Chapter 4 Marked by Fear

Elara's POV

The morning air pressed heavy against my skin, a damp chill that carried the weight of secrets. Dawn broke over Bloodmoon Hollow in muted streaks of gray, smudging the horizon like ash dragged across parchment. I lingered outside my cottage, basket of herbs in hand, though my gaze refused to settle on the task before me. My thoughts circled back to the trees, to the whispers that had followed me from the woods the night before.

Something had watched me.

My father's voice echoed from within the cottage, humming an old hymn as if the fragile melody might hold the world together. He had always been like that-steady, unwavering, a man who believed faith could shield against claws and shadows. But faith had no teeth. Faith could not carve marks into the trees outside my home.

I drew closer to the edge of the woods, basket slipping from my arm. My breath froze in my throat.

Claw marks raked across the bark of the nearest oak, deep grooves carved in a pattern that spoke less of wild hunger and more of a warning. Fresh. Splinters curled outward, raw and sharp, as though whatever beast had left them wished to make sure I found them.

My fingers trembled as I traced the lines. Four gashes. Perfectly parallel. A wolf's claws, perhaps, but no wolf I had ever heard of could reach this height on the trunk.

I staggered back, pulse thundering. The stories whispered by the villagers returned unbidden-of beasts too large to be real, of glowing eyes in the darkness, of the Alpha who bore a curse that turned his soul savage.

My thoughts caught on his face. The stranger from the woods. Kalen. The way his shadow had stretched long against the trees, the way his presence unsettled the air itself.

Could it be him?

"Child?"

My father's voice snapped me back. I whirled, clutching the basket as if it were a shield. He stood at the doorway, worry carved into his brow. His hands, once steady from years of guiding scripture, shook faintly against the wood of the doorframe.

"You wandered too close," he said softly. His gaze flicked to the claw marks, and his lips pressed thin. For a heartbeat he seemed as though he might speak further, confess something that weighed heavily upon him. But then he shook his head, the priest once more, locked in silence.

I swallowed. "Someone was here."

"Not someone," he whispered. His eyes held mine with an urgency that pulled the breath from my lungs. "Something."

The word scraped like stone against my bones.

By midday, whispers rippled through the market square. Fear moved faster than coins in Bloodmoon Hollow. Women tugged their children closer, men sharpened their knives with nervous hands, and elders muttered prayers beneath their breath.

The claw marks had been found not only by my home but scattered along the outskirts of the village. A path. A message.

I walked through the crowd in silence, feeling eyes follow me as if the marks had been carved into my own skin. The weight of suspicion pressed heavily.

"She carries the blood," I heard one woman hiss behind me. "The beast circles because of her."

My steps faltered. I turned sharply, but the woman lowered her gaze, clutching her shawl tighter as if my glance alone might summon ruin.

Blood.

The word haunted me. I knew little of my mother, only fragments my father allowed. She had been of the priestess line, that much was certain, but what that meant beyond whispered superstition had always been kept from me.

Now the villagers spoke as though her blood, and mine, was a beacon to darkness.

Night fell restless. I lit every candle in the cottage, though their glow felt feeble against the pressing dark beyond the windows. My father retired early, weary prayers tumbling from his lips as he vanished into his chambers.

I tried to read, to sew, to do anything that tethered me to ordinary life. But the scrape of claws lingered in my mind, louder than turning pages, sharper than the prick of needles.

A sound jolted me.

Low. Drawn. Almost like a growl carried on the wind.

The candles flickered.

My heart thundered. I moved to the window, pressing my palm to the cool glass.

And I saw them.

Eyes.

Golden, burning like embers in the darkness of the woods. Too high above the ground to be any ordinary wolf. They locked onto me, unblinking, heavy with intent.

I stumbled back, breath torn from my chest. My shoulder struck the table, toppling the basket of herbs. Rosemary and thyme scattered across the floor like broken charms.

The growl deepened. A shadow shifted just beyond the tree line, vast and monstrous, though it refused to step into the open. As though it wanted me to know it was there, but not see the whole of it.

I should have screamed. I should have woken my father, called the villagers, prayed until my voice cracked. Instead I froze, caught between terror and a strange, inexplicable pull.

For a moment, I swore the eyes softened, as if recognition sparked within them.

"Elara."

My name. Low, broken, almost human.

I gasped, hand flying to my mouth. No beast should know my name.

The eyes blinked once. And then they vanished, swallowed by the dark.

Sleep never came.

By morning, my body felt wrung out, but my mind raced with a single thought that refused to let go. That voice.

I could not be certain, but something in me knew. It belonged to him. Kalen. The Alpha.

Why was he circling my home? Why mark the trees like warnings, yet spare me?

I did not want the answers, but I knew they would find me regardless. Bloodmoon Hollow had always been a place of quiet dread, but now the dread had a face, a voice, and burning eyes that haunted my every breath.

That night, the claw marks grew closer. They etched themselves into the very fence of my cottage, carved deep into the wood of the gate I had walked through since childhood.

There was no mistaking the message this time.

I was marked.

Marked by fear.

And whatever beast haunted the Hollow had no intention of letting me go.

As Elara stood frozen before the marked gate, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind her. A shadow moved, closer than the trees, closer than the dark. She turned slowly-only to see a figure step from the night, tall and fierce, with golden eyes that gleamed like fire.

"Kalen," she whispered, voice trembling.

He had come