The scent of pine and blood was still a ghost on Elara's skin, even after the scalding shower. She'd scrubbed until her flesh was pink, trying to wash away the memory of the man's face superimposed on the beast. It never really worked. The images always stayed, a grim gallery in her mind.
Now, swaddled in the soft, worn fabric of a grey knit sweater and comfortable denim, she almost felt normal. The weight of her leathers and the familiar pressure of her bow were gone, replaced by the mundane warmth of thick socks on the polished wood floor of her mother's longhouse.
This was the heart of the Frostfang Pack. Not a fortress of stone, but a sprawling, rustic building of timber and river rock, built around a central great hall where a massive fire pit crackled and spat, chasing the perpetual chill from the mountain air. The air here smelled of roasting venison, baking bread, and the rich, earthy scent of the people she called her own.
Her mother, Anya, was stirring a vast iron pot of stew over the hearth, her own fiery red hair, now streaked with silver, tied back in a practical braid. She threw a glance at Elara, her eyes—the same sharp green—holding a world of worry she would never speak aloud. "You're eating tonight," she stated, not asked. It was an old ritual.
"I'm eating," Elara confirmed, offering a small, tired smile.
Across the room, her friends Bren and Kael were engaged in a loud, good-natured argument over a game of dice at a heavy oak table. Bren, built like a bear, laughed uproariously at a poor roll, while Kael, lean and quick, grinned and scooped up his winnings.
"Don't listen to them, Elara," called Lyra, Kael's sister, from where she mended a tunic by the fire. "They're just jealous because the only thing they can track is the bottom of a mead horn."
Bren snorted. "Says the woman who couldn't track a scent if it bit her on the nose!"
"I don't need to track scents," Lyra shot back primly. "I just follow the sound of you two complaining."
Elara leaned against the doorframe, soaking in the normalcy. This was what she fought for. This peace. This noise. This life.
It was Kael who finally acknowledged the elephant in the room, his grin softening. "So, did you find what you were looking for out there?"
All casual pretense in the room faded. The dice stopped clicking. Anya's stirring slowed. They all knew where she'd been. They all knew what she hunted.
"The Gray Shadow that took the loggers," Elara said, her voice even. "It won't be a problem anymore."
A respectful, heavy silence settled over the group. It was Bren who broke it, raising his tankard. "To the best damn huntress in five territories. May the rest of those mad dogs hear your steps and tremble."
There were no arguments, no boasts. It was simply a fact, acknowledged with a quiet murmur of agreement. Elara felt a flush that had nothing to do with the fire. Her skill wasn't for glory; it was a promise made over her father's grave. A vow etched in silver and blood.
Ronan was not just a hunter; he was a force of nature, a living extension of the wild itself. Long before the Gray Shadows' corruption began to poison the land, his name was spoken with a reverence reserved for legends. He could track a ghost over bare stone, read the secrets of the forest in the bend of a blade of grass, and his arrow could find the gap in a sparrow's wingbeat. He was the steady hand and the watchful eye of the Frostfang pack, their first and greatest line of defense. His skill was a quiet, profound art, born of patience and an intimate, almost spiritual dialogue with the world around him.
Elara was his only canvas. From the time she could walk, he began painting his knowledge onto her soul. He didn't just teach her to shoot; he taught her to understand the wind's language, to feel the sun's trajectory on her skin to judge the hour, to know an animal's intent by the set of its shoulders. He taught her that true hunting was not about the kill, but about the pursuit—a puzzle of awareness, anticipation, and respect. Her childhood was a relentless, loving apprenticeship in the grammar of the wild, every lesson etched not with harsh words, but with his quiet confidence in her.
In the end, she surpassed him not through greater strength, but through a sharper, more focused fire. Ronan's wisdom was deep and still, like a mountain lake. Elara's was a river, cutting and swift, honed by a new and vicious kind of prey. Where his patience was infinite, hers was targeted by a simmering rage. She integrated his ancient wisdom with a modern, lethal efficiency, her reflexes becoming a fraction faster, her strategies a touch more cunning.
She became the best because she had to; because the world had grown darker and demanded a sharper weapon. She was the perfect, devastating blend of his timeless skill and her own relentless drive, the master's masterpiece who had, in her grief, evolved into something even he would have gazed upon with awe. And she would use every ounce of that knowledge to eradicate them all from existence.
"They're not just dogs," Elara said, the lightness leaving her voice. "They're a sickness. A corruption." She'd seen it up close too many times. The Gray Shadows weren't born werewolves; they were made. A dark, twisted ritual that involved a poison distilled from a corrupted lunar flower and a voluntary sacrifice of sanity. It broke the mind and enslaved the body to a pack leader who promised power but delivered only rage and hunger. They were wolves gone mad, their humanity burned away, leaving only a killing rampage in its wake.
Her father had been trying to find their source, their den, when they'd ambushed him. He hadn't just been killed; he'd been made an example of.
"I will find their Alpha," Elara said, the words a low vow in the firelit room. "I will find the beast who creates them, and I will end him."
Before anyone could respond, the atmosphere in the longhouse shifted. The great wooden door groaned open, letting in a blast of cold night air that made the flames shudder.
Five figures stood silhouetted against the star-strewn blackness.
They did not step inside with the familiar, noisy shuffle of Frostfang hunters. They entered with a predator's silence, their movements unnervely coordinated. They were dressed for function, not comfort: tailored tactical gear in matte black, reinforced at the shoulders and knees, high-laced boots that spoke of hard miles, and dark, weatherproof coats that fell to their thighs. They wore no packs, carried no obvious weapons, but they didn't need to. Their presence was armament enough.
Every Frostfang in the room went still. Anya's hand went to the knife at her belt. Bren and Kael slowly rose from their chairs.
The strangers' eyes scanned the room, missing nothing, before landing on Elara. They were assessing, calculating. The one who led them was a woman with a severe, handsome face and dark hair pulled into a tight knot. Her grey gaze was flinty, devoid of warmth.
"We seek Elara of the Frostfang," the woman said. Her voice was low, crisp, and carried an authority that brooked no question.
Elara pushed off from the doorframe, crossing her arms. "You've found her."
The woman gave a slight, perfunctory nod. "I am Captain Valen, of the Onyx Guard, sworn to Alpha Cyrus of the Stormshadow Pack."
A collective, almost imperceptible intake of breath echoed around the hall. The Stormshadow Pack. They were not neighbors; they were legends. The oldest, most powerful pack on the continent, rulers of the coastal strongholds and enforcers of the ancient Accords. Their Alpha, Cyrus, was a figure of immense power and profound mystery, a shadow who wielded a sword like it was an extension of his arm. For his personal guard to be here, in their remote mountain hall…
"The Gray Shadows grow bolder," Captain Valen continued, her eyes locking with Elara's. "They attacked a Stormshadow outpost three nights past. They are no longer content to prey on travellers and minor packs. They are raising an army of the corrupted, and their aim is to take over and rule all the territories. The number of Gray Shadows made has tripled in the last year, and the more Gray shadows made, the harder they are to kill."
Elara's heart was a drum in her chest. She wanted their Alpha. The name, the face, the beast she hunted in her dreams.
"Alpha Cyrus has taken notice," Valen said. "He is summoning the best trackers, the most lethal hunters from every allied pack to form a war party. Our mission is to find the den of the Gray Shadows and burn it to the ground. Various members of our pack have travelled to other packs to seek out other skilled fighters."
Elara stared, her mind reeling. What did she know about Alpha Cyrus? He had the most powerful pack, yes. But he was known for his rigid ways and cruelty. He lost his wife while raiding a supposed Gray Shadows den. He became more cruel after that incident. They had one thing in common; they had both lost a loved one to the Shadows and both wanted to take them down. Except that Alpha Cyrus's wife died six years ago and her dad died seven years ago. Elara had been eighteen years old.
Before she could answer, another voice, deep and graveled with age and authority, spoke from the shadows of a side passage.
"The Onyx Guard is always welcome at our hearth, though their visits are rarely for pleasantries."
Everyone turned. Torin, Alpha of the Frostfang, emerged into the firelight. He was not a large man, but he carried his power like a mantle. His face was a roadmap of old scars and wisdom, his beard grey, his eyes the pale, fierce blue of a winter sky. He wore simple, sturdy clothes of wool and leather, a far cry from the tactical gear of the visitors, yet his presence commanded the room utterly.
Captain Valen offered him a deep, respectful bow of her head. "Alpha Torin. We did not mean to bypass your authority."
"You seek a blade from my armory," Torin said calmly, his gaze shifting to Elara. "It is only courtesy to ask the smith, not just take the steel."
"The situation is urgent," Valen pressed, though her tone remained respectful.
"All things concerning the Gray Shadows are urgent to this pack," Torin replied, and a grim murmur of agreement went through the Frostfangs. His pale eyes settled on Elara, seeing the fire there, the years of grief and determination that had forged her into the weapon she was. He saw her father in her stance.
He walked toward her, the firelight catching the silver in his hair. "The Stormshadow's resources are vast. Their intelligence, unparalleled. If anyone can find the heart of this corruption, it is them." He stopped before her. "But this is not a simple summons to war, is it, Elara?"
Elara held his gaze, her voice steady. "No, Alpha. It is not."
Torin nodded slowly, a look of profound understanding passing between them. He knew the vow she had made. He had been the one to find her, a screaming, blood-soaked girl, beside the ruins of her father.
He looked back at Captain Valen. "You will have your huntress. Elara goes with my blessing and the hope of all Frostfang."
He placed a hand on Elara's shoulder, his grip firm. "Go. Hunt. And when you find the monster who leads them," his voice dropped, for her ears alone, laced with a cold fury that matched her own, "you make sure he knows it was Ronan's daughter who sent him to hell."