Chapter Five — First Contact
816 Words
The wolf halts so suddenly I nearly tumble from its back. Its ears spear forward, body tense, a growl thrumming low in its chest. I follow its gaze to the brook. Footprints press into the mud there—too fresh to ignore, too light to belong to the clumsy hunters I heard earlier.
“Not alone,” I whisper, my hand curling around the shard at my throat.
The wolf crouches, muscles wound tight. Mist shifts across the far bank. A shape steps through.
A man.
He moves with the confidence of someone who belongs anywhere he sets his feet. Tall, lean, travel-worn, his cloak is patched in half a dozen places. A sword hilt juts over his shoulder, leather grip worn smooth. He pauses when he sees us, one hand lifting slowly, calm but not surrendering.
“Well, saints,” he says, voice smooth, deepened by travel. “Didn’t expect company out here. And certainly not that kind of company.”
His eyes flick to the wolf, and something sharp flashes there. Recognition.
“Stay back,” I warn, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
He smirks. “Easy there Gemling.”
“Gemling?” I replied in confusion.
“Yes, Gemling."
"That’s not even a word.”
“It is now,” he says, easy as if naming people is his pastime. “You hoard little stones, don’t you? Pockets full of scraps the others toss aside. Shiny fragments no one else sees value in, but you keep them close. Gemling.” He tips his head, the grin softening. “A small gem. Rough. Not worthless, not yet what it could be.”
Heat climbs my cheeks. “You don’t know me.”
“Don’t need to,” he says. But for a heartbeat, his eyes linger too long, as if maybe he does want to.
The wolf growls, stepping closer, its crystal-veined flank brushing against me. The man lifts both palms a little higher. “Easy, friend. No insult meant.”
He studies the beast carefully, reverently even. “Well I’ll be damned. You’ve bonded.”
The word lands strange and heavy. “Bonded?”
His gaze cuts to me. “Crystal wolves don’t suffer riders. Unless they choose them. Which means…” He whistles low, shaking his head. “You, Gemling, are a lot less ordinary than you look.”
A shiver ripples through me. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Fate doesn’t take requests.”
Silence stretches between us. He straightens, grin slipping back into place. “Name’s Rowan. You?”
I hesitate. Mother always said never give your name to strangers. But the Wildlands don’t follow mother’s rules. “Kaelen.”
Rowan nods. “Well, Kaelen, unless you’ve suddenly become an expert tracker, you’ll need someone who knows these woods. Hunters aren’t far behind.”
My chest tightens. “You heard them?”
“Hard not to. They’re stomping about like drunks in a chapel.” He crouches near the brook, pressing fingers to the mud where boot prints dig deep.
“They’ll circle back. If they find you with this beast, priests will drag you to the pyres. Nobles will put chains on the wolf. Neither’s a happy ending.”
I narrow my eyes. “And why are you helping me?”
He looks up at me then, the grin gone, leaving something steady and serious in its place. “Because the world doesn’t need another legend turned into a weapon.”
The wolf exhales, a heavy sound that brushes through my bones. For a heartbeat, I almost hear something in it—not words, not yet, but a weight, a pressure, like the shape of a name.
Rowan studies me, tilts his head. “So, Gemling—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh, I will. It suits you.” He flashes a grin, sharp as sunlight on steel. “And one day, you’ll thank me for it.”
I swing back onto the wolf, scowling. “If you’re lying, if this is some trick—”
“You’ll let the beast tear me apart?” he finishes, amused. “Fair enough. I’ll try not to give you a reason.”
Despite myself, a short laugh slips out—half frustration, half disbelief. Rowan’s grin widens, like he’s won a battle I didn’t know we were fighting.
“See? We’re getting along already.”
I glare at him, but the wolf begins to move, slipping through the trees. Rowan falls into step with us, striding easily, like he’s been walking this path all his life.
“Fine,” I say at last. “But if you slow us down, you’re on your own.”
“Trust me, Gemling,” he says, and the way he says it almost makes the word sound like a promise, “I can keep up.”
- Writer
