Chapter 5 A Hunt in the Rain

The weight of command settled on my shoulders long before we left the stronghold.

Not with ceremony. Not with declarations or fanfare.

Lucien had simply placed a folded scrap of parchment on the table in front of me and said, "You lead them."

Twelve names.

Twelve wolves.

Twelve souls whose survival now balanced on my choices.

My fingertips traced the ink-stained list that night, alone in my quarters. A room that still didn't feel like mine. It smelled of mountain stone, cold furs, and old iron. There were no windows, only a lantern whose flame guttered with every shift of wind through the cavernous hallways.

I could still hear the echo of the Trial. Still feel the bruises under my skin.

And now they wanted me to lead.

I wanted to laugh. Or scream.

I had killed to survive. But command? That was something else. Something slower. Quieter. More dangerous.

It was the burden of knowing that a misjudged choice, a wrong word, a delay of seconds could mean someone else's throat torn open. Their last breath spent cursing your name.

I had no training in strategy. No great knowledge of war.

But I did know fear.

And I knew what it looked like when it turned inward.

We departed just after first light, but the sky had already turned gray with the promise of a storm. The air was thick with moisture and tension. Our party assembled in the inner courtyard, cloaks fastened, weapons checked, expressions grim.

Syla arrived last, adjusting the straps of her double scabbard. She gave me a long, unreadable look before nodding once. Not a greeting. Not a gesture of respect.

A test.

The others watched her carefully.

Jerek and Talven, the youngest among them, shifted nervously near the edge of the formation. Jerek's hair was damp with sweat despite the cold. Talven chewed the inside of his cheek like a man trying not to speak his doubts aloud.

I walked down the line, meeting their eyes one by one. I didn't offer encouragement. I didn't lie. I let them see that I, too, felt the weight of it all.

Then I mounted my horse and gave the order to move.

The forest near Black Hollow was older than the fortress itself.

It stretched for miles in every direction, untouched by human hands for centuries. The trees here grew too tall, too tightly packed. Their trunks twisted toward the sky like claws, their roots tangled like the fingers of buried giants. Even the wolves feared this place in silence.

Legends said the woods remembered. That they whispered to those who listened. That they could drive a person mad.

As the path narrowed and the wind howled through the pine needles, I began to wonder if the legends were true.

"Smell that?" Syla murmured, riding beside me. "The trees are holding their breath."

I sniffed.

Nothing at first. Then beneath the damp moss and decaying leaves, something burned.

Not fire. Something older. Alchemical.

"Blood magic," I whispered.

Syla nodded grimly.

Behind us, the rest of the party fell quiet.

By the time we reached the edge of the basin, the sky had darkened into a bruised violet. The rain hadn't yet fallen, but the clouds churned like a beast restless in its sleep.

That's when we found the first body.

Stripped of armor. Face up. Mouth agape. The expression frozen in a silent scream.

Talven dismounted too quickly and slipped in the mud. Jerek reached to help him, but Syla hissed, "Hold your positions."

I approached slowly.

The corpse's skin was pale, unnaturally so. Not from blood loss alone, but from something more invasive. His veins were still visible beneath the skin, dark and jagged like ink. His fingers were twisted. His lips stained black.

A vampire's work?

No. Too crude. Too ritualistic.

I pulled back the collar of his tunic.

Carved into his chest lines etched with surgical precision, was a spiral intersected by claw marks.

Syla knelt beside me. "Moonless."

My mouth went dry. I remembered stories whispered in firelight when I was a girl. Of wolves and vampires who betrayed their kin to create offspring immune to both laws. Banished by their creators. Feared by all.

"Half-bloods," I murmured.

"No," Syla said. "Less than that. No gods. No allegiance. No soul."

Another wolf; Cael called from the far edge of the clearing.

"We've got more."

We followed him.

Five more bodies. Hollow Fang scouts.

Arranged in a circle, hands folded, eyes left open to the sky.

Every one of them bore a rune. Some burned into the skin. Others carved bone-deep.

One had his tongue cut out and replaced with black string.

Talven cursed under his breath.

Jerek turned away and vomited.

I knelt and pressed my hand to the chest of the one closest to me. Still warm.

Syla spoke softly beside me. "They did this recently. Hours, not days."

"They're watching," I said.

She looked toward the trees. "And they want us to see."

The fire hit our senses before we saw it.

Sharp, oily, unnatural. The kind of flame that clung to the air long after its source had been doused.

We moved as one through the narrowing forest. I stayed at the front, my hand resting lightly on the hilt of my dagger. My white wolf form paced just beneath the surface of my skin, urging to be freed. But I held it back.

We broke through the trees into a wide clearing lit by torchlight and ringed by stones blackened with old blood.

Syla swore beneath her breath.

Moonless.

Twelve of them, some crouched, some standing, their eyes reflecting fire like polished obsidian. Their bodies bore scars arranged in ceremonial patterns, and more than half had filed their teeth into fangs.

In the center of the circle hung a boy, barely eighteen, by the look of him. A Hollow Fang scout, half-conscious, arms outstretched between two pikes jammed into the mud. Blood dripped from his feet, pooled at the base of the stones, and fed the circle's grooves.

I recognized the pattern.

A summoning. But not of gods.

Of memory.

The tall one stepped forward.

He was different. Clean. Pale robes embroidered with spirals. His hair was white, falling in thin ropes to his shoulders, and his eyes were pitch-black, lidless, unblinking.

"Bride of Fire," he whispered. "Bride of Teeth."

The others murmured in chorus.

"Daughter of the Moon's Wrath..."

Behind me, my wolves froze. Syla inhaled slowly, her fingers tightening on her hilts.

The cult leader dropped to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the dirt. "We have waited."

I took one step forward, blade drawn. "You'll wait longer. Let him go."

He rose, slow as a tide.

"We spilled blood in your name. The wind carried your scent. We saw you in the ash."

He spread his arms.

"You are the sign."

The Moonless surged forward, not to attack, but to kneel, to prostrate themselves around me, heads lowered.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

"Kill them all," I ordered.

The fire flared.

And they leapt.

Gone were the worshippers. The cult fell apart into snarling, twisted monstrosities, fangs lengthened, limbs bent backward, eyes glowing like coals. Half-shifts, misshapen and hideous, muscle and shadow and speed.

We met them mid-charge.

Syla drew both blades and carved through one throat cleanly. I shifted mid-run, my claws lengthening, fangs baring, eyes turning silver. I slammed into the nearest Moonless, sending him into the stones.

Talven was knocked off his feet before he could shift.

He screamed.

I spun and saw two of them dragging him into the trees.

"Jerek!" I shouted.

Jerek hesitated, then ran after him.

Two of the older wolves; Brenn and Cael fought back to back against four, blades flashing. One fell. The other clamped his teeth on Cael's shoulder and tore.

Blood sprayed.

Syla reached him first, driving both blades into the Moonless's spine with a grunt. He went limp instantly.

I turned to the cult leader.

He stood motionless in the center, arms spread wide, watching me.

"You kill your children," he said, voice distant.

"You murdered mine first," I hissed.

He smiled.

"You are becoming."

I lunged.

My claws met his chest and stopped.

Not on flesh. On bone. Thick, armor-like, jagged across his torso.

He slammed his head into mine. I staggered.

The world tilted.

Then my anger exploded.

My body shifted again, not fully wolf, but something ancient.

White fur. Burning claws. The runes along my arms flared to life, casting silver flame across the clearing. The Moonless closest to me screamed and caught fire.

Moonfire.

Even the rain didn't extinguish it.

The cult leader shielded his eyes.

"You shine," he whispered, awe and terror clashing in his voice.

I struck again, this time with flame.

He screamed as the fire touched his skin. Not just burning, unmaking.

His body began to dissolve, pieces flaking off like ash.

"No!" he wailed. "You are meant to lead us!"

"I'm no one's god," I growled.

I struck again and he was gone.

Silence fell.

The last of the Moonless shrieked and fled into the woods. A few were cut down. Most disappeared between the trees, smoke trailing behind them like spilled memory.

The scout was still breathing. Brenn untied him.

Syla helped me up, her arms steady beneath mine. My body trembled. Not with pain, but with exhaustion. I had burned too much of myself. The Moonfire always demanded a price.

The scout looked up at me, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

"You're not the Bride," he said. "You're... something older."

I turned away.

I didn't want to hear what he saw.

We limped back to Hollow Fang just after dawn.

Only seven returned.

Of the twelve I'd led into the forest, five had fallen. One still missing. One, Talven never even screamed a second time. Only the echo of his first cry remained, bouncing endlessly in my memory.

The others rode in silence. Some with wounds still weeping. Others, Jerek especially with blank eyes and silent mouths.

I rode at the front, rain slicking my hair to my shoulders, blood dried against my tunic. My blade sat sheathed at my side, pulsing faintly with leftover magic. Moonfire. Residue of the creature I'd become in the clearing.

I still felt the heat in my bones.

The shame in my gut.

The power in my veins.

The gates of the stronghold opened without ceremony. Lucien waited beneath the arch, arms crossed. His expression unreadable.

His eyes scanned our numbers. He counted in silence.

Only when he reached seven did his gaze lock on mine.

I dismounted without breaking eye contact.

"Five dead," he said. Not a question.

"One missing," I answered.

"Talven?"

"Taken. I heard him scream. Jerek saw nothing."

Lucien stepped closer. His voice was low. "And you burned through your second shift."

"Yes."

His jaw tightened. "You were told to conserve it."

"They would've killed the others."

A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped further.

"And did you enjoy it?"

I flinched.

Because the truth was: I had.

For one burning, terrible moment, I'd felt like I belonged in that fire. Like I was more than a wolf. More than a woman.

Like I was a god.

"No," I lied.

Lucien studied me. Then, softer than before, he said, "Come with me."

He led me to the training grounds.

It was empty now muddy from rain, scarred from old battles. He walked to the center and stood there, arms at his sides, letting the storm wash over him.

I followed slowly.

"This place has seen kings and corpses," he said. "Most days, I wonder which I'll be."

"I'm not sure there's a difference anymore."

He turned.

And for the first time, his face cracked.

He looked tired. Not just physically but spiritually. The heir of Hollow Fang. The chosen son. The last thread tying this pack to the legacy that had begun to unravel long before either of us was born.

"You fought more than the Moonless tonight," he said.

"Yes."

"You carried the weight of lives."

I nodded.

"You lost some."

I nodded again.

Lucien stepped closer.

"Then welcome to leadership."

I opened my mouth to speak but no words came.

He reached forward and touched my shoulder. "You're still standing, Elara. That's more than most."

"I don't feel like I won."

"You didn't. No one does."

His fingers lingered.

"You saved seven."

And I broke.

I didn't cry. Not really. But something inside me split. Not pain. Not regret. Just... weight.

He didn't move.

He let me carry it in silence.

That night, they gathered in the war hall.

Not to feast. Not to drink.

To listen.

I stood at the end of the hearth, where Lirael once ruled, where Lucien's father once carved laws into stone.

Now I stood there. Dripping blood. Bearing marks of something they didn't understand.

A monster.

A leader.

A question.

I spoke softly. But they heard every word.

"We went into the woods with twelve. We came back with seven. And I gave the order that led us there."

Silence.

"Talven was taken. Cael died with a blade in his hand. Varn screamed and still fought until his lungs burst. I will not let them be forgotten."

The fire snapped.

"We're at war. Not a clean war. Not one of banners and horns. But the old war. The one beneath the skin. The one no one writes songs about. The one we fight in dirt and fire and dreams."

I looked around at them all.

"I can't promise we'll live. But I can promise this: If we fall, it will not be in retreat. It will be in command. With teeth bared. With fire in our eyes. With our names etched into the bones of the world."

Silence. Thick. Tense.

Then Syla stepped forward.

She unsheathed one of her twin swords and drove it into the stone beside me.

"To the Flame," she said.

Others followed.

One by one.

"To the Flame."

"To the Bride."

"To the White Wolf."

And for the first time, I believed them.

Later, I stood at the edge of the battlements, alone, watching the last of the storm roll away. The rain had slowed to a whisper. A hush before dawn.

Lucien joined me, cloak over his shoulders.

He didn't speak. Just stood beside me. Breathing.

After a while, he said, "They fear you."

"I know."

"They follow you anyway."

I swallowed. "You don't."

He looked at me.

And then, slowly, reached for my hand.

"I don't follow," he said.

His voice was low, but unwavering. "I stand with."

We didn't kiss.

Not yet.

But when our fingers laced together in that rain-soaked silence, I felt the future turn on its axis.

Not toward peace.

But toward war.

And I knew I wouldn't face it alone.