The stream churned over smooth, grey stones, its constant murmur a stark contrast to the suffocating silence between them. Connall worked with a grim, practiced efficiency, his hands scooping handfuls of cold, slick mud and dark, decaying leaves to smear over their tracks. The chill of the water seeped into his bones, a familiar discomfort. Beside him, Althea mirrored his movements, her face a pale, strained mask in the dappled light filtering through the dense canopy. They were a machine of two unwilling parts, bound not by trust, but by a shared, immediate terror.
His instincts were screaming, a high-pitched whine in the back of his mind. This was no longer a chase; it was a dissection. Every snapped twig, every misplaced stone felt like a deliberate signal in the oppressive quiet. He rose, the motion as fluid and silent as pouring water, and gave a sharp, downward gesture with his hand. *Stay here. Be silent. Cease to exist.*
Althea froze, her silver eyes wide with a question he had no time to answer. He didn't wait for an acknowledgment. He moved ahead, melting into the undergrowth, a grey shadow flowing between ancient, moss-covered oaks. He was a hunter, and for ten years, he had thought like one to survive. He moved not along their intended path, but parallel to it, a ghost in the green gloom, his senses cast out like a net. He wasn't looking for a clumsy track left by Volkov's common thugs. He was listening for the forest's wrong notes, searching for a sign of predators overplaying their hand.
He found one. But it was not a mistake.
It was a message. Pinned to the dark, rough bark of a sentinel pine, just far enough off the trail that only a trained eye would spot it, was a single raven feather. A crown of sharp, wicked thorns held it in place, piercing the feather's quill and sinking deep into the living wood. It wasn't dropped. It was placed. A declaration not just of presence, but of contempt. A hunter's mark that said more than any shout.
*We see you. We are everywhere. Your fear is a game to us, and we are growing bored.*
A cold dread, far deeper and more acidic than simple fear, settled in his gut. He crept closer, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the air around the sigil. The scent was faint, deliberately so, a mark of supreme discipline. It wasn't the hot, angry musk of a common tracker fueled by rage. This was cold. Patient. The scent of shifters who lived for the kill, not just the hunt, layered with the metallic tang of purpose-forged steel and clean oil. It was the scent of absolute, emotionless predators. His grim confidence shattered, replaced by the chilling certainty that they weren't just being followed. They were being herded.
He returned to the stream bank in a blur of controlled urgency, his face a granite mask that conveyed more alarm than any cry. Althea scrambled to her feet the moment she saw his expression, mud smearing her cheek. He didn't waste words. "They left a sign. A raven feather, pinned with thorns."
He watched her, his eyes narrowed, cataloging every flicker of her reaction. He expected fear, but this was something else. Her blood didn't just run cold; it seemed to freeze in her veins. The specific details snagged on something in her memory, a half-forgotten horror clawing its way to the surface.
"What kind of feather?" she whispered, her voice trembling, thin as a spider's thread. "Was it from the wing, or the tail?"
The question was bizarre, specific, and it put him on high alert. "Wing," he clipped out. "Left side. The thorns were woven through the quill, like a crown."
Her face went slack with a terror so profound it stole her breath. It was a look that went beyond the fear of being caught, beyond the fear of death. This was the fear of a name, of a legend whispered in the dark to frighten unruly pups into submission.
"The Dreadfangs," she breathed, the words barely audible, lost in the murmur of the stream.
The name meant nothing to him, a hollow sound, but the sheer, abject horror in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. "Who?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
"Guntram Volkov's personal guard," she explained, her voice gaining a frantic, desperate edge as she forced the words out. "His executioners. They aren't trackers. They're sent to eliminate high-value targets, to crush dissent before it can begin." She stared at him, her silver eyes wide with disbelief and dawning doom. "They are led by Skarde. Skarde One-Eye, a veteran scarred from a dozen campaigns. They don't chase fugitives, Connall. They level strongholds. They end bloodlines."
With the shared spike of terror, the phantom bond between them flared, a hot spike of agony in Connall's chest. The implication crashed over him. *End bloodlines.* These were the monsters Volkov would have unleashed on Silvermoon Keep. The kind of soulless killers who reveled in the slaughter of women and children, who saw it not as a tragedy, but as a job done thoroughly.
They abandoned any pretense of caution, shoving their meager supplies into their packs. The forest, once a potential sanctuary, now felt like the closing walls of a tomb. Every shadow seemed to lengthen and writhe. Every rustle of leaves sounded like the whisper of a blade being drawn from its sheath. They moved fast, crashing through the undergrowth with a desperation that bordered on panic, all thoughts of stealth burned away by raw fear.
As they scrambled up a steep, muddy embankment, clawing at roots for purchase, Connall's patience snapped. He grabbed Althea's arm, his grip iron-hard, and spun her around to face him, his face inches from hers. "The Dreadfangs?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Volkov's elite killers for a framed thief? It makes no sense." The question that had been gnawing at him, the piece that never fit, erupted. "What aren't you telling me? Why would he send a force like that for you?"
"Nothing!" she cried, her fear and confusion genuine as she tried to pull away. He held fast. "I don't know why they're here! I was accused of conspiring with loyalists, that's all, I swear! It's not a crime that warrants an execution squad!"
As they stood locked in their desperate argument, a cold wind swept down from the high peaks, a sudden, chilling downdraft that cut through the forest's humid air. It carried a scent. It was the lead hunter, closer than Connall could have possibly imagined. The scent was sharp, dominant—a chilling mix of old leather, cold iron, and the musk of a wolf utterly, terrifyingly confident in its power.
It hit Connall like a physical blow, a ghost from a decade-old nightmare. He froze, his grip on Althea slackening, his eyes widening with a terrible, dawning recognition that defied all logic. The world narrowed to that single, impossible scent.
"What is it?" Althea asked, her own fear forgotten in the face of his sudden, stark, soul-deep terror.
His mind flashed back, an unwilling journey into the heart of his pain. Smoke, thick and choking. The screams. The smell of burning timber and spilled blood. And woven through it all, that same arrogant, dominant musk. The scent of the Alpha who had stood over his father's body.
Connall's voice was a choked whisper, filled with a chilling certainty that turned the world to ice. "That scent... I know that scent. He was there." He finally looked at her, his eyes no longer the eyes of a hardened rogue, but of a horrified child, hollowed out by a ghost. "He was there the night my family died."