The Mark Of The Shadow Wolf

Inside a warm, fire-lit great hall, the Night Owl Shadow Pack was enjoying a noisy feast filled with roasting meat and spilled wine. Six-year-old Roman was sitting on the floor under the main dining table, staying out of the way while the adults celebrated. Hidden beneath the hanging tablecloth, he kept himself busy by watching the adults walk back and forth and quietly counting their boots. His mother, Luna Mercy, had told him to stay out of the way while the grown-ups celebrated the harvest. Roman liked it down under the table. It felt like a small, secret cave. He reached out and touched his father’s thick leather boots, feeling the warm pulse of the pack’s peace all around him. The Night Owl Shadow Pack was small, but they were safe in these high gray hills, with ample harvest of rice, fruits, root crops, vegetables, and meat from wild animals from the nearby forest hunted down by their great hunters. Then, the heavy oak doors at the front of the hall burst open. The heavy doors suddenly flew open, letting in a blast of freezing night air that blew out half the flickering wall candles. In an instant, all the happy laughter died down, leaving the room dead silent except for the loud clatter of silver plates dropping onto the wooden tables as everyone froze in surprise. Roman peeked through the hanging hem of the tablecloth. Men dressed in black iron armor stepped into the room. On their chests was painted a sharp, black bird of prey. The Black Hawk Pack. They were the largest force in the region, feared by every smaller pack for miles. No one invited the Black Hawks, and they never came to celebrate but to bring chaos and destruction. "What is the meaning of this?" Roman’s father, the Alpha, stood up from his chair. His voice was calm, but his hand went straight to the hilt of his heavy iron sword. The man leading the dark warriors did not answer. He simply drew his long blade and pointed it forward. The hall exploded into chaos. Shouts and glass breaking filled the air. Roman pulled his legs tight to his chest as chairs flipped backward. Suddenly, blood splashed onto the rush mats near his feet. Someone screamed near the hearth, and the heavy sound of iron clashing against iron filled the whole room. A hand reached under the tablecloth. It was soft and warm, but trembling. It was Luna Mercy. Luna Mercy pulled Roman out into the dark hallway behind the high table. Her hair was pulled loose from its braid, and her eyes were wide with terror. She didn't say a word to him. She just grabbed his wrist and ran down the narrow stone corridor toward the large dirty kitchen. Behind them, the sounds of battle grew louder. Walls shook as body after body slammed against wood and stone. The smell of smoke began to float through the air, sharp and choking. They burst into the large kitchen. The cooking fires were still lit, but the cooks had already fled out the back, leaving open flour sacks and half-chopped vegetables scattered on the tables. "Listen to me, Roman," his mother whispered, dropping down to her knees in front of him. Her hands held his shoulders tight. "You must not make a sound. No matter what you hear. No matter who calls your name." Tears flowed from Roman’s eyes to his cute, rosy cheeks. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. She turned around fast, scanning the frantic room for a place to hide a small boy. The wooden cabinets were already open and checked. The pantry was too obvious. Her eyes landed on the wash corner. There was a deep sink carved directly into the thick stone wall, used for scrubbing big iron cauldrons. It was filled with greasy soap water and tall wooden buckets. Underneath the sink was a tiny, damp, dark space where the old lead drainage pipe met the floor, surrounded by stacked wooden crates and greasy rags. It was narrow, dirty, and smelled of stale dish soap and damp earth. It was a place no warrior would ever look for a prince. His mother grabbed a bundle of dirty wash cloths and pulled Roman toward the wash corner. She pushed him under the deep stone basin, jamming his small frame into the dark corner behind the pipe. She squeezed him in tight, piling the damp, soapy rags in front of him until he could only see through a tiny gap. "Stay," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Live, my little wolf. Always remember, we love you. You need to live no matter what happens." She turned and ran back toward the kitchen doors just as three tall men filled the entrance. Roman held his breath. He pressed his hand against his mouth so hard his teeth hurt. Through the small gap in the dirty rags, he saw the bottom of his mother's skirt. Then he saw dark iron boots step into the kitchen. He heard a cold, low voice demanding to know where the Alpha's only heir was hidden. He did not hear his Luna mother answer until he heard his mother scream a defiance that was cut short by the harsh slashing sound of the metal sword. Something heavy hit the floor right outside the wash corner. Roman closed his eyes tight. Tears spilled over his fingers, but he did not make a single sound. He bit into his own skin until he tasted copper, remembering his mother's last instruction to him. Footsteps marched around the kitchen. Heavy boots kicked over the flour sacks. Iron swords slammed into the pantry doors, splintering the thin wood. Someone dumped over a table of glass jars, shattering them against the flagstones. "Nothing here," a rough voice growled near the stone basin. "Just wet rags and old dish grease. Search the upper floors! Leave no one alive!" The heavy footsteps moved away, heading back out toward the main hall, until Roman heard no sound anymore. Hours passed in the dark. The noise of fighting slowly died down, replaced by the crackle of burning beams and the distant, dark howls of the Black Hawk warriors claiming their victory. Smoke drifted under the sink, making Roman's eyes sting and his lungs burn, but he stayed still like a rock behind the damp pipe. When the night finally grew dead silent, Roman slowly pushed the wet rags aside. He crawled out from beneath the stone sink. The kitchen was cold now, filled with drifting ash and white flour. He took three shaky steps forward, his boots stepping into the pools of blood on the floor. He saw his mother lying near the open door. Her face was calm, turned toward the ceiling, but her eyes were empty, and her half lower body was lying a meter away. Roman knelt beside her on the cold floor. He did not cry anymore. Something inside his six-year-old chest had shut close, cold and hard as the stone. He touched her cold hand, then looked down at his own small arm. On the inside of his wrist, a mark shaped like a crescent moon held by a running shadow of an owl, began to burn hot beneath his skin- the mark of his destroyed bloodline, awakening for the first time. He stood up slowly and turned his back on the burned hall, stepping out into the freezing night. But as the dark forest swallowed him whole, a low, cruel growl echoed from the trees behind him. He wasn't alone. A tall shadow in a dark cloak came out from the trees. The shadow stepped into Roman’s path, blocking his trail, and then he whispered a single word… "Roman."