Page 3

Hagan

The village hummed with life as Hagan and his friends strolled through the bustling square.

Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling in the crisp morning air.

Children darted between stalls, merchants called out their wares, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang through the air like a steady heartbeat.

Hagan, son of the Highclaw, moved through it all with effortless confidence, his presence met with murmured greetings, bows, and proud smiles. He was the future. The heir. The blessed one. And he knew it.

"Morning, Alphason!"

The voice came from Brann, the butcher, wiping bloodied hands on his apron before hurling a piece of jerky through the air.

Dain, ever the fastest, snatched it mid-flight with a smirk. "For me? You shouldn't have."

"Wasn't for you," Brann shot back, grinning. "But if you're quick enough to steal from the future Highclaw, I won't argue."

"Bold words for a man still selling last season's cuts," Veyr drawled, hands tucked lazily into his belt.

Brann barked a laugh, shaking his head as the boys moved on, Hagan's siblings trailing after them.

"Wait up!" Renna, his little sister, raced forward, her small legs pumping as she struggled to keep up.

Behind her, Kastor and Jorik, his two younger brothers, ran just as hard, their wolves already better controlled than hers—shifts flickering through limbs as their claws threatened to push through soft hands .

Hagan glanced over his shoulder and sighed. "Go home, Renna."

She huffed, planting her fists on her hips, blue eyes flashing defiantly. "But I want to come!"

"You're too slow," Dain grinned, deliberately tossing the jerky into his mouth. "We don't wait for pups."

Renna bared her teeth at him, small but fierce. "I could be faster if I didn't have to wear stupid skirts!"

"You can be fast all you want," Hagan said, ruffling her dark curls despite her scowl, "but you're not coming. Stay with Mother."

She huffed again, but Kastor—the most level-headed of them all—grabbed her arm. "Come on, Renna. You know he won't let us."

She kicked at the dirt but finally let herself be pulled away, Jorik lingering a moment longer before following, looking over his shoulder as though he still hoped they'd change their minds.

"Tell Mother I said she owes me a favour!" Hagan called after them, grinning.

Jorik rolled his eyes and muttered something about telling Dad when he got back, but he led their sulking sister away, leaving the three older boys to make their escape toward adventure.

They kept moving, dodging greetings from villagers who either bowed their heads or clapped their shoulders as they passed. Everyone knew them—Hagan, the son of the Highclaw, Dain, his future Fang, and Veyr, his future Shadow. The three of them had grown up together , brothers in all ways but blood.

"Morning, Alphason! "

"Training hard, boys?"

"The Highclaw would be proud!"

“Have you finished your scrollwork yet?"

That last voice made all three of them grimace in unison.

Elder Marrok.

The old wolf stood at the edge of the square, arms folded, his weathered face sharp with scrutiny. A veteran of the last Feral War, his presence alone was enough to force discipline into even the most restless pups.

Hagan and Dain exchanged a glance, an unspoken agreement to make their escape.

"Ah, Elder Marrok!" Veyr greeted smoothly, stepping forward before they could be pulled into some long-winded lecture. "We were just on our way to see the Head Enforcer. Urgent business."

Marrok narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?"

"Very serious matters," Veyr continued without hesitation, placing a hand over his heart as if gravely burdened. "He needed us to discuss... uh... strategic patrol formations."

Hagan coughed to cover a laugh, while Dain was openly grinning, peeling an orange he had pilfered in slow amusement.

Marrok didn't look convinced. "Strategic patrol formations? or sneaking to the borders again?"

"No, sir, we have learnt our lesson well." Veyr nodded solemnly. "Just attending a training session for future safeguarding of our borders. Very top-level. Wouldn't want to waste your time with the details."

Marrok let the silence drag—long enough for Veyr's smile to twitch at the edges .

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "I'd be more likely to believe that if you weren't all still covered in mud from wrestling near the river."

Hagan glanced down at his dirt-streaked tunic, biting back a curse.

Dain shoved a wedge of orange into his mouth, speaking around it. "We—we are needed, though."

Marrok's weathered gaze slid to Hagan. "You're the future Highclaw. You can't run from duty forever. Schoolwork, training—it all matters."

Hagan sighed. He knew that. But right now, they had a territory border to reach, and he had no interest in being stuck discussing battle tactics in a dim hall.

"Of course, Elder," he said, mustering up his most obedient tone. "We'll be sure to take it seriously."

Marrok's expression said he wasn't fooled, but he grunted and let them go.

The moment they were out of earshot, Veyr let out a low whistle.

"Strategic patrol formations? Really?" Hagan smirked.

"It worked, didn't it?" Veyr shot back.

"I'd say that was my acting that sealed it," Dain declared, reaching for the jerky in his pocket. "Very convincing chewing, wouldn't you agree?"

Hagan chuckled, shoving Dain's shoulder as they broke into a run.

"Enough talking. Let's go see what's at the edge of the world."

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"Did you hear that?" Dain's voice was low, but the tightness in it sliced through the cool night air .

They were crouched behind a rotting log, watching the campsite.

Veyr stilled, his nostrils flaring. "We need to leave. Now."

Hagan smirked, unfazed. "Scared?"

Veyr shot him a hard look. "We came to observe. We've seen enough. They're barely a pack—just savages with no order. The way they treat their own"

A branch snapped.

The air shifted.

And then—a growl. Deep. Guttural. Starved.

They had been seen.

"Little wolves," a voice rasped from the shadows, thick with amusement, full of hunger.

A figure rose from the darkness, massive, his scarred body nothing but coiled muscle and bloodlust. One of the Forsaken.

The largest male they had seen.

His yellowed teeth flashed.

Then—he lunged.

"RUN!" Dain bellowed.

They tore through the trees, their wolves pushing forward, paws barely touching the earth.

"This was a stupid plan!" Veyr hissed, his breath ragged.

"Not now, Veyr!" Hagan snapped.

"WHEN?" Dain shot back, panic threading his shaking voice. "WHEN HE'S RIPPING OUT OUR THROATS?"

Hagan risked a glance back.

Too close.

The Forsaken was too close .

Panic curled, sharp and icy, in his gut. They had always been stronger, always been faster—but this wasn't a game anymore.

"Shit," Dain cursed, glancing back. "He's gaining—Hagan, what do we do?"

Hagan's mind raced, but there was no way out. Help was too far. The enforcers wouldn't make it in time.

For the first time in his life, cold fear gripped his throat.

Then—a snarl. A flash of movement.

Something slammed into the Forsaken male, claws ripping, tearing. The impact was brutal, sending their pursuer crashing into the earth with a howl of rage.

The Forsaken snarled, stumbling back, but the enforcer was already towering over him, a deadly growl curling from his throat. The Forsaken knew when he was outmatched. His yellowed teeth bared, but he backed away, slipping into the shadows, disappearing like a ghost into the night.

For a heartbeat, all was still.

Then—thunder.

A new storm of rage and fury came barrelling toward them, faster than the wind, stronger than a crashing wave.

Hagan barely had time to flinch before a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him around like a pup caught where he shouldn't be.

"What in the name of the Highclaw were you thinking?!"

The voice was thick with fury, deep and biting like a winter wind.

Uncle Garrik.

One of the Highclaw's fiercest enforcers .

And right now, he looked like he was deciding whether to shake them or skin them alive.

Hagan instinctively shrank back, ears flattening in his half-shifted form. Dain and Veyr weren't much better—both stiff, tails tucked low in submission.

"You little fools!" Garrik snarled, his sharp, icy blue eyes sweeping over them, taking in their dirt-streaked clothes, their heaving chests. "You could have been slaughtered! Do you have any idea—any idea—how this could have ended?!"

No one answered.

Garrik exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, trying to rein in his fury.

"Forsaken do not play," he growled. "They do not challenge—they kill. They would have skinned you, left your corpses at the border as a warning." His eyes darkened, his voice dropping lower. "Do you think your fathers will like it when they hear of this?"

Dain winced. "Do they... have to hear about it?"

Garrik's gaze snapped to him.

Dain shut up immediately.

"Get your hides home," Garrik ordered, his voice sharp as steel. "Before I decide which of you to throw to the Highclaw first."

All three boys groaned.

A look from Garrik silenced them instantly.

"And be at the training field at dawn," he added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They groaned again, louder this time.

"Shut it," Garrik snapped. "You're lucky I'm not dragging you there now. "

The boys exchanged a long-suffering glance, but they knew better than to argue.

Garrik glared at them once more, then his expression twisted in disgust. "Why didn't you use the tribelink, you idiots?"

Silence.

Hagan exchanged a guilty glance with Dain and Veyr.

"...We, uh, didn't think of it," Veyr muttered.

Garrik let out a low, dangerous growl.

"You didn't think?" His voice was pure steel. "You have the strongest communication gift a wolf can have, and you didn't use it when you were being hunted?"

"...We thought we could handle it," Hagan admitted.

Garrik looked like he was considering throwing him into the nearest tree.

"You thought," he repeated flatly.

The three boys nodded weakly.

"Don't think. Learn." Garrik's voice dropped to a lethal growl. "Or next time, you won't make it back to regret it."

Hagan swallowed hard.

"Training. Field. Dawn."

They nodded.

"Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and tell the Highclaw myself."

Just as they turned to run, a whimper sounded from the shadows.

A woman, pressed against the base of a tree, her arms wrapped protectively around a small figure.

Her hair was tangled gold, her face was streaked with dirt .

But it was not her that stole his breath.

It was the child she shielded—a girl their age, trembling, her eyes like a brewing storm.

For a moment, everything else faded.

The fear, the chase, the burning in his lungs.

Because she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.