Chapter Three: The Shadow That Hunts
1281 Words
The morning sun should have felt like safety.
But all it brought was silence.
Aria stood at the edge of her garden, a basket of freshly cut mugwort in her hands and the cold breeze teasing strands of her hair. The air was crisp, scented with pine and something deeper, more primal—like old blood soaked into the roots of the forest.
Dorian had been silent all morning, cloistered in the guest room, though she heard him pacing before dawn. Whatever strength he’d lost, he was regaining it quickly. Too quickly. His wounds, deep enough to kill a man, were nearly closed.
She should have been afraid. But fear was too clean, too simple.
What she felt was closer to obsession. Like a tether had looped around her heart and was slowly pulling it toward something ancient and wild.
The crescent mark on her wrist itched.
She dipped her fingers into the dew-wet herbs, trying to focus.
Something rustled in the woods behind her.
Aria turned sharply, heart stuttering. The trees stood still, shadows stretching long and narrow through the undergrowth. No movement. No sound.
But she wasn’t alone.
A deep prickle ran down her spine, like she was being watched.
She stepped toward the forest’s edge, hand resting on the pouch at her hip filled with dried protective herbs. Her grandmother used to scatter them in circles when something felt… off.
Aria didn’t believe in half the spells her grandmother swore by—but lately, she’d been rethinking everything.
“Don’t go in there alone.”
Dorian’s voice, low and gravelly, came from behind her.
She turned. He stood in the doorway of the cottage, shirtless, jeans hanging low on his hips, the morning sun glinting off the still-healing scars across his torso.
His eyes—those gold-and-shadow eyes—looked wrong in daylight.
Not human. Not even close.
“Something’s watching,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
Aria frowned. “You feel it too?”
He nodded once. “A rogue’s scent lingers in the trees. Too close.”
Her throat tightened. “Is it the same one that attacked you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Dorian stepped off the porch. “There’s more than one now.”
She blinked. “You said you were alpha. Doesn’t that mean they answer to you?”
“It means they should. But rogues don’t follow bonds. They sever them. They’re like rabid dogs with no pack and too much hunger.”
Aria looked toward the forest again. “Why now? Why here?”
“I don’t know yet.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “But I think you’re part of it.”
“Because of the mark?”
“Because of the pull.” He paused, watching her face. “Have you noticed anything strange? Before I showed up.”
She hesitated.
“The dreams,” she whispered. “They started about a month ago.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Wolves. Running through fire. A woman with silver eyes. A voice calling my name. And always the moon—huge, red, watching.”
He went still. “That’s not coincidence.”
“What is it then?”
“Memory. Or prophecy.” He looked toward the woods. “Or warning.”
Aria’s fingers clenched around the basket. “If I’m part of this, I need to understand what’s happening. Not just be protected. I can help.”
“You’re brave,” he said softly. “But this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s blood and bone and death.”
“I don’t scare easy.”
Dorian’s lips twitched, like he admired that. “Then you should know something. Tonight is the first eclipse.”
She blinked. “First?”
“There are three. Three nights when the blood moon rises. Each one strengthens the bond—or severs it completely.”
“Between you and me?”
He stepped closer. “Between fate and free will.”
Her heart beat too fast. “And what happens if the bond completes?”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “We’re bound. In soul and body. For life.”
Aria swallowed hard.
The wind shifted—and her entire body tensed.
Dorian’s head snapped toward the forest. “Inside. Now.”
She didn’t argue. They rushed into the cottage, locking the door behind them. Dorian moved like a predator—silent, efficient, grabbing a blade from beneath his coat on the rack. Not silver. Something older. Runed.
He handed it to her.
“What—”
“It’s ashwood and iron. It’ll buy you time. Aim for the throat.”
Aria’s pulse pounded in her ears.
Something scraped along the back wall of the cottage.
Dorian’s shoulders went taut. “It’s here.”
He moved to the window, eyes glowing faintly. “No. They’re here.”
Before she could speak, the back door exploded inward.
A blur of black fur and teeth lunged into the room, snarling like a demon from the depths of the earth.
Dorian tackled it mid-air, and they crashed into the wooden floor with bone-cracking force. Snarls and growls filled the air—so loud they shook the walls.
Aria froze.
The wolf wasn’t like Dorian. This one was twisted—its fur matted with blood, eyes red, not gold. Rabid. Insane.
Dorian shifted mid-strike, his body elongating, morphing into something massive and white, jaws snapping around the rogue’s throat.
Blood sprayed.
Another howl pierced the air—closer.
“There’s more!” she cried.
Two more figures burst through the shattered door.
Aria raised the blade, heart hammering. One of the rogues charged her—long limbs, twisted face, claws outstretched. She screamed and swung.
The blade bit into its shoulder, and the creature shrieked.
It didn’t stop.
But before it could reach her, Dorian barreled into it, throwing it into the wall with enough force to c***k plaster.
The second rogue turned toward her, teeth bared.
Aria backed up.
Something in her flared—deep in her chest, pulsing like wildfire. Her mark burned.
Her free hand reached instinctively for her pouch. She grabbed a handful of dried herbs and whispered a name she didn’t remember learning.
The air shimmered.
The rogue screamed as a gust of wind slammed it into the floor.
She stared at her hand in shock. “What—what did I just do?”
Dorian, blood-soaked and snarling, stood over the first fallen rogue, panting.
“You called on the old blood,” he said, shifting halfway back to human. “You’re awakening.”
She didn’t have time to ask what that meant.
Because just then, the sound of footsteps echoed in the trees.
Many footsteps.
Dorian turned toward the broken doorway, chest heaving.
“We have to leave,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Now.”
She glanced back at the wrecked cottage, her safe little sanctuary turned battlefield.
“Where—”
A sharp, low growl cut her off.
From the trees, a figure emerged.
It wasn’t a rogue.
It was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long black hair, and eyes like liquid silver. He wore a long dark coat, and his presence sucked all the heat from the air.
Dorian froze.
Aria’s stomach dropped.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
The man smiled. “Hello, brother.”
Dorian’s jaw clenched. “Lucan.”
Lucan stepped forward, wolves flanking him, eyes gleaming.
“I’ve come to claim what’s mine,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “And you’ve stolen it.”
His gaze slid to Aria.
And her mark flared so bright, she nearly dropped the knife.
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- Writer
