Rejected now unstoppable

chapter 4

The signal smoke lingered on the southern ridge like a promise of violence. By noon the next day, the children could smell them coming—wolf musk rolling down the slopes in thick waves, mixed with crushed pine needles, g*n oil, and the faint sour bite of wolfsbane residue clinging to silver blades. Not a full pack—the scent pattern was too small, too controlled—but a hunting party. Six, maybe seven. Young wolves, eager to prove themselves, sent to do what their elders wouldn't dirty their hands with.

Sent to kill children.

Luka crouched at the quarry rim, ears forward even in boy-form, every muscle coiled tight. "They're splitting up. Three coming down the access road. The rest circling east—trying to flank us."

Mira knelt beside him, palms pressed flat against the cracked stone. She closed her eyes and sent a thin thread of green awareness spiraling outward through the earth, feeling for movement, for intent. "They have dogs. Two of them. Trained to track magic. They're pulling hard toward the cave mouth."

Cassian stood a step behind them, perfectly still, a shadow in boy-shape. "They know we're here. No point hiding anymore."

The Keeper's words echoed in all their heads, heavy as prophecy: Train harder. The hunters are closer than you think.

They had trained. Every day until their bodies screamed and their powers guttered out. But training was one thing—controlled, measured, safe. Killing was something else entirely.

Luka looked at the others, his mismatched eyes—one amber, one bone-white—searching their faces. "We could still run. Take the high tunnel. Disappear deeper into the range where they can't follow."

Mira shook her head slowly, green sparks dancing across her knuckles. "They'll follow. They always follow. You know they will."

Cassian's voice was calm, almost gentle, but something cold lived beneath it. "Then we stop them here."

They returned to the main chamber in silence, each knowing their role without needing to speak it aloud. The bond between them had grown beyond words now—a current that flowed through the marks on their wrists, through shared hunger and shared nightmares.

Mira traced a quick ward around the entrance with one finger, green light following the motion like a painter's stroke. The magic hummed against the stone—not strong enough to hold against determined wolves, but enough to slow them, to burn, to warn. She muttered the binding words her mother had taught her before the fire, before everything turned to ash.

Luka gathered every scrap of scent he could find: their own sweat and fear, the fire's lingering smoke, fish bones from last night's meal. He dragged them across the tunnel floor in deliberate patterns to confuse the dogs, to make them second-guess their noses.

Cassian scouted the escape routes one last time, moving through shadow like he'd been born to it. When he returned, he carried three short branches he'd sharpened with his own claws—crude spears, barely more than pointed sticks, but better than bare hands against silver and fang.

They positioned themselves in a triangle formation, backs never fully turned to each other.

And they waited.

The first sign was the dogs: deep, excited barks echoing down the access road, the sound bouncing off quarry walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Then voices—low, clipped, confident. Hunters who thought they were stalking wounded prey.

"Fresh scent. They're definitely in the quarry."

"Spread out. No survivors. Elder's orders."

Luka's lips peeled back from his teeth. He knew that voice. Would know it in a crowd of thousands, in the roar of a storm. Ronan—his mother's cousin, a mid-ranking beta who had always looked at Luka like he was something stuck to the bottom of a boot. Ronan had held the silver chain that night. Ronan had been the one to drag Aria into the trees while she screamed Luka's name.

The memory lit a fire in Luka's chest that had nothing to do with magic.

The dogs hit Mira's ward first. A yelp of surprise, then furious snarling as green sparks bit deep into fur and flesh. The hunters shouted warnings. Boots pounded against stone, echoing closer.

Three wolves burst into the chamber—two in half-shift, their bodies caught between man and beast, fur rippling over muscle. One fully human with a shotgun held steady against his shoulder. The dogs followed close behind, foam flecking their jaws, eyes gone wild and white-rimmed from the magic sting.

Mira moved first.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't think. She clapped her hands together hard enough that the sound cracked like a whip. The blue-green fire they'd been using for light exploded outward—not flame this time, but pure light, blinding and searing. It filled the chamber like a sun had been born in the stone.

The human hunter staggered, shouting, shotgun swinging wild. One of the half-shifted wolves roared in pain and confusion, charging blindly forward with claws extended.

Luka met him mid-air.

The shift came smooth as breathing now—no pain, no tearing, just the sweet release of letting go. Black fur erupted across his skin. His bones reformed with liquid grace. Silver eyes blazed in a wolf's face. His claws—longer now, sharper—raked across the attacker's chest in three perfect lines. They hit the ground together in a tangle of limbs and fury, rolling across stone. Luka's jaws found the wolf's throat—not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to choke off air, to make the point clear: I could end you right now.

The wolf thrashed once, twice, then went limp in submission.

The second half-shifted wolf recovered faster than expected. He saw Mira—small, alone, hands still raised from the light-spell—and charged with a predator's instinct to take the weak first.

Cassian was there before the wolf completed his second step.

He didn't bite. Didn't need to. Speed was his weapon now. He caught the wolf's arm mid-swing, twisted with surgical precision, and snapped the bone at the elbow with a wet c***k that echoed off the walls. The wolf's howl was raw and animal. Cassian drove him face-first into the stone floor, planted his knee on the back of the wolf's neck, and leaned in close enough to whisper: "Stay down. I won't ask twice."

The human hunter recovered enough to raise the shotgun with shaking hands. He was young—maybe nineteen, barely older than a boy himself. But his finger found the trigger. He aimed at Mira's small back.

Luka released the unconscious wolf and launched himself across the chamber.

The g*n went off.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, a physical blow that left ears ringing. Silver shot tore into Luka's shoulder mid-leap, burning like acid poured directly into his veins. Every pellet was agony, but momentum carried him forward. He slammed into the hunter with the full weight of his wolf-form, driving the man backward until his head cracked against stone with a sound like a watermelon splitting.

The hunter slid down the wall, eyes rolling back, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Only the sound of harsh breathing remained—theirs, the dogs' whimpering, the wet rasp of the wolf with the broken arm trying not to scream.

Mira rushed to Luka's side, her hands already glowing green before she touched him. His shoulder smoked where the silver burned, black fur matted with blood that looked almost purple in the strange light. "Hold still," she whispered, pressing both palms to the wound.

Green light pulsed in waves. Luka felt each silver pellet move beneath his skin—a violation, an intrusion being expelled. One by one they pushed out through the entry wounds, falling to the stone floor with soft clink clink clink sounds like scattered coins. The flesh began to knit, slow and painful but steady. Luka panted through clenched teeth, but the fire in his veins gradually ebbed to a dull throb.

Cassian dragged the unconscious wolves and the hunter to the center of the chamber, arranging them in a line. He bound their wrists with strips torn from their own clothing—efficient, methodical, almost gentle. The dogs cowered in the corner, tails tucked so far between their legs they nearly disappeared, making themselves as small as possible.

Mira looked at the bound hunters. Her hands were still shaking. "What now?"

Luka shifted back to boy-form, grimacing as the last of the silver worked its way out. His voice came out rough, half-growl: "We let them wake up. We talk."

Cassian raised an eyebrow, something almost like amusement flickering across his face. "Talk?"

"They're pack," Luka said, and there was something complicated in his voice—anger and longing and grief all twisted together. "My pack. Ronan's out there somewhere with the others. If we kill these three, the rest will come harder. Come faster. Come with everything they have. But if we show mercy…" He paused. "Maybe they hesitate. Maybe they question their orders."

Mira nodded slowly, understanding. "And if they don't?"

Luka's mismatched eyes went cold. "Then we finish it."

They waited, sitting in a half-circle facing the bound hunters. Patient as predators. The dogs stopped whimpering eventually, watching the children with an intelligence that seemed almost human.

The first to stir was the human hunter. He groaned, one hand moving instinctively to the back of his head where a lump the size of an egg was already rising. He froze the moment his eyes focused and he saw what was waiting for him: three children standing over him like judges. Luka still half-covered in his own blood. Mira's hands glowing faint green. Cassian's eyes burning red in the shadows, unblinking.

"You shot me," Luka said quietly. No anger in his voice. Just fact.

The man swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "You're… you're the cursed pup. The one who killed the others in the den. Elder Thorne said you were dead."

"He was wrong." Luka crouched down until they were eye-level. "I'm very much alive."

The half-shifted wolves woke next, groaning. One whimpered at the sight of his broken arm, the bone jutting at an unnatural angle. The other—younger, barely out of his teens, with eyes too wide and scared—stared at Luka with something beyond horror. Something like awe.

"You're supposed to be weak," he whispered, voice cracking. "The stories said… they said you couldn't control the shift. That you were more curse than wolf."

Luka leaned closer until their noses almost touched. "I was weak. I was cursed. I couldn't control anything." He held up his left wrist, showing the mark—the crescent moon pierced by a thorn, the drop of black blood beneath. "Not anymore."

Mira stepped forward, and despite her small size, the hunters flinched. "Tell Ronan we're not running. Tell him the marked ones are here. Tell him—" her voice hardened, "—if he comes for us again, we won't hold back like we did today."

The young wolf laughed, shaky and breathless, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "You think you can stop a whole pack? You're just kids. You're just—"

Cassian leaned down, his face perfectly calm, his voice soft as a lullaby. "We already stopped three of you. And we didn't even want to hurt you." He tilted his head slightly. "Imagine what happens when we do."

The human hunter looked at the dogs—still cowering, tails between legs, completely cowed. Then at the bound wolves, both injured, both beaten by children who should have been easy prey. Then back at the three faces watching him with ancient eyes in young faces.

He nodded once, slowly. "We'll… we'll tell him."

"Good." Luka straightened. "Now go."

They released the bindings.

The hunters limped out of the chamber in silence, supporting each other's weight. The young wolf cradled his broken arm. The human kept looking back over his shoulder as if he couldn't quite believe they were being allowed to leave. The dogs followed at a wary distance, glancing back with flattened ears, their training war against their instincts.

No one said a word until they disappeared up the tunnel.

When the sound of footsteps finally faded, the children stood in the sudden, heavy quiet.

Luka looked down at the blood on the floor—his own dark and red, the wolves' lighter, almost pink where it had mixed with stone dust. "They'll be back."

Mira nodded, exhaustion written in every line of her small face. "With more next time."

Cassian stared at the tunnel mouth where the hunters had vanished, his expression unreadable. "Next time we won't talk first."

They cleaned the chamber with the thoroughness of people who understood that evidence tells stories. Mira burned the blood away with controlled fire that left no ash, only clean stone. Luka dragged the spent shotgun shells outside and buried them deep where they'd never be found. Cassian wiped every print, every mark, every sign of violence from the walls.

That night they did not sleep in the main chamber.

They moved deeper into the mountain, back to the carved cavern with the altar and the glowing runes. The Keeper did not appear, but the carvings pulsed faintly when they entered—emerald, silver, crimson chasing each other across ancient stone—as if acknowledging their return. As if welcoming them home.

They slept in their circle again, close enough that shoulders touched, weapons within easy reach. Luka's claws. Mira's fire. Cassian's inhuman speed.

In the dark, after long silence, Mira whispered: "We won today. But it didn't feel like winning."

Luka's voice was soft, thoughtful. "Because we knew them. They were pack once. They were people, not just enemies."

Cassian said nothing for a long time, and they thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, so quietly they almost missed it: "Next time they won't be strangers. Next time they'll send people who want us dead."

Outside, on the southern ridge where the signal smoke had risen, Ronan stood among his remaining hunters. He listened as the three survivors told their story—stumbling over words, voices shaking. Three children. Marks on their wrists. Power that should not exist, should not be possible.

He touched the scar on his forearm—a perfect set of teeth marks. The one Aria had given him the night they dragged her son away, when she'd fought like something possessed, when she'd screamed his name until her voice broke.

"They're growing up," he said to the night, to the moon, to no one. His breath fogged in the cold air.

Then he lifted his head and howled—a long, mournful note that carried across the Blackwood Range, rolling through valleys and over ridges until it seemed the whole forest was singing with him.

The hunt was no longer a test.

It was no longer even duty.

It was personal now.

Far below, deep in the carved cavern, three children heard the distant howl.

They did not flinch. Did not cry. Did not pray.

They simply opened their eyes in the dark and waited, the marks on their wrists pulsing faint and steady like heartbeats.

The Triad was no longer running.

Now they were ready to fight.