Chapter Twelve: The Hollow Path
The wind howled low through the dead forest, threading between the skeletal trees like a mournful whisper. Cain trudged forward, blood caking his side, the gash on his ribs still weeping beneath the torn fabric of his shirt. The scent of iron and pine filled his lungs with every breath. Behind him, the trail of crushed underbrush and broken branches marked his escape—a path lit by violence.
He didn't look back.
The sanctuary was gone now. Burned. Ashes scattered in the wind. Graves had done more than destroy his home. He had taken the last remnants of Cain's pack—his family. What remained of them were the echoing screams, the scent of scorched fur, and a promise carved into Cain's soul.
They will all pay.
He stopped beneath a crooked birch tree, its white bark streaked with blood from some unseen prey—or maybe one of Graves' victims. The forest had gone quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that suggested eyes in the dark. He crouched and sniffed the air. No wind. No birds. No other werewolves.
Only the woods. Watching. Waiting.
Cain knew he wasn't alone.
A rustle came from behind a thorn-covered thicket. He didn't move. His claws slowly unsheathed, muscles tight beneath his skin, the wolf coiled just under the surface, ready to rip.
A figure stepped out into the half-light.
"Easy," came the voice. It was deep, edged with weariness. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have buried a silver blade in your back by now."
Cain didn't stand down. "Who are you?"
The figure raised both hands slowly, showing no weapons—at least none visible. He was older, his face rough like tree bark, with a greying beard and yellow, faintly glowing eyes. His coat was stitched from scavenged leathers, patched with fur from beasts Cain couldn't name.
"The name's Rowan," the man said. "And if you're Cain, the wolf everyone's hunting, we need to talk."
Cain narrowed his eyes. "You with Dante?"
Rowan spat into the dirt. "That bastard? Hell no. If Dante had his way, we'd all be collared mutts barking at his command." He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. "I know what Graves did. I know about the sanctuary."
Cain's fists clenched, claws digging into his palms. "Then you know I'm going to rip his heart out."
Rowan nodded solemnly. "Good. That's why I'm here."
Cain blinked. The man didn't smell like a liar. He smelled like wolf, smoke, and something older.
"You used to run with the Hollow Pack," Cain said, voice low.
"Used to," Rowan replied. "Till Dante drove a silver spike through my Beta's skull and claimed the Hollow as his own. Now I run alone. Like you."
Cain slowly relaxed. Not entirely—but enough to stand up straight. He wiped the blood from his lip. "You're wasting time. If you know something, say it."
Rowan gave a nod and gestured for Cain to follow. "You'll want to hear this somewhere more... private. The woods here don't keep secrets long."
Cain hesitated but fell into step behind him. As they walked deeper into the Hollow Path, the trees grew stranger—twisted like they'd been burned from the inside, blackened roots crawling out of the ground like claws.
"Dante's making a move," Rowan said after a while. "Bigger than anything he's done before. Graves isn't just working for the bounty. He's working for him."
Cain growled. "He's always had a master."
"They want something under the old cathedral," Rowan continued. "Buried in stone and blood. Dante believes it's the source of the curse itself."
Cain stopped walking. "The curse?"
Rowan turned to face him. "The blood-moon origin. The first bite. The first wolf. Legend says it sleeps beneath stone, waiting. If Dante gets to it first, he won't just rule the packs—he'll be a god."
Cain's chest rose and fell, his heart hammering. "Then we kill him before he gets there."
Rowan gave a grim smile. "You'll need more than just rage for that. You'll need allies."
"I don't have any left."
"You will," Rowan said. "Some still remember who you were before they turned you. Before they feared you. The sanctuary wasn't the end. It was the spark."
Cain looked toward the horizon. The clouds shifted, revealing a sliver of the blood moon beginning to rise again.
"We make our stand then," Cain said quietly. "At the cathedral."
Rowan nodded. "But not alone."
Cain glanced over his shoulder, sensing something moving in the trees again. This time, it wasn't hostile. It was watching—curious. Listening.
Rowan followed his gaze. "Word's already spreading, Cain. That you survived. That the wolf with fire in his eyes is hunting again."
A long silence stretched between them.
Cain spoke without turning back. "Then let them come."