The Hunted

The moon hung low over Blackmoor. Like a pale coin, chipped at its edge as if the sky wore thin. Mist formed through the pines, like a breath that was held too long. The air had a smell to it, cedar, wet stone and something sour that clung at the back of one's throat. Decay, not of the forest but of flesh. Inside the longhouse at the heart of Blackmoor, King Aldric Vayne lay dying. His fur, once the color of charred iron—thick as the frost of winter, had become a dull patchy grey. He had not shifted in nine days, unable to summon even the tiniest of bone and sinew to shift at his will. In his human form he fared no better, his skin was pale, blotched with sunken eyes and a hand that couldn't even hold a cup of tea without shaking. His attendants surrounded him, pressing on him at every hour. Although they felt it wasn't helping much. A flustered Mira got from the floor. "He should be healing." She was the packs healer, though her voice was a whisper and couldn't be heard over the crackle of the fire. "But the poison moves like it's a living thing. It eats faster than I can cure." She huffed. No one answered, they understood her feeling of defeat. The king had no heir to leave this all to. He'd lost Selene—his mate, seven winters ago in a Rogue attack. Plenty of his family had died with the separatist war between them and the humans. The Vayne Dynasty of Blackmoor—which had ruled for over a century, was coming to an end. "Summon the council," Aldric rasped. His eyes flickered open to catch just a bit of movement happening. They were still yellow. "Now!" his voice was laced with urgency. Six elders, three warriors and the packs law keeper–a woman named Orla with a scar right down her throat. They formed a half circle, right around the bed where the king lay. The fire carved out all the worry etched on their faces into restless shadows. "Kaelen," he coughed out. Kaelen Tarrow stood tall at the back. He was barely twenty six, with shoulders strong and broad that suggested a kind of strength rarely shown. A murmur went throught the group. Kaelen wasn't the most revered or most important. He'd begun as a scout, then became a border guard. The highlight of his life was saving the King from a Rock slide at the northern Ridge. He was resourceful and trustworthy. "Kaelen," the king called out again, though the effort cost him a chest rattling cough. "You will lead them." His words carried a finality. The Long house went silent, it was so quiet you could hear the drip of water from the leaking thatch roof. Orla stepped forward. "My king ... with all due respect. He has no claim or lineage to the throne. The other packs will see this as a weakness." King Aldric scoffed. "Weakness!" King Aldric said, the word dragged like dead wait on a battlefield. "They already see weakness. You think they don't have News of my illness as yet?! Cast your eyes outside. Every shadow at our border is a spy." He slowly turned his head to Kaelen. "He foresaw danger near me when no one else did. In a time where wolves pretend to be men and men pretend to be kind–that is more than enough." Kaelen dropped to one knee next to the bed, his voice low and steady. "I am not a king, sire." "I wasn't either at some point." A ghostly smile touched Aldric's lips. "I was a lieutenant, who survived when my Captain didn't make it. Rise, Kaelen of Tarrow. Rise as Kaelen, First of Blackmoor." The titled had been given, no sceptres or crowns were exchanged. Just a dying man's intent and a heavy weight settling on a young man's shoulders. It was all unfamiliar and heavy with grief. Outside, the wind shifted. Heavy blows hit hard against the windows. Blackmoor wasn't always a kingdom that stood on its own. Once, they had lived, farmed and worked amongst humans. But the separation happened, fear happened, war happened and they fled to the mountains. Villages burner suspected shifters. A mother and cub were drowned in a river as the town's people watched. The rival pack, Ironhold had stayed in the lowlands. Feeding on easier prey and growing large as they preyed on smaller packs and farms. They have always wanted Blackmoors land, it's caves where the moon shone through the natural chimneys, it's iron rich streams—that could heal bone better than any herb. For ten years there had been a truce, one that could falter at any moment. Ten years watching from the ridges with measured breath. Now Aldric was dying. And somewhere along the pines in a grey cloak stood a figure, not far from the longhouse. A woman, small and quick with fingers stained with ink and nightshade. There in the dark, she waited till the guards changed shifts and then she moved. A letter, folded so peculiar into the shape of a hare's skull, she placed it on the steps of the King's home. It read in only three lines: The Old Wolf falls. The young wolf rises. We will take what is ours. By the time the morning guards had found it, the woman was seven miles south. Her footsteps erased by the rising mist. Kaelen would read the letter twice, before the sun cleared the top of the trees. He wouldn't sleep again for the next few days. The hunt had begun, but no one knew who the prey was.