The Hollow Pact

The cold gnawed through flesh and into bone. ‎ ‎Ronan stumbled between the skeletal trees of the Hollowfang forest, one arm pressed tight to his ribs where the wound wept steadily. Blood soaked the furs clinging to his side, hot for moments, then icy as it hardened. He barely felt it now. Cold had taken care of that. ‎ ‎His boots crunched over the frostbitten ground, through brambles and half-frozen moss. The world swam around him in shades of iron gray, broken only by the occasional shock of rust-colored leaves still clinging to the branches overhead like dying embers. ‎ ‎The wind whistled a hollow song through the pines, and for a second he thought it spoke his name. ‎ ‎Ronan. ‎ ‎No. He wasn’t that far gone. ‎ ‎He stopped, panting, resting one hand against the slick bark of a leaning birch. He could still hear the bloodhounds somewhere behind him—low, slobbering things Castor kept for hunting wounded prey. Not wolves. Not pack. Just teeth and rage in cages. Like him, once. ‎ ‎He took another step and his leg buckled. His knee hit a root. He hissed. ‎ ‎Pain was good. It meant he was still here. ‎ ‎The moonlight barely pierced the dense canopy above. Even without the snow falling yet, the air smelled like winter. Like rot and silence and the coming dead season. ‎ ‎Once, he would have felt his wolf twitching beneath his skin—ears pricking, hackles lifting, every sense flaring sharp as knives. Now, it was like screaming down a canyon and waiting for the echo. ‎ ‎Nothing came back. ‎ ‎No wolf. No tether. No shift. ‎ ‎He reached up, digging fingers into the collar of his torn shirt and yanked it open. His chest rose and fell, heaving. ‎ ‎The mark was still there—low on his ribs. Jagged. Blackened. The hollow rune. ‎ ‎A witch’s curse. ‎ ‎He didn’t know which of them Castor had bargained with. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Ronan, Alpha of Hollowfang, was walking through his own damn forest like prey. ‎ ‎Another branch snapped behind him. ‎ ‎He lurched forward again, deeper into the woods, past a line of trees where the bark had been stripped bare in long claw-marks. Fresh. Red sap still wept like open wounds. ‎ ‎That wasn’t from the hounds. ‎ ‎He pressed on. His vision blurred. He saw the glint of something to his left—metal? Eyes? ‎ ‎He blinked. ‎ ‎A stag stood between the trees, white as bone, its antlers tangled with frost and moss. It watched him without flinching, steam curling from its nostrils. Not running. Not afraid. ‎ ‎"You're not real," Ronan muttered, breath fogging. ‎ ‎The stag tilted its head. Behind it, etched into the tree bark like something dug in by claws or nails, was a symbol. A half-moon inside a circle. Ancient. ‎ ‎He’d seen it once in a book Elias had shown him years ago. Witch sigils. Bloodbound pacts. Forbidden magic. Markers carved by seers to designate hunted men. ‎ ‎His knees buckled again. ‎ ‎The stag turned, silently vanishing into the trees. The cold rushed back in, fiercer. ‎ ‎Ronan tried to rise, but his hand slipped. He fell onto his side, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He lay still for a moment, heart thundering. His pulse no longer matched any rhythm he knew. ‎ ‎Above him, the branches shifted. Something creaked—like antlers through bark. ‎ ‎A hallucination. Had to be. ‎ ‎He rolled onto his back, snow damp against his skull, and stared at the branches overhead. The forest seemed to lean closer, narrowing in around him. ‎ ‎The curse was bleeding deeper. Not just in his body—but in his mind. ‎ ‎He’d seen warriors lose their wolves before. The madness came slow, but it always came. Some slit their throats before the second moon. Others begged to be killed. ‎ ‎Ronan closed his eyes. ‎ ‎Not like this. ‎ ‎He exhaled one ragged breath and tried to sit up. ‎ ‎Then he heard it: a twig snapping, deliberately, twenty feet to his right. ‎ ‎Not a hound. Not an animal. A person. ‎ ‎He reached slowly for the dagger at his hip. It was the last weapon he still carried. His sword had been lost in the fall. His claws… were gone. ‎ ‎Another step. ‎ ‎Whoever it was, they didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. Just watched. ‎ ‎Ronan tensed. “I’m not in the mood to die cleanly tonight.” ‎ ‎No answer. ‎ ‎He shifted slowly, preparing to lunge. ‎ ‎Then a shape broke from the trees—slender, hooded, cloaked in gray. A woman. She stopped just within the edge of moonlight. He couldn’t make out her face. Only the glint of something in her hand. A blade. ‎ ‎A small one. Silver-edged. Poisoner’s steel. ‎ ‎His eyes narrowed. “You Castor’s pet?” ‎ ‎Still no answer. ‎ ‎The figure tilted her head slightly, as if assessing him. Then, with cautious steps, she began to approach. ‎ ‎Ronan didn’t move. He had maybe twenty seconds of strength left. Either she’d kill him fast, or— ‎ ‎Her boot crunched against snow. Five feet away. ‎ ‎He saw her hand twitch. ‎ ‎And then… she froze. ‎ ‎Something rippled in the air. Like a thread pulled taut between them. ‎ ‎Ronan felt it, too. ‎ ‎A warmth—unnatural. Under his skin. Under the curse. For a heartbeat, he could almost hear it: the howl he hadn’t felt in weeks. ‎ ‎It was small. Faint. But it was there. ‎ ‎He blinked. So did she. ‎ ‎They stared at each other, both uncertain, both afraid—for different reasons. ‎ ‎Then her blade lowered an inch. She took a slow breath. Her voice, when it came, was soft and unreadable. ‎ ‎“…You shouldn’t be alive.” ‎ ‎Ronan coughed a laugh, bitter and rasping. “Tell me something I don’t know.” ‎ ‎And then the world tilted, and he collapsed, the frost rising up to meet him like an old friend. ‎