Page 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."

Hagan looked at them again—really looked at them. The hollowness in their cheeks, the way their thin limbs trembled from exhaustion.

"Do you think she is telling the truth? " Dain suggested through the tribelink so that no one could hear. They were still getting used to hearing each other in their minds, having shared blood only a few weeks ago at the ceremony.

Veyr snorted. "Everyone belongs somewhere. If they don't, it means they were never meant to survive."

Hagan ignored them. He was watching the girl.

She never looked up, not once, not even when she stumbled over a gnarled root. Her hands curled into fists, knuckles tight.

She was afraid.

Not just wary, but afraid in the way an animal was when it had been hunted too many times.

Something inside his chest clenched with sympathy.

Hagan saw it —the fineness to their bones, the way their cheeks hollowed too sharply, their threadbare clothes barely hanging on their frail frames.

They were starving.

They slowed down to make allowances for the females who were obviously struggling .

The centre of the tribeland was a place where tradition and necessity intertwined, home to over 20,000 shifters, each bound by the laws of the Highclaw. Unlike human cities, no vehicles were allowed beyond the outer districts, preserving the untamed spirit of the land.

The streets pulsed with life, but the absence of engines and tires grinding against pavement made the energy feel natural, primal—a world that thrived on footsteps, voices, and the ever-present rustle of shifting forms.

Children played between the buildings, darting between the legs of passing warriors and traders, their bodies flickering between forms. One boy, still mostly human, sprinted ahead with a bushy grey tail twitching behind him, while another stumbled mid-run, russet wolf ears flicking atop his head, his snout elongating before snapping back into place.

No one paid them much mind. Shifting was as natural as breathing here.

The buildings varied, reflecting both the old ways and the slow creep of modern conveniences.

Quaint cottages with weathered stone and timber beams lined the quieter streets, their roofs thick with moss and their doors carved with ancestral runes.

Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the rich scent of burning cedar, roasting meat, and fresh bread.

But standing between them were taller structures, four- and five-story buildings, their smooth, reinforced stone and timber hinting at the slow shift toward modern living. Balconies jutted out, draped in drying pelts and herbs, while narrow windows let in the cool mountain air.

A wide bulletin board dominated the main square, its surface layered thick with overlapping parchment and ink-scrawled notices .

"Repairs for electronics – quick fixes, fair trade."

"Hunters needed for the eastern wood—serious inquiries only."

"Looking for an apprentice in elemental runes—stipend to be discussed."

Across the square, a small shop stood open, its shelves lined with runes of every kind—etched into stone, bone, and wood, some glowing faintly with stored magic.

The shopkeeper, a wiry old man with a scarred cheek and a gold ring in one ear, watched over his wares with a piercing gaze, occasionally carving new runes into smooth rock.

Further along, a smithy rang with the steady clang of metal on metal, sparks flying as warriors waited for blades to be sharpened, armour to be repaired. The tang of heated iron and oil mixed with the crisp mountain air.

The streets were filled with wolves in human form, trading, bartering, and exchanging news. Some carried fresh game over their shoulders, the scent of blood and fur still strong, while others haggled over bolts of cloth, handmade leather gear, and weapons.

Despite the vibrant energy, there was an underlying order—a silent law that all obeyed, not because they feared it, but because it was the way of their kind.

Here, in the heart of the territory, the rule of the Highclaw was absolute .

Garrik led the way through the main street of the town centre which was dominated by the Tribe Longhouse, an imposing structure built from ancient timber and reinforced stone, its great roof sloping like the spine of a beast at rest. The longhouse was more than a seat of power—it was the beating heart of the pack, where laws were upheld, disputes settled, and warriors swore oaths before the Highclaw.

Its massive double doors were carved with the sigil of the pack, intricate and timeworn, polished smooth by generations of hands pressing against them in fealty or supplication.

Flanking the doors, wolf-headed torches burned steadily, their flames casting long shadows that flickered like restless spirits.

Beyond the longhouse, standing in its shadow, were the personal quarters of the ruling family and high-ranking officials—the Highclaw's dwelling, the Fang’s and the Shadow's private quarters.

Unlike the longhouse, these structures were built for protection as much as comfort, their windows narrow, their doors thick, exuding a sense of power and vigilance.

Garrik approached the Tribe Longhouse, his steps firm, shoulders squared.

The structure loomed before him, massive and unshakable, its aged timbers darkened with time and history.

It was not just a building—it was the foundation of their people, the place where justice was served, laws were upheld, and the will of the Highclaw was carried out.

At the entrance, the great sigil of the pack was carved deep into the wood, the spiralling symbol of their ancestors worn smooth by the touch of countless generations .

Garrik bowed his head and touched his forehead to the sigil, a silent mark of respect to those who came before. Their strength, their blood, still ran through every shifter who called this place home. Their blood had splatted these very walls during the Feral Wars with the Hairless ones.

Without hesitation, he pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of timber, old parchment, and the lingering traces of smoke from the great hearths.

The flickering glow of wall torches cast shadows along the massive beams, highlighting the intricate carvings of wolves in full shift, warriors locked in battle, and symbols of unity and strength.

The main judgment and gathering hall stretched through the centre of the longhouse, its vast space lined with wooden benches where warriors, traders, and elders gathered when called.

At the far end stood the Highclaw's seat, raised just enough to command presence, but not so high as to make him untouchable.

Flanking the hall, solid wooden doors led to the private offices of high-ranking members—the Fang, the Shadow, the council members, and the lead enforcers. Each was built with thick walls, soundproofed for the kind of conversations that required secrecy and strategy.

Beyond the judgment hall, toward the back of the longhouse, were the community kitchens and dining halls—vast, always filled with movement, as food was prepared for warriors, workers, and travellers alike. Even now, the scent of stew and freshly baked bread curled faintly through the corridors.

But Garrik had no time for food.

He moved with purpose, his boots striking against the polished wooden floor, heading straight for the Lead Enforcer's chamber .

He pushed open the door, smelling the air for intruders before stepping inside, an instinct from his many years as an enforcer.

Inside, the room was practical, built for efficiency, not comfort. A heavy wooden table dominated the space, maps and patrol logs strewn across its surface, marked with border movements and recent Forsaken sightings. Weapon racks lined the walls, polished but always within arm's reach.

A laptop sat open on the heavy wooden desk, its screen filled with tactical maps and patrol logs, flickering between infrared scans and shifting movements along the borders.

Paper maps still lined the walls, but digital counterparts had begun to take over, screens mounted beside them, updating in real-time.

Against the far wall, a weapons case stood locked, its contents a blend of old and new—a silver-edged blade resting beside a modern automatic rifle, both necessary for war in a world where enemies did not always fight with fangs and claws.

Near the corner, a coffee machine hummed softly, the sharp scent of fresh brew curling through the air—a small luxury, but a necessary one for long nights of strategy and preparation.

Garrik exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw.

This was not how he had expected the day to go.

There was no telling what the woman and her daughter's arrival would mean for the pack.

He gestured for the woman and her child to enter. The boys crept in after them.

"The Highclaw is away," he said finally. "He'll return soon."

He pulled out his phone from his belt and pressed a number. A second later, his voice dropped into a low growl .

"Brother, we have a situation."

The boys exchanged a look.

Hagan had never seen Garrik take out his phone for something minor. He always thought the hairless ones were recording him.

Then Garrik turned back to them, eyes narrowing. "Off with ya."

Dain didn't hesitate, taking off first. Veyr followed with a smirk, already whispering something snide under his breath.

Hagan started to move—but then stopped.

Something in him refused to leave just yet.

His gaze flicked back one last time.

And then, just for a breath, the girl lifted her head. Her slate-grey eyes locked onto his.

It was barely a second.

A flicker. A breath.

But Hagan felt it like a strike to his ribs.

Then the door closed, and then she was gone.