Page 4

Lexa

It had been almost a week since I went to the witch, and the pain had finally dulled to a whisper. It lingered in the mornings, when the cold wrapped around my spine and reminded me of what still lived beneath the runes—but by midday, it was gone. A phantom ache. Nothing more.

Snow had come during the night. Not the heavy kind that blanketed everything in silence, but a thin, fragile layer that clung to rooftops and frosted the dead grass in silver. It made the village look softer, quieter, as if it was holding its breath.

The others in town whispered over their bread and fish bones.

They said the snows up north were worse this year, deeper than a man’s height in some places.

There were murmurs of war between the great packs.

Someone claimed the Crescent Moon alpha had fallen.

Another swore the Blood Night pack was marching south like a tide of wolves.

I didn’t care.

Let them rip each other apart.

The word pack alone made my stomach turn. I had no use for wolves or their wars. What I did care about was the shoreline.

It had frozen again last night—thin layers of ice creeping across the water, jagged and stubborn. Our nets had come back empty for the third day in a row. We didn’t have a boat, couldn’t afford one, and without deeper waters, the fish were gone.

Dain sat on the edge of the dock this morning, legs dangling over the side, cheeks red from the cold. He held the net in his little hands, untangling it with more patience than I had. My fingers were raw from working the lines, frostbitten in places I couldn’t afford to bandage properly.

I crouched beside him, eyes scanning the gray sea. The horizon was empty. Always empty.

“This part’s broken,” Dain said, holding up a frayed length of rope.

I nodded. “I’ll mend it later.”

He didn’t ask about breakfast. He knew there wouldn’t be any, not until we caught something or traded for crumbs.

Behind us, the village stirred slowly to life—people sweeping snow from thresholds, hauling wood for fires, muttering curses about the cold. The thin layer of white made everything look cleaner than it was. It hid the rot. The damp. The hunger.

But it didn’t hide the truth. We were in trouble. And winter had only just begun.

Dain and I walked the familiar path home, our feet crunching over frost-hardened earth, the air sharp enough to sting our lungs. My shawl barely held back the cold, and Dain clung to my side, hands tucked deep into the oversized sleeves of his coat. He didn’t complain. He never did.

My stomach twisted in protest, loud and hollow. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, but it wasn’t my hunger that gnawed at me—it was his. There was nothing left in the cottage. Not even flour dust in the tin.

Wouldn’t be the first time he went to bed with an empty belly.

Wouldn’t be the first time I lay awake beside him, listening to his breathing, and wondering if I’d made the right choices.

But the gods don’t answer those kinds of questions. As we passed the old mill road, I felt it—before I saw it. A shift in the air. The scent of leather, iron, cold steel, and something darker. Something that curled my wolf instincts into a tight knot, even beneath the runes. Danger.

“Dain,” I said softly. “Stay close.”

He nodded and pressed into my side.

Men were scattered through the village—strangers. Not villagers. Armed, armoured, not like our local guards with their patched leather and rusted swords. These men moved like predators, scanning every alley, every door, every face.

My blood turned to ice.

I kept my head down, hood drawn low. We weren’t important. Just poor, just tired, just cold.

One of them stepped into our path.

Tall. Broad. Fur-lined cloak. His eyes were the colour of wolves—pale gold and unblinking.

“You,” he said, voice rough with command. “Seen a boy? Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Blonde. Might be hiding here.”

I forced my body to stay still. Forced my voice into something small and forgettable. “No, sir.”

He stared at me too long. My skin prickled. Then he moved on without a word. I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

As we kept walking, I didn’t look back. Didn’t let the fear show. But inside, I knew. Knew with the certainty of instinct, of blood. These weren’t Crescent Moon patrols.

These weren’t the quiet wolves who passed through once or twice a season and left us alone. These were something else. Blood Night. I knew the stories. Every wolf did, whether they’d run from the packs or not.

They didn’t come for tribute. They came for blood.

My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest, but I didn’t let it show.

I kept my head down, eyes on the muddy path as the soldier gave a curt gesture, allowing me to pass.

I nodded once, clutching Dain’s hand tighter, and moved.

Each step away from him felt like tiptoeing past a sleeping beast, praying not to wake it.

Just a few more steps. Just a few more steps and—

The cottage came into view. My breath caught.

The door was hanging off its hinges, cracked down the middle, swaying in the wind like a broken jaw. Inside, I saw movement—shadows. Boots scuffing against the floor. My stomach dropped.

Two of them were inside, digging through our things like scavengers—one already holding the tattered blanket from our bed, the other rifling through the small crate where I kept what little food we had left. They turned the moment they saw me. Sharp eyes. Hungry eyes. Wolves.

“You live here?” one asked, stepping toward me. His voice was too calm, too cold.

“Yes,” I said, barely managing the word. Dain pressed behind me, holding my coat with both fists.

“We’re looking for someone,” said the second. “Young male. Seventeen to nineteen. Blonde hair. Human-born. Seen anyone new pass through?”

I shook my head. “No strangers here.”

They looked at each other, then back at me. The first one stepped closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffed the air. His gaze flicked toward the bed. His lip curled.

“If you’re not hiding anything,” he said, voice shifting into a low growl, “why does your cot smell like wolf?”

Before I could answer, he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, hard enough to knock me to my knees. I hit the floor with a gasp, pain flaring up my spine.

“You lying bitch.”

He raised his hand, and the back of it came down hard across my cheek. Stars burst in my vision.

“Lexi!” Dain screamed, darting forward.

“No—Dain!”

He kicked the man square in the shin with his little boot, fists clenched and eyes wide with rage. The wolf snarled and rounded on him.

“Filthy human brat!”

His hand came up again, aimed to strike. And something inside me snapped. I saw red. I moved before I even thought. The runes on my back burned hot, but they didn’t stop me.

I lunged.

My body collided with his, knocking him off his feet and into the wall. The breath went out of him in a surprised grunt. I landed hard, straddling his chest, fists already flying.

“You. Don’t. Touch. Him!”

My fist cracked against his cheekbone, the sound dull and wet. Again. And again. Blood coated my knuckles—warm, slick, righteous. His snarl turned to a grunt, then to silence. I didn’t care if he was breathing. He laid a hand on my boy.

Then—ice.

A hand closed around my throat. No warning.

No footsteps. No sound. One second I was on top of the soldier, the next I was in the air, hoisted off him like a rag doll.

My body slammed back against a cold, unyielding chest. Fingers, pale and long, dug into the sides of my neck—not squeezing, not yet, but owning. Possessing.

My boots kicked uselessly above the floor. The soldier below me groaned, blood dripping from his nose, but no one looked at him. Not even his partner. They were all looking at the man behind me.

I didn’t need to turn to know what he was.

The air was wrong now. Thicker. Heavier. It vibrated with something ancient, dark, and hungry.

An Alpha.

Not one of the half-bred thugs that passed through on Crescent Moon patrols. No. This was something else. Something far worse.

Power rolled off him in waves—predatory, absolute. Every hair on my body stood on end, and I went still, the way prey does when it knows the predator is watching. But it wasn’t just fear.

It was the pressure. The unbearable weight of him pressing into every part of me, like he was already beneath my skin. I felt nothing of my wolf. She was gone. Silent. Cowering so deep inside me, I didn’t even know if she still existed.

All I had left was the runes. Carved into my spine with blood and sacrifice and dark magic.

Please, I begged silently, teeth clenched. Please, gods, let them hold. Don’t let him see. Don’t let him feel what I am.

He leaned in. Closer.

I felt the heat of his breath on the curve of my ear, smelled iron and frost and something darker—like smoke curling from burned-out churches.

His voice was a whisper, but it filled the world.

“What pack do you serve?”

Every muscle in my body froze. My heartbeat stopped. Just for a moment. The way he said it… as if it was a sacred question. As if it mattered. As if there would be no lie strong enough if he sensed the truth.

My lips parted, but no words came. My mind screamed— none, none, none! —but my throat was dry, burning, sealed shut by terror.

He hadn’t squeezed yet. But he could. He would.

And if he found out, if the runes failed, he would know what I was. What I was hiding . The only thing I had was the lie. And the prayer.

Hold. Please, hold.