CHAPTER 4
1387 Words
Adam did not stop walking after the warning whispered through his mind. If anything, it pushed him faster. A voice with no gender, no source, and no presence had slipped into his thoughts like it belonged there. Wolves did not get messages like that unless they shared blood or bond. He shared neither. So how did it reach him? And why did his wolf react to it with confusion instead of rage?
The silence stretched around him again. Still no birds. No insects. Nothing. The forest was quiet in a way forests should never be. It felt watched. Not hunted. Observed. Like the trees leaned close with secrets they refused to share.
His boots crunched lightly over dry leaves. The air hung heavy. Every step felt colder, like he was walking deeper into a place the world forgot.
“If you did not want me following,” Adam muttered softly, “you should not have spoken at all.”
The voice did not return. He pushed forward, brushing aside low branches. His hood caught on one, and he tugged it free. He preferred simple gear when tracking. Lightweight jacket. Dark shirt. Cargo pants. Everything built for movement. Practical. No noise. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would snag on underbrush. The modern world had all kinds of high tech trackers now, drones and scent samplers and infrared gear, but Adam trusted none of it. Machines failed. Instinct did not.
His wolf paced inside him, restless. Something brushed the back of Adam’s mind again, not words, just a feeling. A soft tug. A warmth he did not expect.
A scent drifted through the air. Barely there. Warm. Soft. A hint of something sweet like crushed petals or skin warmed by sunlight. Definitely not a rogue. Rogues smelled like rot, fear, and earth gone cold. This scent was the opposite. It felt alive.
Adam inhaled deeper. Then the scent vanished. Gone as fast as it came.
He stopped walking. His wolf lifted its head, ears forward. For a moment, Adam thought he saw something shift between the trees. Not a figure, not movement, more like the shade of something passing through light.
“What are you?” Adam whispered.
No answer. He shook it off and kept walking. The first strange patch of earth appeared ten minutes later.
He nearly missed it. The soil looked healthier here. Darker, richer, softer. The kind of soil gardeners spent years trying to create. Kneeling, Adam brushed his fingers through it. Freshly healed. As if someone had restored the ground from damage only hours earlier.
Another patch sat a few feet ahead, this one beneath a cracked branch. Except the branch was no longer cracked. The wood had fused back together, smooth, as if repaired by careful hands. Rogues did not heal forests. Wolves did not either.
He kept moving. More signs appeared. Overturned rocks placed carefully back where they belonged. Deep claw marks in the dirt smoothed over. Areas of trampled plants regrown enough to stand upright.
Someone was repairing the land after the rogues passed. But who would walk behind a rogue horde and fix things like this? And why?
Adam squinted at a cluster of small white flowers blooming near the base of a tree. They should not have survived a rogue stampede. But they bloomed anyway, soft and stubborn.
He stood again and followed the healthier patches like stepping stones.
Ten minutes later he froze. Another body.
A rogue lay tucked under the roots of an old tree. Not tossed. Not dropped. Placed. As if someone had guided him into a peaceful position. His arms rested on his chest. His legs straightened. His breathing long gone. Silver veins glowed faintly in his skin.
Moon sick. But his face was calm. Adam knelt beside him and studied the rogue closely. No bite marks. No wounds. No poison. No blood. The heart had stopped without struggle. Just like the body from the burn site.
He touched the rogue’s wrist gently. Cold. His wolf made a low sound, more confused than angry. Adam felt it too. The rogues were dying in a way that made no sense. Moon sickness always came with fear. Pain. Terror. Yet every rogue he found looked like someone had taken the fear away before death claimed them.
“Why help them?” Adam murmured. “They tried to kill border wolves. Why give them relief?”
He stood and scanned the ground.
Tracks. Lots of them.
Heavy rogue tracks marked the soil. They stumbled, dragged, twitched, and twisted. Trails of desperation. Trails of pain.
But beside them were others. Light footpaths. Barefoot.
Whoever made them had walked softly, toes and heels almost weightless. The stride was steady. Calm. No sign of panic. No sign of fear. The prints were small. Not child small. Adult small. Light enough that most wolves would miss them entirely.
Adam crouched again and traced one with his finger.
A woman’s? Maybe. But the voice that warned him did not sound clearly like a woman. Or a man. Or anything familiar. So maybe he should not assume.
The barefoot tracks were careful. They moved beside each rogue set of tracks, almost guiding. Sometimes the small prints circled a rogue’s tracks as if checking on them. Sometimes they stopped, toes pointed inward, at the places where the earth healed.
Whoever walked here had spent time helping the land recover.
Healing the ground. Calming the dying. Fearless among creatures that could snap her spine without thought. No weapon prints. No scuffs. No sign of struggle.
Either she did not fear the rogues. Or the rogues did not fear her. His wolf whispered inside him, uneasy. Maybe this was not a King at all.
Adam stood slowly.
“What if I am not chasing a King,” he said under his breath, “but something else?”
The council was convinced a male figure led the rogues. They saw a tall shadow and assumed an Alpha King. But shadows lied. Size lied. Reports lied. Tracks did not.
These footprints belonged to someone soft footed. Someone gentle. Someone walking barefoot through moon sick rogues like she trusted them.
Adam followed the tracks deeper into the forest.
The scent returned.
Warm, soft, almost comforting. He inhaled again, letting it settle inside his senses. It was the kind of scent that belonged to someone kind. Someone who had never killed anything on purpose. Someone who tried to soothe the world instead of break it.
But why would someone with a scent like that walk among dying rogues? And why command them?
Adam kept moving fast, brushing aside more branches. The path narrowed, but the footprints stayed clear. Barefoot again. Always steady. Always calm. As if the person who made them believed the forest would never harm her.
The rogue trails grew weaker the farther he followed. Bodies became fewer. But each one he found looked the same. Moon sick. Calm. Relieved. As if someone sat with them as they died.
His wolf pressed harder against his mind, bewildered. Rogues did not get peaceful deaths. Who gave it to them?
Adam stopped at a small slope. This area felt different. Like whatever walked through here had touched the air too. The trees leaned inward protectively, branches arching over the path like they wanted to shield it.
The footprints circled near a fallen log, then continued forward. Adam stepped past the log. A breath of wind touched his neck.
His wolf froze. Wind? There had been no wind for hours. Then he heard it.
A soft voice drifting through the trees. Close. Calm. Clear. Not male. Not female. Something in between. Something warm and gentle but aware.
“I know you are there.”
Adam whipped around, scanning the trees. His heart slammed once against his ribs. He searched the shadows, hands ready, senses spread wide.
No movement. No body. No figure stepping forward.
But the voice had come from somewhere in front of him. Someone knew he followed. Someone had been watching him longer than he realized.
His wolf lowered into a cautious stance. Adam took one slow breath.
“Then show yourself,” he said.
Silence. Only the faint echo of the voice remained.
“I know you are there.”
And whoever spoke it did not fear him at all.
- Writer
