Chapter 2 — The Hunt
1152 Words
The wolves—no, the Nightborne—did not rush me at once. They circled, their movements deliberate, cruel. Predators didn’t need to hurry when the prey had nowhere to run.
My scar seared hotter, a brand under my skin. The silver spirals lit the air between us, a beacon I hadn’t asked for. I clutched my wrist to hide it, but the glow only leaked through my fingers, betraying me like everything else in my cursed life.
One of them stepped forward, its snout curled into something halfway between a snarl and a grin. It was taller than any man, its shoulders draped in shadows, eyes fixed on me with a hunger that went deeper than flesh.
“Stay back,” I rasped. My voice cracked, hoarse from smoke and grief, but it didn’t tremble. I wouldn’t give them that.
The Nightborne tilted its head. The movement was too human, and that unsettled me more than the claws. It sniffed the air, chest rising as though it could drink me in with its breath. The growl that followed was almost a laugh.
I stumbled backward, my bare foot striking against broken stone. Pain shot through my heel, sharp enough to make me wince, but I forced myself to keep standing. I wouldn’t fall. Not in front of them.
Another howl echoed through the forest, farther off this time. The others froze, ears twitching. The first wolf snapped its head toward the sound, then back at me, eyes narrowed.
Whatever that call meant, it unsettled them. Good.
I used the moment to run.
Ash and glass cut into my feet, but I didn’t stop. My lungs burned, my arms pumped, my heart screamed like a war drum. Behind me, claws tore into earth, a thunder of pursuit crashing through the night.
I leapt over fallen beams, ducked beneath shattered walls. My village, once a place of warmth, had become a graveyard of traps and escape routes. My brother and I used to race through these alleys for fun; now I ran with death biting at my heels.
A sharp snap of wood burst behind me. A beam crashed down, and I barely rolled aside in time. Sparks rained across my skin. I pushed up, coughing, vision blurred by smoke, and darted toward the trees.
If I could reach the forest, maybe I could lose them. Maybe.
Branches clawed at me as I shoved my way between trunks. The night was blacker here, swallowing me whole, but the glow of my scar betrayed me like a torch in the dark. I pressed my wrist against my chest, teeth gritted, praying the trees would shield me.
A growl rumbled close, too close. My stomach lurched.
I ducked into a hollow at the base of an old oak, curling small, forcing myself to breathe shallow and slow. My heart hammered so loudly I feared it would give me away.
Shadows shifted. One of them prowled past, sniffing, claws dragging lines into the dirt. The glow from my wrist pulsed against my ribs, begging to be seen. I bit down on my lip so hard the taste of blood filled my mouth.
For a moment, I thought it had worked. The wolf stalked past, muscles rolling under its dark pelt. Its snout lifted, eyes scanning, but it didn’t look down. I stayed still as stone, each breath like shards of glass.
Then my scar flared, sudden and violent, like fire lancing through my veins. I gasped before I could stop myself.
The wolf’s head snapped toward me.
I scrambled from the hollow as it lunged. Claws tore the earth where I had crouched a heartbeat before. I ran, branches whipping my face, lungs clawing for air.
I didn’t get far. Something heavy slammed into my back, and I hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of me. My cheek scraped against dirt, my mouth filled with the taste of copper.
The wolf loomed above, pinning me with weight that felt like stone. Its eyes glowed brighter now, silver fire burning. Its jaws opened, hot breath flooding my face, and I saw my end reflected in its teeth.
But then—it hesitated.
The snarl faltered. Its gaze flicked from my face to my wrist. The scar blazed brighter, almost blinding, spiraling light wrapping my hand in silver.
The wolf shuddered, a tremor rolling through its body. Its growl broke into a sound almost human—fear.
And then, with a sharp yelp, it recoiled.
I didn’t waste the miracle. I shoved myself up, stumbling, sprinting blind through the trees. Every part of me screamed with pain, but I didn’t stop until the forest thinned and moonlight spilled across open ground.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping, the glow from my wrist fading back into a dull ache.
What was I?
The wolves had slaughtered my people without hesitation. They had been merciless. But me? Something in my blood had made them pause. Something had turned them back.
I stared at the mark spiraling my skin, my hands shaking. “What are you trying to make me?” I whispered, though there was no one to hear.
A rustle broke behind me.
I spun, fists clenched though I had nothing to fight with but rage.
The clearing hushed before I even heard him.
The wolves melted back into the trees, as if shadows themselves had recoiled. That was my first warning. My second came when the air shifted — heavy, oppressive, thick with power that crawled beneath my skin like a thousand whispered commands.
And then he stepped into the moonlight.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Every line of him honed sharp, as though the gods had carved him to rule and cursed him for it. His cloak was black as midnight, silver thread catching on the fabric like constellations, though it was the man beneath who commanded the night.
His eyes locked on me, dark as a storm-swept sea. Dangerous, yes — but worse than that, they were knowing. They looked through me, as though the ash in my hair, the blood on my skin, the grief strangling my throat were nothing but pages of a book he’d already read.
I couldn’t move. My body remembered fear, but some other pull — heavier, hotter — rooted me to the earth.
When he spoke, the sound was soft, low, but it struck like a blade finding its mark.
“You bleed like a human,” he said, his gaze sliding to the mark burning on my wrist. “But you carry something older. Something that belongs to me.”
The forest itself seemed to lean closer.
Alpha King. Darius Veyric. The monster mothers used to frighten their children quiet. The man said to have murdered his own mate and carved his throne from her grave.
And I had stumbled, half-dead and hollow, straight into his grasp.
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- Writer
