The Road To Ruin
1008 Words
They had set out early today.
Maren worked with efficiency, fingers flying on honed urgency as she packed a creased satchel with whatever they might need. Wet earth filled the air with the stench of the storm of last night, and mist lingered about trees in ghostly fingers.
Elara held the end of the wooden cot with her trembling hand, securing the clasp on the cloak. The previous night clung to her figure like an illness, taunting the hollowness under her ribcage. She had slept barely enough, restless sleep filled with silver eyes, blaze-destroyed castle walls, and the feral growl of the beast that screamed out her name.
"You can't stay here."
Maren’s voice cut through the fog in her mind. The older woman pressed the leather satchel into Elara’s hands, her fingers lingering for a moment in silent urgency.
“Malgar’s forces will be coming,” she continued. “If they know you’re alive—”
Elara swallowed, her parched mouth. "I don't understand." She glared at Thorne, who had arms crossed over his chest against the doorway. His face was still pinched, his body still healing from wounds he'd received, but his golden eyes were bright, guarded.
"That beast." She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. "That was no Lycan, was it?"
Thorne's eyes bulged. His face went white. "No," he growled, his voice thick and raspy. "That was a Shadowborn. Malgar's handiwork." His face contorted into a scowl. "And it was following you."
Elara shuddered.
The cabin air clung to her, cold and wet with an unseen touch. She never thought she was anything but Elara, the village girl raised by a healer. And in one night, it's all taken away.
Maren's fingers trailed up to cover her face, the heat of her palms engulfing her.
"You are stronger than you know," she panted, her eyes filling up. "And now, you have no choice but to fight."
Fight.
The word wriggled uncomfortably in Elara's chest.
LIVING a free herb-gathering, scrape-mending life had not prepared her for this one. The idea of fighting the evil that marched in the darkness along the edges of the forest made a rough line of fear through her frame, though.
"Where do we go?" she breathed.
Thorne stood up from his chair, his gaze far away, impassive. "To the Ruins of Eldenholme."
A shiver descended the room at the use of the name.
Maren's lips tightened, but she said nothing.
Elara's brow sprang high. "Why?"
Thorne's gold eyes fastened on hers, unshakable. "Because there's something there that you need to see."
A thousand questions all waited in suspension bubbling on her lips, but his face warned her she'd receive no answers she sought.
So she nodded instead.
Maren embraced her tightly, one farewell more than greeting. When she finally let her go, she stepped back in again, the heat of her breath on Elara's ear.
"Trust the Wild, child. It will bring you home."
Elara's form contained the words, a vibrating strength moving through her stomach.
She could not inquire what it was that they were discussing before she might demand it. Maren stepped back.
There was nothing more to be said.
She emerged, into dawn's chill. Thorne followed behind, his steps swallowed by silence. Elara bore the burden of fate upon her shoulders, chill and unsympathetic.
As they disappeared through the trees, the cabin losing sight, she stepped quietly out.
For the first time, she wondered—
What if she wasn't prepared for the truth?
---
The woods lay open before her, empty and continuous.
The mist curled around the roots as serpents, and distant birds trilled in the still air. It would have been peaceful, if it were not for tension slicing through Elara's chest and coiling tighter with every step ahead.
Her mind was a tangle, of doubts and abominations that could not be soothed.
Everything she had ever known rested on lies.
Her existence—the still village, the chill nights sitting around the fire with her all wrapped up in Maren, the years of believing she nobody—was it all constructed so tightly a falsehood?
Did Maren know from the start?
Had she saved Elara from something even worse?
She curled her fists, her nails digging deep into her palms.
Before her, Thorne walked with unyielding determination, his gaze set on the ground before him. He did not look back, did not talk, but she knew he felt every step she took.
She lengthened her stride, falling into step behind him.
"What is in Eldenholme?" she said finally.
His face was unyielding. "Answers."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not—"
A twig broke.
Both of them halted.
Elara's heart missed as the sound vibrated through the trees.
A beat, and a rough, rasping growl rippled through the quiet.
Thorne's stance shifted in an instant, his frame tensing as his eyes cut to the spaces between the trees.
Elara's followed theirs, her breathing stuck in her throat.
There—something was moving.
Something watching her.
She thudded her heart a beat, instinctively taking a step towards Thorne.
Another growl. This one closer.
Thorne's whisper was barely audible. "They've found us."
Elara's stomach knotted. "The Shadowborn?"
His jaw was clenched. "No." He released a harsh breath. "Worse."
A howl tore through the air.
Then another.
And another.
The sound made ice creep up Elara's veins.
Branches creaked. Shadows moved.
And then—
Red eyes blinked into view through the shadows.
One pair.
Then three.
Then a dozen.
The forest exploded.
Elara's breath stalled as figures came bursting through the trees—wolves.
But not ordinary wolves.
Their coats streaked with black veins, bodies contorted, wrong—infected from the inside out by something. Eyes glowing an otherworldly red, full of hunger, anger.
Not wolves.
Not Lycan.
Something else.
Something corrupted.
Thorne did not think twice.
"Run."
Elara's breath held.
She had wanted to protest, to insist she wouldn't leave him to battle by himself.
But the beasts launched.
And instinct overrode common sense.
She ran.
- Writer
