Shadows in the Pack
377 Words
The wolf was once called Dain.
Now, it had no name.
Its fur had turned mottled grey and black, patchy with rot. Eyes milky-white. Its howl, once full of pride and loyalty to the northern Frostclaw Clan, now carried something foul—a tone that made birds fall silent and deer run blind with panic.
It was not alone.
Six others moved with it through the snow-slick trees, twitching, panting. They did not run as wolves should. Their limbs moved wrong—like marionettes too long on strings.
They followed the call of something buried deep in the earth, something whose whispers filled their skulls with cold fire and the scent of ash.
They were once wolves. Now they were Hollowborn.
And they were headed south.
Toward Firemoon territory.
The Glen felt different.
The roots no longer trembled when Niamh stepped through them—they bowed.
The flames in the trees rose higher when she passed, their light turning from orange to white-blue. The wolves of her pack fell into silence as she approached, watching with something between awe and fear.
Kaelen was the first to move, stepping toward her, face unreadable.
"You're back," he said.
Niamh met his eyes—and for a moment, he saw the moon inside them. Not just its light—but its depth. Cold. Endless. Watching.
"I passed the Trial," she said simply.
"You don't look the same."
"I'm not."
Behind her, the wind shifted.
Tamsin appeared, staff in hand. Her eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but calculation.
"You're carrying something with you," the seer murmured. "Something that came back through the veil."
Niamh didn't deny it.
"It saw me," she said quietly. "The Hollow King saw me... and I saw what he's done to our kind."
She turned to face the Glen, jaw tight.
"They're coming."
"Who?" Kaelen asked.
Her voice was cold as winter stone.
"Wolves. But not ours. Not anymore."
⸻
Far to the North in Frostclaw Territory
Bran Thorneheart stood on a cliff overlooking his hunting grounds.
Below, he saw the bodies.
Twisted shapes. Wolves curled unnaturally, jaws open in frozen screams. No blood. No tracks.
Just burn marks in the snow.
And clawprints that led south.
He clenched his fists, breath fogging like smoke.
"Firemoon..."
- Writer
