They shouldn't have gone back.
They didn't have much of a choice.
The leaders of Ravenholt had made that clear. Supplies were running thin, and the ambush site still held rifles, bolts, and medicine they couldn't afford to lose. The dead were already mourned, their names carved into the wall, but their gear was another matter.
"We buried sons and daughters because of that failure," one of the councilmen had spat, his voice cracking with grief and fury. "We won't bury their weapons too."
The words cut deeper than Elara wanted to admit. She had survived when so many hadn't. Guilt weighed heavier than the revolver on her hip.
Caleb had bristled at the order, fists clenched. "We nearly died out there. You'll send us back to the same ground?"
The eldest of the council leaned forward, eyes like cold stone. "You know where it happened. You know what you left. If you're too afraid, we'll find others with stronger spines."
Caleb's jaw tightened. He didn't look at Elara, or Corin, or Torvee. "We'll go," he said at last.
And so they did—back into the wilds they had barely escaped. Back to the road that still smelled of blood. Back to the shadows where the pack waited.
---
The overturned supply truck hadn't moved. Its rusted shell hunched in the weeds, its cargo still scattered across the broken asphalt. Blood stains marked the ground, dried black and stiff. Crows picked at what little was left.
The forest leaned close, branches arching overhead as if trying to seal the place shut.
Elara's stomach twisted. Every step felt like walking into a memory she didn't want.
Caleb crouched near a crate, pulling free a handful of bolts. "Still good."
Corin pried open a supply box, her knife scraping against tin. "Food. Not much."
Torvee landed lightly on the truck's roof after a slow sweep overhead. Her feathers rippled away as she shifted back to human form. "Too quiet," she said flatly. "The wild doesn't stay empty this long."
Elara spotted an old med-pack strapped to a dead man's belt, half-buried under leaves. Her pulse jumped. Medicine meant life. She stepped forward, boots crunching on gravel.
That was when the growl came.
Low. Deep. Rolling out of the trees like thunder.
Dozens of eyes blinked open in the undergrowth.
Caleb spun, crossbow raised. "It's the pack."
The forest burst open.
Ferals poured out in a wave, their bodies low and fast, jaws gaping with hunger. The survivors had only seconds to react.
Bolts hissed. Rifles cracked. Corin darted forward, her knife flashing in arcs too fast to follow. Torvee shifted mid-step, raven wings exploding from her shoulders before she slammed into a feral's head, knocking it sideways. Caleb loosed bolt after bolt, dragging Elara back with his free hand.
Elara fired her revolver, missed, then fired again. A feral jerked back but didn't fall. Another lunged—
It hit her like a wall.
Teeth tore into her shoulder. Hot pain ripped through her body. She screamed, the sound raw, as fire spread under her skin. Caleb's shout split the night as he slammed into the creature, dragging it off her and driving his knife deep into its throat.
"Elara!" He caught her before she hit the ground. Black veins were already spidering from the wound, pulsing upward beneath her skin.
The ferals surged to finish them—then the forest answered with another howl.
Not the pack's ragged chorus. This one was deep, commanding.
From the opposite treeline, a second wave of wolves burst into the clearing—larger, heavier, their coats sleek and unbroken. They didn't fling themselves forward like rabid things. They drove, striking with purpose. Two hit the feral flank together, one low, one high. Another slid between attackers, slamming a shoulder to scatter them. Sharp barks cracked like orders, and the newcomers shifted formation as one.
"Wolves—" Caleb breathed, stunned. "They're fighting each other?"
Corin yanked Elara upright. "Don't care which side they're on. Move!"
Elara's vision swam. Fever raced through her veins, but she couldn't look away. These wolves' eyes weren't sickly yellow. Some burned amber, some flashed pale silver, all bright with clarity.
One enormous wolf—taller than the rest, a scar down its muzzle—looked straight at her. Its gaze dropped to her bleeding shoulder. It hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
Then it turned and tore into the pack, driving ferals back with brutal efficiency.
"Go!" Torvee shouted, already shifting mid-stride, a raven's wings beating the air to rake a feral that tried to follow. "They've opened a gap—take it!"
They ran. Caleb half-carried Elara, Corin slashing brambles aside, Torvee diving and harrying anything that came close. Behind them, the clearing dissolved into chaos—snarls, thuds, bodies colliding—but the new wolves held, their formation cutting the ferals off.
Twice Elara glanced back and saw them wheel like soldiers, splitting the ferals and pinning them down. For a moment, she thought she heard another sound between the howls—something like command, sharp and deliberate.
They crashed through a hedgerow and stumbled into a scrubby lane. An old barn slumped at the end of it, roof sagging, doors crooked.
"In!" Caleb hauled the right door; Corin shouldered the left. They dragged a rusted plow across as a bar.
Claws scraped outside, then faded. No frenzy. Just… waiting.
Elara collapsed onto the hay-strewn floor, clutching her shoulder. The black veins crawled higher, pulsing in rhythm with her panicked heart.
"It's spreading," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Gods, it's spreading—"
Caleb gripped her shoulders, trying to hold her still. "No, listen to me, Elara. You're not gone. You're not—"
Corin's face twisted, her knife trembling in her grip. "Caleb… we can't let her turn."
"Don't you dare!" Caleb roared. "She's not gone yet!"
Torvee crouched beside Elara, her gaze steady. "Fight it. Whatever this is, fight it."
Elara screamed as the fever surged. Her back arched, her body shaking violently. The veins pulsed darker, reaching her face, strangling her breath.
She thought of the bunker. Of the woman bitten. Of the man on the patrol. This is how it ends. Always.
"I'm dying," she gasped, tears streaming. "I can feel it—I don't want to turn—"
Then the pain exploded into light.
The black veins ignited, burning silver-blue. They spread across her body, curling like living tattoos along her shoulders and arms, glowing brighter with every frantic heartbeat. Her eyes snapped open—no longer green, but radiant blue, shining like moonlight caught in water.
The barn filled with pale light.
Caleb stumbled back, eyes wide. "She's not… she's not turning."
Corin dropped her knife, her mouth open. "That's not possible."
Torvee tilted her head, raven-dark eyes narrowing, as though she had just seen something she didn't believe existed.
Elara gasped, staring at the glowing marks scrawled across her skin. Her breath trembled. "What's happening to me?"
The scratching outside fell silent.
A weight pressed against the doors. Not frantic claws—a single, heavy push. The plow creaked as the wood shifted. Then the door swung inward.
A wolf stepped inside—massive, coat unbroken, gaze amber and clear. The ferals outside did not follow.
It padded closer, stopped in the wash of Elara's glow, and shifted in a fluid ripple to a scarred man whose presence filled the barn.
He stared at Elara, at the blue in her eyes and the light beneath her skin.
"The Luna-born," he breathed, astonished. "I thought it was only an elder's tale."
Elara's chest heaved. She couldn't breathe. Her friends were frozen, weapons half-raised, caught between fear and disbelief.
"Stay away from her," Caleb warned, his crossbow trembling in his hands.
The man didn't look at him. His eyes never left Elara.
Her voice cracked, raw and small: "Why am I still me?"
The alpha's gaze softened, just for an instant, as if he too was searching for the answer.
"Because you are not theirs," he said softly. His amber eyes shone with something like reverence. "You are ours."