The knife felt heavier than it should.
Logan turned it over in his hands as he walked, the blade catching stray bits of moonlight between dark clouds. The runes etched along the steel pulsed faintly, like embers buried under ash. He didn't know what they meant. Didn't know if he wanted to.
The figure was gone. No trace of them. Just the echo of their last words rattling in his skull.
"Stay alive."
Great advice, Logan thought grimly. Except no one told him how.
The howl came again. Closer. It threaded through the bones of the old mill, vibrating the rusted beams overhead. Logan's skin prickled. The air felt electric. Alive.
He moved fast, boots crunching over broken glass, weaving through shadows. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something deeper. A pull. Like gravity shifting inside his chest.
He didn't stop until he reached the fence.
A shape blurred past the far side of the lot. Big. Fast. Logan's eyes tracked it instinctively, every nerve locked onto the motion. His vision sharpened. The night peeled open around him, every edge clearer, every sound sharper.
The thing wasn't alone.
Two more figures emerged from the dark, circling where the first had disappeared. Their silhouettes were massive—hulking shoulders, elongated limbs. Wolves. But wrong. Too large. Too human.
Logan's grip tightened on the knife.
A growl rumbled from his throat, low and involuntary. The sound startled him. It felt natural. Felt like it belonged. He didn't like that.
One of the creatures turned its head, nostrils flaring. It sniffed the air. Its silver eyes locked onto him.
Shit.
Logan bolted.
He scaled the fence in three strides, landing hard on the other side. His body moved faster than he remembered being able to. His muscles didn't ache. His breath didn't burn. Whatever the thing in the Hollow had done to him, it hadn't just changed his eyes.
It had rebuilt him.
Behind him, claws scraped metal. The fence groaned as one of the beasts climbed after him, snarling low in its throat.
Logan ran.
The old mill road stretched ahead, cracked asphalt shining wet under the moon. He sprinted toward the tree line, boots slapping puddles, lungs drawing deep, powerful breaths. The city lights flickered in the distance, unreachable.
Another howl tore the night in half.
He glanced back.
They were gaining.
Something primal unfurled inside him—a hunger, a heat rising from his spine, flooding his limbs. His vision tunneled. His teeth ached.
Run.
No, not his thought.
Run.
The voice was deeper. Ancient.
Logan pushed harder.
The woods swallowed him. Branches whipped past. Roots threatened his footing. He moved like a shadow, fast and silent, the knife's weight steady in his grip. The creatures crashed after him, heavier, louder.
Then he saw it.
A clearing ahead. Moonlight spilling like silver fire over grass and stone. In the center stood a figure—a woman, tall and cloaked, holding something aloft that glinted in the light.
Logan broke into the clearing.
"DOWN!" the woman shouted.
Instinct overrode thought.
He dropped just as a flash of fire exploded from her hands. A flare of light streaked overhead, slamming into the lead wolf-thing with a crack of heat and sound. The creature howled in agony, its body igniting in strange, unnatural flame. It writhed and collapsed, smoking.
The others skidded to a halt at the tree line, snarling, wary.
"Stay behind me," the woman ordered.
Logan scrambled to his feet, knife still raised. "Who the hell—"
"No time!" she snapped. "They won't cross the line. Not tonight."
He looked closer.
A circle was burned into the clearing—blackened earth, runes scrawled in ash and salt. The wolves paced just beyond it, growling, but not crossing. Their silver eyes glinted in the dark, full of hunger and hate.
"They're Bloodhowl," the woman said, voice tight. "You don't want to know what they'd do if they caught you."
Logan wiped rain from his face. "And you are?"
She pulled her hood back.
A pale face. Sharp features. A long scar trailing from temple to jaw. Her eyes were amber, glowing faintly under the moon.
"Name's Lila," she said. "Wyrdekin."
Logan stared. "That supposed to mean something to me?"
"It will."
One of the wolves threw its head back and howled—a long, mournful sound that sent chills down Logan's spine. The others joined in, their voices blending into something wild, ancient, terrible.
"They're calling reinforcements," Lila said grimly. "We need to move."
Logan stepped closer to her. "Move where?"
She gave him a tired, sardonic smile. "You're not ready for that answer, wolf-boy."
"I'm not a—"
Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist.
Her touch was cold. Firm. She pulled his arm forward, turning it so the knife blade caught the moonlight.
She studied it. The runes. The steel.
Then her gaze lifted, sharp and wary.
"Where'd you get this?" she asked.
"A friend," Logan said. "At the mill."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "No friend gave you this."
She let go, stepping back.
"That blade's not Wyrdekin. And sure as hell not Bloodhowl."
Logan frowned. "Then what is it?"
She didn't answer.
She just looked at him.
And for a long moment, Logan saw something strange in her eyes.
Not fear.
Not pity.
Reverence.
"You're something older," she said softly.
The wolves at the edge of the clearing howled again.
Lila's expression hardened.
"Time to run, Wren."
She raised her hand. Light flared between her fingers—cold, white fire, humming with power.
"Follow me if you want to live."
She sprinted into the woods.
Logan hesitated only a second.
Then he followed.
Behind them, the wolves howled one last time.
And the hunt began