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Chapter seven

Serena

W e moved together, Tristan and I, navigating the rocky mountain trail with a fragile sense of purpose.

Tense but civil, I could almost convince myself it wasn’t an awkward first date.

After dinner last night he insisted we needed answers about our birthmarks and that this trek into the wilderness might give us a clue.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve refused to follow him into the woods, especially after the dream.

But something in the way he said we needed answers…

it hooked into the part of me still desperate to believe in fate.

Besides, what’s a couple of hours in the woods with the alpha of your rival pack? Romantic. Or a death wish.

“This trail better lead somewhere helpful,” I muttered, glancing sideways at Tristan’s unreadable face. He looked too calm. Too in control. Was this some elaborate trap? Was I walking straight into my father’s hands?

“Keep up, Sterling,” Tristan called back, as if my name was an insult. The cocky smirk on his face made me want to race ahead, just to prove I could.

“I'm giving you a head start,” I shot back. He didn’t need to know I was saving my strength for the downhill run. Or retreat.

He slowed enough for me to catch up, and we walked in step for a few moments, the path winding higher into the heart of the mountain. An eagle screamed overhead, probably annoyed we were intruding. Tristan glanced at me, a question in his eyes.

“Do you really think this will help us figure out what’s going on?” I asked, more to fill the silence than because I needed reassurance.

“The old ways hold answers. It’s up to us to find them,” he said, vague and serious.

Our hands brushed again, for the eighth time since we started. His touch sparked through me like an electric current, and I saw him glance at the mark on my wrist before pulling away. My heart kicked up, traitorous as always around him.

Tristan quickened his pace, either eager to get there or to avoid more awkward contact.

We came out onto a narrow ledge that overlooked the valley below, our territory stretching into the distance.

It was the first time I'd seen it from this perspective, and a twinge of longing hit me, unexpected and unwelcome.

“Getting homesick?” Tristan asked. His tone was light, but I didn’t miss the undercurrent.

“Like you’d give me time to pack,” I shot back.

I twisted a lock of hair around my finger, hiding behind the familiar gesture.

In truth, his territory was impressive—more than that, really.

Beautiful in a wild, rugged way that got under my skin.

And with my father keeping secrets from me, I was on my own to finally find the answers to this curse.

That was the one thing I never understood.

We both wanted the same outcome – to end this gods-forsaken plague over my life – yet he treated me like a prisoner with no freedom to fight for myself.

Tristan turned away, leading us past a crumbling stone wall.

It was so ancient it looked more like a pile of rocks.

Old words and faded symbols decorated the stones, their meanings lost to time.

I caught up with him as the path sloped down, feeling the change in the air.

Like we were stepping into another world.

Ahead, a circle of stones emerged from the mist, serene and eerie. They jutted from the ground like the mountain's teeth, their surfaces carved with runes that twisted my brain in strange directions when I tried to decipher them. The whole place buzzed with something ancient and alive.

“Think we’re supposed to join hands and chant?” I said, masking my unease with sarcasm.

Tristan ignored me, moving to the center of the circle.

He stood there for a long time, silent and contemplative, like he was tuning in to a frequency only he could hear.

I wanted to tell him to stop brooding, but something in the set of his shoulders made me hold back.

Instead, I picked my way through the stones, pretending to study them but mostly watching him.

There was a grace to his intensity that I couldn’t look away from.

The air inside the circle was colder, and I swore the light bent wrong around the stones. My mark flared, not hot, but icy—like something ancient had just noticed me. I took a step back, pulse thundering. One of the runes—it looked like the broken moon from my dream.

The runes twisted the longer I stared, like they weren’t meant to be read so much as remembered. My mark pulsed once, sharp as a warning. Or a welcome.

We stayed there for what felt like hours, my own disappointment creeping in despite myself. Nothing happened, no magical revelations or sudden insights. Just the wind whistling through the rocks, making me feel small and foolish.

I crossed my arms, about to say something snarky to break the silence, when Tristan moved to my side. I tensed, expecting another lecture about patience and fate. Instead, he touched my arm, accidental and lingering.

“Serena,” he started, then stopped.

My name on his lips threw me, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I’d been craving to hear it from him.

“We should stay a while longer,” he finally said, retreating back to safer ground.

I gave him a skeptical look but nodded.

We waited, the minutes stretching thin between us, the air full of things we couldn’t quite say. Eventually, we turned to leave, back up the trail that seemed to have grown steeper since we’d come down.

The attack came out of nowhere.

Fangs flashed before our eyes like lethal confetti. Tristan moved fast, shoving me behind a boulder as the forest erupted with snarls and the snapping of jaws.

“Down!” he yelled, but I was already there, instincts taking over.

I glanced at him, getting ready to shift just as a wolf—one of my own pack, out for blood after our failure to heed my father’s warning—struck.

The beast lunged, its teeth sinking into Tristan’s shoulder; his face drained of color in an instant before twisting in shock and pain.

My breath stuttered as I saw the savage bite, the wound deep and bleeding.

The wolf that lunged for Tristan had a scar above its right eye. My breath caught. Kellan. My sparring partner since we were pups. And now, teeth bared, he wanted Tristan dead—and me with him.

“Tristan!” I yelled, my voice nearly lost amid the chaos of growls and crashing undergrowth. He grabbed my arm, pulling me close. “You have to move, now,” he said, teeth clenched.

Blood spread across his shirt, soaking through the fabric like a dark, spreading curse. My heart slammed in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that left no room for thinking, only acting.

“Not without you,” I said, half panicked, half furious. I put my hand over his, feeling the sticky warmth there. “We have to get you out of here.”

His jaw set in that stubborn way I was starting to recognize all too well, but he gave a short nod.

“We need cover,” he managed, each word edged with pain.

We bolted from the open glade, the sound of snapping twigs and distant howls chasing us.

A furious snarl rang out as another wolf’s attack shattered the stillness of the forest. I refused to look back, focusing solely on Tristan—on keeping him upright, even as the betrayal of my pack turned our world to a nightmare.

The forest closed around us, a dark and twisting maze.

It felt alive, hostile, every shadow a potential enemy.

Tristan stumbled, catching himself with a growl that was more than just pain.

He was losing blood, too much of it. I slipped my arm around his waist, feeling the strength there waver.

He was losing too much blood to shift into his wolf form, and I feared I wasn’t strong enough to carry him on my own, even if I transformed.

“They’re gaining,” he said, his breath ragged.

“They’ll have to catch us first,” I shot back, more defiant than I felt.

We pushed deeper into the woods, the sound of pursuit slowly fading. I could feel his steps getting heavier, each one a struggle. My mind raced, frantic for a plan, a miracle, anything.

Then I saw it.

A wall of vines covered the rock face to our right, thick and overgrown, but not enough to hide the cave entrance behind it. I tugged Tristan toward it, the opening barely big enough for us to squeeze through.

“Here,” I said, urgency propelling me forward.

The space was narrow at first, forcing us into a dark and winding corridor.

It opened into a small chamber, the walls smooth and cold against my back.

I let Tristan down gently, then tore at his shirt, exposing the wound.

Blood was everywhere, slick and red, and I fought the rising tide of panic that threatened to drown me.

“Tristan,” I said, voice breaking. I didn’t know what else to say, how else to keep him from slipping away. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

He smiled, a faint and stubborn thing, as if to say that he didn’t plan to.

The cave was ancient, the walls breathing with the damp chill of forgotten things.

Blood soaked through Tristan's shirt, a dark stain that spread too fast for my peace of mind.

The fang marks slashed across his body like some grotesque artwork, and I steeled myself to patch them up.

“You whimper, you die,” I warned, hoping my bravado concealed my panic.

Tristan's grin was a ghost of its former self, but at least he hadn't stopped smiling.

He was in no condition to argue or resist, so I took that as a hint and reached for the wound. My hands shook, but I gritted my teeth and applied pressure. Hard.

Tristan jerked, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, and for a second I thought I’d lost him. The ruby liquid oozed in a sickening rush, and I clamped my hands down to stem the blood.