Chapter 7 The Hunters Arrive

"It is not the howl of the wolf that scares the world, but the silence of the hunter before."

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It began with the wind.

Not the kind that carried scents of lavender and salt, but the kind that clenched the air, drew the sea into tossing tides, and made doors creak without a whisper of wind. Virelle, long a haven of lazy days and predictable cadences, felt something move beneath its skin.

The morning they arrived, the sky was a dulled silver-neither stormy nor clear. The bay, usually specked with fishing boats and noisy gulls, was strangely still. And then, out of the misted horizon, came dark sails spear-shaped and scimitar-curved. Six ships in all, sailing with unnatural quiet. No snap of flags. No cry of gulls. Only the water splitting like flesh under a blade.

The townspeople gathered on the docks, drawn by instinct and terror. Old men prayed sea prayers they had not prayed in years. Children hid behind their mothers' skirts. Even the gulls circled overhead, unsettled.

From the flagship stepped a figure in blackened bronze and wet furs-gaunt, tall, and unmoving. His eyes, grey as sharks' hide and just as cold, scourged the shore like a judgment. A thick scar slashed from the corner of his mouth to his collarbone, distorting what might otherwise have been noble features. This was Edrik Thornjaw, captain of the Deep Wolves, and Anacobal's former brother-by-oath.

And now, his executioner-in-waiting.

From her hideout on the cliffs above, Merbel watched the ships come in, her eyes narrowed, breath soft. Her instincts had been screaming at her for days-storms that carried no rain, dreams of silver-eyed beings pounding through her forests, and the growing bite of salt in the river water. Trouble had arrived.

Beside her, Anacobal was still, too still. He hadn't said a word in minutes. Not since he saw the lead sail. Not since he recognized it.

"Edrik," he said at last, voice low. "I had hoped I was wrong."

Merbel turned. "You anticipated he'd come."

He nodded slowly. "He's the only one who could. And he will not come to talk."

There was a tense silence between them, like a taut string waiting to snap.

"They'll scour the village?" she questioned.

"They'll scour all things. The Deep Wolves are not merely soldiers. They're kin hunters. Once they are set on a trail, they won't rest till they have sunk their teeth in blood."

"Why would he bother so much? You parted ways. Let him despise you from afar."

Anacobal's gaze wandered seaward. "It's not me. It's what I carry. What I chose. And whom I chose to protect."

Merbel's face flushed, caught in the gravity of those words.

"Do we depart, then?" she asked.

He shook his head. "If we run, we will be hunted. If we hide, they'll make this town their battlefield. Either way, blood will stain these shores."

Down in Virelle, the villagers watched in unease as Edrik's warriors scattered. They wore bleached bone armor and kelp-leather, their movements too fluid, too deliberate-bestial. Their limbs were fashioned from coral and obsidian and shone with soft runes that glowed in moonlight even during the day.

They said little, but their presence was a loud sound.

Father Bren, tendmind of the tide shrine, approached Edrik with a trembling voice. "We are peaceful folk. What business do deep warriors have at our bay?"

Edrik replied, calm as a man commenting on the weather. "We track a traitor and an accursed bloodline. Neither has a home among your people. We will leave once we find them."

The implication hung in the air: turn them over to us, and we'll leave your peace alone.

---

That night, the cliffs flared with lanterns shrouded behind thick drapes. Anacobal and Merbel huddled in the hollowed core of a rocky hillock-one of Merbel's childhood hiding places. The hiding place smelled of dry leaves and damp soil.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt," she whispered.

That's where we differ," Anacobal replied, "Edrik believes blood purifies. You believe it condemns."

"Why does he despise you so?

I was his oath-brother," Anacobal said, looking at his hands. "We hunted together. Bled together. When I found the prophecy scroll... when I knew what could be if the two realms were united. I turned from the Deep Code. From him. He feels that's a betrayal of everything we stood for."

"You betrayed war," Merbel said softly. "That's not the same as betraying him.

Anacobal smiled emptily. "Say that to a man born in blood."

When the moon ascended, a figure slipped into the sanctuary.

A crow shrieked twice.

Anacobal tensed. "That's not a bird. That's a message."

A strip of seaweed parchment was placed beneath a stone. He unfolded it with hands that trembled slightly. The ink shimmered with old magic. One line only:

Return, or the tide runs red.

It was unsigned, but the handwriting was unmistakable.

And below it, a second line, more elegant, more sinister.

A girl of both tides and tooth is a danger to both. Let her die in peace, and your honor might yet remain.

It was from Varessa.

---

Merbel saw it in his eyes before he could speak. The tightening of his jaw. The flicker of shame.

"They threatened you with an ultimatum," she said.

He nodded.

You're thinking of taking it."

"I'm thinking of what will happen if I don't."

She rose, pacing. Her bare feet sunk into earth and moss.

"I won't let you offer yourself up for me. I've lost too many people to the sea already. My father. My mother. I'm not going to lose you too.".

He stood also, barring her path. "It's not just me. They'll burn this village to the ground. They'll call up the Leviath blood pact if necessary. You don't know what the Deep Wolves will do."

"Then let them!" she spat, her eyes blazing. "I am not some helpless maiden to be bartered for peace!"

He caught her face in his hands, not rough, but firm. "You're more than that. You're prophecy made flesh. You're the bond between sea and stone. If they kill you, the hope dies with you."

She softened, suddenly overwhelmed.

"Anacobal..."

He hesitated-then kissed her forehead, gently.

"I won't let them touch you. Even if it means war."

From the shadows beyond the cliffs, another watched.

Varessa.

She stood barefoot in the waves, hem wet, hair a halo of raven-dark mist. Her eyes were closed, arms outstretched. She had seen the vision.

She had seen the girl in moonlight armor.

She had seen the sea burn.

And she knew: if Merbel lived, the old powers would wake. And no throne-on land or under-would be safe.

Her voice, barely above a whisper, was caught by the waves and carried.

"The child must choose. Or the tide will choose for her."

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