The rain picked up as the sun died, turning the world into a blur of charcoal and slate.
Cian sat in the loft of the miller's barn, legs dangling over the edge. From here, he could see the northern perimeter of the village. He could see the line of the forest, a wall of absolute blackness against the dark grey sky.
He had stolen a skin of wine from his father's cellar. It was sour, vinegar-sharp stuff that made his eyes water, but he drank it because he thought it made him look hard. He imagined he was a ranger on the frontier, watching for Orcish raiding parties, not a bored teenager hiding from his chores.
Below him, the village slept. The only light came from the lantern swinging at the gatehouse where Garret sat.
Cian took another swig of the sour wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Boring," he whispered to the dark.
He looked at the section of the fence directly below the barn. There was a gap there, behind the overgrown briars. Two stakes had rotted out last winter, and no one had bothered to replace them because the briars were thick enough to stop a wolf.
But not a boy.
Cian had cleared a tunnel through the thorns weeks ago, a secret way out so he could sneak into the woods to practice throwing knives at trees without his mother screaming about lost cutlery.
He felt the itch in his legs. The wine made him feel warm, invincible.
I bet I could get to the Old Stone and back before Garret even finishes his patrol, he thought.
The Old Stone was a boundary marker a mile into the woods. The local boys dared each other to touch it at night. Doing it alone? That was a legend in the making.
Cian slid down the ladder, his boots hitting the hay with a soft thud. He crept to the back wall, pushing aside a loose plank to access the briar tunnel. He crawled through, the thorns snagging his wool tunic, scratching at his hands.
He emerged into the cold air of the forest.
The silence here was different. In the village, silence was just the absence of noise. In the forest, silence felt like a breath being held. The rain was muffled by the canopy, turning into a steady, rhythmic dripping.
Cian stood up, adjusting the axe in his belt. He felt a thrill of transgression. He was out. He was free.
He began to walk, stepping carefully over wet roots. He tried to move like a hunter, rolling his feet, but he was clumsy. Twigs snapped like gunshots in the quiet.
He walked for ten minutes, his heart beating a fast, excited rhythm. He slashed at a fern with his axe, decapitating the plant. "Take that," he whispered, grinning.
Then, he stopped.
A smell hit him.
It wasn't the smell of pine or wet earth. It was sweet. Sickly sweet. Like meat left out in the sun, masked by musk.
Cian wrinkled his nose. A dead deer, maybe?
He took another step and froze.
To his left, deep in the brush, a branch cracked. Not a small twig—a thick branch, snapping under significant weight.
"Hello?" Cian called out. The word left his mouth before he could stop it, instantly regretting it. Only idiots called out in the dark.
Silence answered him.
But the silence had changed. The rhythm of the dripping rain seemed to have paused.
Cian's grip on the axe handle tightened until his knuckles were white. The wine in his stomach turned to acid. "Garret? Is that you?"
A low sound vibrated through the air. It was too deep to be a wolf. It sounded like stones grinding together in a deep cavern. A growl.
Cian took a step back. His boot slipped on a wet root, and he flailed, barely keeping his balance.
From the darkness, two eyes opened.
They were yellow, milky, and set too far apart. They were low to the ground.
Then, two more eyes opened above them. And two more.
Cian's breath hitched in his throat. It wasn't one creature. It was three. They were stepping out of the shadows, and the moonlight filtering through the leaves caught the slick sheen of wet fur and grey, leathery skin.
They were Wargs.
Not the wolves of the stories, noble and fierce. these were mangy, hulking things with hunched shoulders and jaws that hung open, dripping saliva. They were gaunt, their ribs showing through patchy fur, but they were big—big as ponies.
The leader, the one with the milky eyes, sniffed the air. It looked at Cian. It didn't look angry. It looked hungry.
Cian raised the axe. His arm was shaking so badly the heavy iron head wobbled. "Get back!" he shrieked. His voice cracked, high and pathetic.
The Warg didn't flinch. It took a step forward, its paws making no sound on the mulch.
Cian realized then that he wasn't a ranger. He wasn't a warrior. He was meat.
He turned and ran.
He didn't check his footing. He didn't pace himself. He bolted, screaming, tearing through the underbrush.
Behind him, a wet, guttural bark erupted, followed by the sound of heavy bodies crashing through the ferns.
They were fast. So much faster than him.
Cian's lungs burned. The trees were a blur. The fence, he thought. I have to get to the fence.
He could hear them behind him. The huffing breath. The snap of jaws.
He burst into the clearing near the village. The briar patch was ahead. The hole he had made. The secret tunnel.
He dove for it, scrambling on his hands and knees, thorns tearing at his face. He didn't care. He kicked his legs, pushing himself through.
He popped out into the miller's yard, gasping, sobbing. "Garret! GARRET!"
He scrambled to his feet, turning to block the hole, to find something to shove in the way.
But he was too slow.
The briars exploded inward.
The lead Warg smashed through the gap Cian had so carefully cleared, its bulk snapping the weakened vines like thread. It landed in the mud of the yard, shaking the thorns from its coat.
It looked at the sleeping village. It smelled the livestock. It smelled the people.
It threw its head back and howled—a ragged, terrifying sound that shattered the peace of the night.
Lights began to flicker on in the windows of the houses. Dogs started barking.
Cian stood paralyzed, the axe hanging uselessly at his side. He stared at the monster he had led right into the heart of his home.
The Warg looked at him, then turned its head toward the nearest house. The miller's house. Where the miller's three daughters slept.
"No," Cian whispered.
The Warg launched itself at the door.