Chapter 7 : The Hunt Begins
672 Words
The forest was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the skin like a hand. The air smelled of rotting leaves and damp earth, the scent of the Wolf Clan’s hunting grounds. Veyla moved like a shadow, her bare feet making no sound on the packed earth, her fingers brushing the flint dagger at her belt. The black stone in her pouch pulsed, a slow, rhythmic throb like a distant war drum, in time with the serpent scar on her shoulder—the mark that bound her to Dravot.
Beside her, Dravot moved with the ease of a predator, his black-veined arms flexing as he gripped his obsidian dagger. His pale blue eyes scanned the trees, his senses sharp as a wolf’s. "They’re close," he growled, his voice low. "I can smell them."
Veyla nodded, her heart pounding like a war drum. The Archivists had been hunting them since they escaped the Grand Market, their black robes blending into the shadows like spirits. "We should split up," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Draw them away from the clan."
Dravot’s lips curled. "And let them catch you?" His fingers brushed her wrist, his touch sending a jolt through her body. "No. We hunt them."
A twig snapped.
Veyla froze.
Dravot didn’t. His eyes narrowed, his body coiling like a serpent ready to strike. "Too late to run, little serpent."
From the darkness between the trees, a figure emerged—tall, clad in black robes, his face hidden beneath a hood of raven feathers. A guard of the Archivists, his spear gleaming with blackened bone. "You stole from us," he hissed, his voice like gravel. "The Elders demand payment."
Dravot laughed, the sound dark and amused. "Then let them come."
The guard lifted his spear. "You’ll kneel or you’ll die."
"We don’t kneel," Dravot growled.
The guard lunged.
Dravot sidestepped, his dagger flashing. The guard collapsed, black blood bubbling from his lips. His body twitched, then stilled.
"One down," Dravot murmured, his eyes never leaving the trees. "More to come."
A rustle. Then another. And another.
Shadows moved between the trunks, black robes blending into the darkness. Veyla counted—five, six, seven. Too many.
"We run," she hissed.
"We fight," Dravot snarled.
A spear whistled through the air, burying itself in the tree beside Veyla’s head. She ducked, her heart pounding. "We’re outnumbered!"
"Then we make them fear us." Dravot’s grip on his dagger tightened, his knuckles white. "You want to live, little serpent? Then fight."
Another spear slammed into the ground at her feet. Veyla pulled her flint dagger, her breath ragged. The black stone in her pouch burned, its pulse syncing with her heartbeat.
"They’re toying with us," she gasped.
"Let them play." Dravot’s eyes gleamed, wild and hungry. "We’ll show them what happens when you hunt a wolf."
A figure stepped into the clearing—tall, regal, her silver hair braided with black ribbons. Dravka. Her lips curled into a smile, her eyes cold as frost. "Ah. The thieves return."
Dravot’s grip on Veyla’s wrist tightened. "Dravka."
"You killed my guards," she purred, her voice like poisoned honey. "That was unwise."
"We killed yours," Dravot growled. "We’ll kill more."
Dravka’s smile widened. "Then you’ll die trying."
A guard stepped forward, his spear raised. "On your knees."
Dravot laughed. "We don’t kneel."
"Then you die." The guard lunged.
Dravot moved, faster than a striking serpent, his dagger slashing. The guard collapsed, black blood pooling on the earth.
"Enough," Dravka sighed. She snapped her fingers. "Take them alive."
The guards advanced, their spears gleaming.
Veyla’s heart pounded. The black stone burned against her thigh. "We can’t win this," she hissed.
"We don’t have to win," Dravot growled. "We have to survive."
"By sacrificing who?" she snarled.
His eyes locked onto hers. "By using what we have."
The guards closed in.
Dravot shoved Veyla behind him, his dagger raised. "Run, little serpent."
"Never," she growled.
"Then fight."
The first guard lunged.
Dravot’s dagger flashed.
Black blood sprayed.
And the forest screamed.
- Writer
