I surface gasping, my lungs burning from the cold air. Rough wood against my cheek, moss under my hands. Up there somewhere, a lantern gleams and glows golden as my heartbeat, ragged. The distant howl of wolves rolls through arched rockwork—no longer the known forest, but a place forgot‑ten and secret.
I feel like my head's going to split, as the room swims, and I try to force my eyes open. Two strangers loom over me, wearing pieced leather and midnight cloaks. Their faces are three-quarters concealed by their cowl and a painted line of ash. One puts a strip of cloth over me presses it on my shoulder and mutters charms in a low growl.
"Easy, healer," he says, voice heavy with gravel. "You took quite the fall."
With trembling fingers I touch my shoulder. Somebody tied up the ragged hole where the arrow went in, and the rags are wet and cold. My hand hurts, too—inside, the shattered graven talisman burns with silver light, dulled but not yet fully out. I hoist myself up on one elbow.
"We have to get the fuck out of here," says the other stranger, and his dark eyes narrow. Hefting me right under one arm with such ease that makes me feel light as a feather. He glances at the first man. "You hear that? They're close."
I want to protest, but I suddenly feel words sticking in my throat. I glance to the huddled figure next to me- Draven. His wrists are bound with leather thongs, and he's lying against the cavern floor, half‑wolf form. He hunches his wide shoulders and takes quick, shallow breaths. There's blood coming through his shredded tunic where I've attempted to—more or less in vain—patch him up.
"Draven?" I croak, voice brittle. The cloaked man grunts in agreement and jerks my wrist, not unkindly. "He's alive," says the leader. "But barely."
I wrench my injured arm free. "Let me—please." My voice cracks. "He needs help."
The leader's cowl falls off, exposing a shock of white hair. A pale face with drawn runes under one eye. She is older than any healer I know — her energy wild and unpredictable. "You fixed him," she says, her voice flat. "Nearly killed us both." She glances at the faint light of the talisman. "But you've got power, Moonbearer. We can use that."
I swallow, chest tight. I never asked for this power. It is a curse that scorches us both. But if those rogues can also mend Draven… if Rowan can get us… I have no choice. "Then please," I whisper. "Help him."
She nods curtly. "Hold on." Her partner hauls Draven's tied up body to a ratty leather cot. He lies there, like a wounded wolf, eyes closed, breathing shallow. I go to my knees next to him and place my good hand on his chest. He stirs.
The other leader is crouched beside me. "We are in the Blackrock Cleft," she says. "A scoundrel's burg beyond the pale of Moonshade or Stormfang. We accept outcasts — anything to live." Her voice softens. "I am Sylvi—sanctuary's eyes. He's in safe hands now."
I run my fingers along the broken air above Draven's injury, feeling the scarred runes just below his skin. "Allies?" I venture. "Can Rowan find us here?"
Sylvi glances up, eyes sharp. "Rowan Vale?" She says, placing a little silver device in my hand. "Use that. That's a stolen Moonshade comm—set to your cousin's frequency. But the Council changed the channels after your… um, incident." She nods to the device. "He's hidden a backdoor. Speak softly."
My heart clenches. Oh Rowan, I'm still alive—but Draven… I gulp. "Thank you." I grasp the comm as if it's some kind of a lifeline. Sylvi steps away.
I hover over Draven, transmitting a whisper of healing through the instrument. He takes a sharp, sudden breath in, his chest gasping for air. Two steel gray eyes snap open, raining confusion and but relief.
"Maris?" He croaks, voice uneven. "Where…?"
I press a finger to my lips. "Shh. You're safe—for now." I rip a strip from my cloak and tie it over his wound, adding my smooth bandage to Sylvi's rough one, let icy lunar heat surge from my hand. The hum of magic returns, this time wrapping flesh soundly, although I sense the siphoning from my bones.
Draven extends his arm, checking muscle pressure. Then he sniffs the air. "Stormfangs?"
I shake my head. "Rogues. Blackrock Cleft." My hand takes to the comm one stole and I murmur, "Rowan?" The device crackles.
"Maris?" Rowan's voice comes, low and urgent. "Where are you? I've been searching every ridge, every cave. The Council well enough have thrown the Grove into chaos —"
"Rowan—" I bring the comm closer to my ear. "It's the rogue enclave. Sylvi saved us both. But Stormfang come here soon—and the Council thinks I took off with Stormfang power. They'll go to war if they hear about it."
"Civil war?" Rowan's gasp comes through static. "Maris, the Council, the Silverclaw soldiers ... they're mobilizing— if they get the idea you're aiding exiles, they'll invade Blackrock.
I grit my teeth. "Not an option. Rowan, listen: dispatch emissaries. Moonshade healers and rogue menders to care for Draven's bites." Then we have to convince the Council I'm still loyal. Can you do that?"
Rowan's voice softens. "I'll do what I can. But they don't trust me either—they believe I assisted you in breaking out."
I grip the comm tighter. "I know. Locate Tyen -- if he is still working for me -- and bring him back. His rank might buy time."
Silence crackles.
Finally, Rowan sighs. "I'll try. "But you have to hold the enclave against both packs until backup arrives."
The comm goes dead. I look, my pulse pounding. There is Sylvi's shadow across me again.
"She's done?" Sylvi asks. "Then we move. The caves leading into Blackrock Cleft are collapsing as we speak—as more time you spend in here, the more likely you will end up buried.
Draven rises, wolf fur raised in determination. "Where do we go?" His voice is raw.
"The interior tunnel — it is narrow, but our finest warriors will guard it," Sylvi says. "Follow me."
I haul Draven to his feet. My legs tremble, but I brace myself against his broad shoulder. My hand throbs — warm and light opening through my veins. The rogues fan out around us, torches cracking open the darkness like dancing shadows.
We slither down a rocky chute, the torchlight dancing on slickening walls. Skirling echoes of water dripping, distant shouts-- Are those pack scouts at last? Stormfang foragers? I gulp, my cloak being pulled by rough stones.
Abruptly the tunnel opens into a cavern littered with campfires and tents sewn of leather and furs. Nomad warriors are sharpening their blades and tending the fires. There are some nods of acknowledgment, and some are suspicious of Draven's wolf form. A hush falls as we enter.
Painted children peek out from behind crates; healers in soiled robes dart between crates. Smoke wafts through the air — burning herbs, steaming wounds.
"This way." Sylvi walks up with us to a platform of raised stone. Cradles of dessicated flesh, pouches of tubers, sheaves of moon‑light moss helically soothe its rim. She sets me down gently.
"Drink." A fresh-faced fellow healer pushes it into my hand. The liquid is bitter as fever‑few tea. I take tiny, sipping sips, feeling it burn into my chest, thin my blood around the wound.
Draven squats down next to me, looking out at the mass of people. "These scoundrels…" His voice is hushed. "They saved us."
I nod, a sting in my eyes, grateful, guilty. "They don't know what I am. Only that I need help." I squint my eyes, imagine the ember from the talisman pumping like a second heart through my body.
Ahar of distant howls echoes through the cave. I snap open my eyes. Outside the stony entrance, half the face of a blood moon slides into view — a copper-red sliver below the earth's shadow.
Pain lances through my palm. The talisman throbs, paced faster than my pulse. Heat explodes down my arm, my throat closing all over again—one last pulsing before…
I gasp, shooting Sylvi a look. "The moon—look!"
She looks to where I'm looking, nods grimly. "Blood moon rises early. Stormfangs will push, while the gettin's good."
Draven drops to one knee, his dark voice firm. "We fight by moonlight — or die trying.
I force it past the wave of fear and the suck of hope. My heart thuds in time with the glow of the talisman, an oath between us. We'll rise or sink beneath that blood moon.
Rogue warriors rally to our side as the shadows of the cavern echo with roars. Sylvi thrusts a beat-up horn into my hand.
"You sound it when you're ready," she says. "We'll follow."
Shaking, I bring the horn to my mouth. I lock my knees as the blood moon rises. Our war has just begun—and the rogue sanctuary will be the crucible that molds us into something greater than prophecy.
I blow, and the cave begins to ring with war cries. Moon‑white moss and guttering flames sway in the crimson radiance.