The torches were closer now. Too close.
Their light licked through the trees in trembling gold, a hundred shadows dancing with each sway of the flame. I could hear them—the crunch of boots in snow, the jangle of steel on leather, the sharp barks of orders. Dozens of voices.
Hunters.
The scent told me more than sight ever could. Sweat thickened by the cold, smoke from pitch-soaked rags, the faint tang of silver. My hackles rose. Silver meant they knew what they were hunting.
The beast inside me went quiet. Not fearful. Not panicked. It was waiting.
Run or fight?
It wasn't a question I answered with thought. My legs moved, eating the ground in long, silent strides. The forest blurred past, moonlight flashing between the pines. I kept low, weaving between roots and snow drifts, my breath steady even as the distance closed.
They were tracking the blood I'd spilled—maybe mine, maybe the bandits'. The snow was both a blessing and a curse. It carried their scent to me, but it carried mine to them just as easily.
A horn sounded behind me. Short and sharp. The answering calls came from the left, the right. My ears twitched at every note, mapping their positions without thinking.
They were fanning out. Cutting me off.
I veered east, deeper into the forest where the snow lay heavier, muffling my steps. My shoulder throbbed where the bandit's blade had cut, but the pain was fading—replaced by a slow, itching warmth. Healing.
The whispers stirred again.Don't run. Turn. Tear.
I ignored it. Not because I didn't want to—gods, I did — but because the scent of silver was getting stronger it was disorienting. I'd felt the burn of it before. I wouldn't give them the chance.
A glint ahead caught my eye—a patch of ice, wide and open where a stream had frozen over. Dangerous. Too exposed. But the hunters were closing in from the sides. A minute more and they would be upon me.
I sprinted for it, claws scraping the frozen surface as I crossed. The sound rang too loud in my ears. And then—
A whistle.
The ice shattered.
I dropped with the water, the cold slamming into me like a wall. The current dragged hard, spinning me under, my limbs striking against stone. Instinct took over me—claws bit into the frozen bank, hauling me up in a spray of water and snow.
The voices were close now. The smell of oil and pitch burned my nose.
I bolted uphill, the slope slick beneath me. My legs dug deep, driving me higher until the trees thinned and the moon bled silver over the ridge.
Then I froze.
At the crest of the hill stood a figure. Alone. No torch, no armor—just a cloak of wolf fur draped over broad shoulders, the hood shadowing their face. The wind caught the cloak and I caught the scent beneath it.
Not human.
It was like smelling myself in a mirror, but older. Wilder. Stronger.
They didn't move. Didn't draw a weapon. Just watched as I approached, the hunters' shouts echoing behind me.
When I was close enough to see their eyes, the world seemed to narrow to that single point of gold in the dark.
"You run well," the voice was low, almost amused. "But you reek of confusion. You don't know what you are."
I snarled before I could stop myself, a sound that made the gold in their eyes flare.
"Good," they said softly. "The weak don't last. Follow me if you want to live."
The shouts below grew louder, the glow of torches spilling over the ridge.
The stranger turned and melted into the shadows of the far slope without looking back.
The choice wasn't really a choice.
I followed.
I had to.