The Fallen Moon: Predestined Sin

Chapter 3: Hunter and Prey

Three days later, I began to take notes.

Not on paper, for I had none. I kept them in my head, memorizing every single one of his weaknesses the way I memorized the tracks of my prey.

In the morning, Caine Bloodspear would step out of his main tent before sunrise. He practiced on the clearing north of the camp with an unsharpened greatsword, executing two hundred swings without a single moment of laziness.

Once finished, he would stand by the stone well, pouring cold water over his head before shaking his hair dry like a dog. That movement lasted only ten seconds—the only moment of his day where he didn't look like an Alpha.

At noon, he stood by the tactical table for two hours. His Beta, Marcus, would spread patrol reports across the wood. Caine listened more than he spoke, but every time he opened his mouth, Marcus would pause his pen. It wasn't out of fear; it was trust.

At night, he would disappear for about an hour. During that hour, the mark on my wrist would cool down, shifting from a low fever to a mild warmth. He was moving away from me, heading somewhere deep within the territory where I couldn't follow.

By the third night, I was certain. The direction of his departure was exactly toward the silver oaks.

He is mourning someone.

When the thought crossed my mind, I found myself taken aback. Caine Bloodspear, the tyrant who had slaughtered three vampire clans, walked an hour along the mountain trail every night just to stand beneath the silver oaks for an hour before returning. It wasn't a patrol. It wasn't an inspection. It was mourning.

His mother? The stories said his father fell in battle years ago, but his mother's fate was never mentioned in the hunter archives. Was she the one resting beneath those trees? Or was it someone else?

I kept this question in my mind, cataloging it alongside the rest of his weaknesses.

"What are you looking at?"

Reg's voice came from behind me. On the path back to the silver cage, he always appeared around some corner. He didn't always lay a hand on me, but he always had something to say—like a wolf circling the periphery of its prey, watching where it would run.

"Does your hand still have strength? That finger almost became useless yesterday, didn't it?" He walked to my right, keeping a strict three-pace distance—too afraid to violate the Alpha's command, but near enough to drop his voice so only the two of us could hear.

I said nothing.

"Do you know why you're still alive?" he answered his own question. "It's not because the Alpha wants to protect you. It's because the Council of Elders hasn't decided what to do with you yet. Elder Cole says your mark is dark magic and that you should be burned at the stake. Marcus says keeping you alive has its uses. The Third Elder has yet to take a side. Once they reach a verdict..."

He stopped walking. The escorting guard also stopped, making no effort to urge me on. I noted this detail: the guard listened to Reg, not me.

"...I will personally volunteer to be your executioner." He grinned. It wasn't a sinister sneer, but a smile of genuine, eager anticipation. The scar on his left cheek looked pale and faded in the evening light.

Staring at the scar on his face, I spoke for the first time.

"That hunter. The one who carved your face. Is he still alive?"

Reg's grin vanished.

The escorting guard immediately tugged me forward, resuming our march. Behind me, Reg's silence was louder than any threat.

That night, something new appeared in the silver cage.

It wasn't a Moondrop flower. It was a whetstone.

Palm-sized and made of coarse sandstone, it was hidden beneath my wool blanket.

The guard locking the cage door cast a glance at me—not out of vigilance, but with a look far more complex. He glanced at the spot where the whetstone was hidden, then averted his eyes, pretending he had seen nothing.

That young werewolf... Caine had assigned him to escort me three times. The first time, he stayed three paces away, treating me like a bomb. The second time, he kept only two paces of distance. On the third time, he hesitated for half a second before locking the door, his lips moving as if to speak, though he said nothing.

And today, he had slipped a whetstone beneath my blanket.

I gripped the whetstone, feeling the weight of the coarse sandstone. It was small—just right to hide in the sole of my boot.

Caine Bloodspear, your pack is not a monolith. Some want to burn me, some want to use me, someone's brother had his wrist crushed by you, and someone's face was carved open by a hunter's dagger. You are more aware of these fractures than anyone. That's why you publicly called me your spoils of war—not to humiliate me, but to show them. To make them believe you don't care.

But every night, you go to the silver oaks.

Clutching the whetstone, I looked toward the main tent. The flap was down, and the light was on. The mark on my wrist was warm, not a low fever, but a burning heat. He was there. Close. Less than three hundred meters away.

What game are you playing?

The fourth day's labor was cleaning the stables. The old witch doctor had assigned the task, with a perfectly logical reason: "The prisoner's hand is injured, so she cannot carry stones. But she can still use a shovel."

The stench of the stables was enough to suffocate an ordinary human. But I had hidden in the stables of Ashton Manor for three days six years ago. After that full moon night, the pursuers had searched the entire estate, missing only the haystacks in the stables. To me, the smell of manure was the smell of survival.

As I pushed the last cart of manure out of the stables, two guards from the council chamber appeared at the entrance. Clad in leather armor with silver daggers, they stood perfectly straight. They weren't here to supervise labor.

"Miss Ashton, the Council of Elders requests your presence."

Miss Ashton. Not prisoner. Not hunter. Not "fake mate."

The old witch doctor stood behind them, the totemic markings on her face twitching slightly—not with anger, but with tension. She walked over, pretending to inspect the shovel at my feet. The moment she bent down, her fingers clamped onto my wrist. Her grip wasn't tight, but her hand was ice-cold, the bone bells clanking with a low, dull thud beside my ear.

"Elder Cole has proposed burning you at the stake," her lips barely moved. "Marcus proposed utilizing your bloodline intelligence. The Third Elder has yet to take a side. The Alpha has not spoken a single word since the meeting began."

She let go of my hand and stood tall, her face returning to its usual frigid mask.

"Do not walk too slowly. The Council does not like to wait."

I followed the guards out of the stables. The sunlight was blinding. Under the scorching midday sun, the werewolf camp looked like a piece of singed pelt.

The young werewolves on the training grounds stopped sparring to watch me. The smiths at the armory doors stopped polishing to watch me. Half a face peered through a gap in a tent, then quickly withdrew.

Everyone was watching. Everyone was waiting.

Caine Bloodspear, your elders are going to judge me. Your pack is watching. And you, from the start of the meeting until now, haven't said a single word.

Are you waiting for me to speak first?



Fine. Then let us see, in this trial of yours, who is truly judging whom.