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Chapter 4

Hagan

They walked in silence, save for the occasional crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

The woman—thin, hollow-eyed, with tangled blond hair—held her daughter's hand so tightly her knuckles were white. The child walked with her head bowed, staring at the ground, her frail body tense as if she expected a blow.

And behind them, three boys who were not where they were supposed to be, who had seen things they shouldn't have, whispered amongst themselves.

"Where do you think they're from?" Dain muttered, keeping his voice low, his feet dragging. He was not looking forward to explaining this to his dad.

"South," Veyr replied, gaze flickering over the woman's torn dress and the girl's bare feet. His ears peeped out in a rare loss of control for Veyr. "Look at them. Their skin's too pale for the desert, but their clothes aren't from any of our neighbours."

"They don't have a mark," Hagan murmured, his brows drawn tight.

That was the first thing Garrik had asked for.

The woman had stood before him, shoulders drawn tight, her hands clutching the girl's thin fingers as if they were her last tether to the world.

"I seek asylum for myself and my daughter." Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. Like she hadn't spoken in a while.

Garrik's sharp eyes raked over them. Hagan, standing just a few paces behind, could smell the fear on her—not just wariness, but the kind that came from being hunted too many times.

"Show me your mark," Garrik said, his tone flat.

A flicker of hesitation crossed the woman's face before she turned her right shoulder forward, sliding down the torn fabric of her dress.

The boys watched closely, though they said nothing.

The Wanderer's Rune should have been there. A brand every exile bore, its spirals etched in flesh—marking those who had either left their tribe willingly or had been cast out.

If she had once belonged to another pack, they would know it.

If she had been banished for a crime, the mark would have been crossed out with a deep burn—a sign that she was beyond redemption, condemned to die an outcast, hunted by all.

But her skin was bare.

No exile brand. No burn of shame. Nothing.

The boys exchanged uneasy glances.

She was not from any tribe.

Garrik's jaw tensed slightly, though his face remained unreadable. "Why don't you have one?"

The woman swallowed. "I was never exiled," she said. "I had no pack to begin with."

Hagan stiffened. That wasn't possible. Everyone had a pack. Even the Forsaken had once been someone's.

"Explain," Garrik demanded.

The woman exhaled shakily, gathering herself. "We were part of a caravan from the southern lands. Traders, not part of the tribes. We travelled under protection, but they came in the night. The Forsaken. And... others."

A silence settled like a slow-building storm.

Veyr shifted uncomfortably. Dain's fingers curled into fists.

"My husband—" The woman's voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. "He was cut down before he could reach us. My wolf…she is not responding when I call her. So we ran on two feet. We ran until we had nothing left. Until we found your borders."