drifted through the wood. "Or I'll let the girl find out what her father really did to her mother."
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