The night after the shrine burned itself into Lin Wuji's memory—or erased part of it—dawn never fully came.
A thick fog covered the valley, muting sound, color, and sense. The forest was quieter than he had ever known it, as if even the trees were listening. Wuji moved through the haze barefoot, guided by rhythm more than direction. His body knew the forest's pulse; his mind, however, staggered behind.
He could no longer remember how long he had run.
He could no longer remember what he was running from.
Only fragments remained: a woman's voice warning him, silver fire, the shape of Fangxin's eyes in smoke.
He stumbled near a stream, cupping water to his lips. His reflection flickered, half-shadowed, half-golden. He could feel the shrine's power still humming under his skin, like a secret trying to surface.
Then he smelled them.
Not humans. Wolves. His pack.
And not far.
The Pack of Fangxin
Far west, beneath the shadow of old pines, the pack waited.
Fangxin sat on a ridge of stone, his fur slick with rain, his golden eyes reflecting every flicker of lightning above the valley. Around him, the wolves were restless—scarred, lean, and silent. None dared break the stillness except Scar-Left, who stood close, muzzle lifted toward the east.
"He vanished," Scar-Left said at last. "The scent ends near the old ruins."
Fangxin's reply was a low growl that vibrated through the ground. "No scent ends. Something hides him."
Scar-Left's ear twitched. "Then it is not human work."
"No," Fangxin said, voice heavy with memory. "It is older."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon. In the distance, lightning carved brief silver lines across the clouds. "The shrine has awakened."
Scar-Left bristled. "The one beneath the black arch?"
Fangxin nodded. "A place of oaths and betrayal. I thought it drowned with the old moon. If it stirs now, it is because something with my blood called it."
The pack shifted uneasily.
Scar-Left lowered his head. "Then the half-born lives."
Fangxin's expression didn't change, but the faintest growl rippled under his breath. "He lives. And he hides behind power he does not understand."
He rose then, tall and massive, rain sliding down his coat like armor. "Find him. Watch, but do not strike. If he has entered the shrine, he carries its mark now. To harm him is to invite its memory upon us all."
Scar-Left hesitated. "And if the hunters find him first?"
Fangxin's eyes flared gold. "Then the forest will drink them before dawn."
The wolves dispersed soundlessly, shadows breaking into smaller shadows. Only Fangxin remained, staring eastward, where the mist thickened.
He could feel it—an echo, faint and wild. Wuji's heartbeat, like the whisper of a name he had almost forgotten.
Elira and the Order
Two valleys away, Captain Elira stood before the black arch, her torchlight flickering against the carved stone. The shrine below had been sealed again. Her men had searched every passage and found nothing but air and dust. Yet the energy in the place—it throbbed beneath their feet like a second pulse.
She turned to her scholar, Mairen, who was still sketching the runes.
"What do they say?" Elira asked.
Mairen glanced up, eyes wide. "Not words. It's a pattern—repetition through symmetry. A mirror of something alive."
"Alive?"
Mairen nodded. "The markings on the arch aren't just symbols—they're echoes. Someone… or something… used them recently."
Elira stepped closer. "Used them how?"
"To hide." Mairen hesitated. "But not just physically. Spiritually. Whoever passed through this place left a shadow in the blood memory of the stone."
Elira frowned. "Then we're tracking a ghost."
"No," Mairen whispered. "Worse. A survivor."
Thunder cracked overhead, rolling through the valley like a roar. Elira sheathed her blade and turned toward her soldiers. "Break camp by dawn. We follow the river north. If the wolves are circling, we'll meet them before they close."
Garran, her second, grimaced. "Captain, the men are tired. The last outpost burned to ash. Some think the valley itself is cursed."
Elira's eyes were cold as steel. "Then let them fear. Fear sharpens the edge."
She looked eastward, where the fog thickened into forest. "He's still alive," she murmured. "I can feel it."
Garran tilted his head. "The boy?"
"The wolf," she corrected.
The Memory That Bleeds
By dusk, Wuji found himself deep within an unfamiliar forest hollow. A small creek wound through it, glimmering faintly beneath the mist. His senses had sharpened beyond reason—he could hear a rabbit's heart from ten paces, the distant echo of thunder crawling across stone.
But he couldn't feel time.
Every hour felt like a dream repeating itself.
He sat near a fallen tree, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. The air smelled strange here: sweet, metallic, with the faint scent of rot that never fully decayed. He knew this smell—it was the scent of sacred ground defiled long ago.
He tore a strip of bark and pressed it to his arm. The veins beneath glowed faintly, golden light pulsing like heartbeat. The shrine's mark.
When he closed his eyes, memories rippled under his skin—his mother's voice, a burning village, a wolf's shadow at the edge of flame. He tried to focus on her face, but it blurred each time, dissolving into smoke.
He gritted his teeth. "What did you take from me?" he muttered to the air.
The forest didn't answer. But something moved within it.
A rustle, deliberate and slow.
Wuji turned, muscles tensing. The shape that emerged from the fog wasn't wolf, nor man, but something between—a creature cloaked in matted fur, standing upright, eyes glowing faintly blue instead of gold. Its breath steamed in the chill.
"Who are you?" Wuji called out.
The creature tilted its head, voice rasping like stone over stone. "The forgotten."
Before Wuji could speak, it stepped closer, revealing the ruins of a silver collar fused to its neck. The scent of metal burned his nose. The Order's mark.
"You were one of them," Wuji realized. "A hunter."
The creature gave a broken laugh. "Were. Now I am what they feared." It gestured toward Wuji's chest. "And what they made."
"What do you want?"
"To warn you," it said. "You've taken the shrine's blood. It will not protect you again."
Wuji frowned. "Why?"
"Because it knows what you are. The moon doesn't forget its mistakes."
Then, before Wuji could ask more, the creature turned and disappeared into the fog—silent as breath, leaving behind only the faint smell of burnt silver.
The Alpha's Dream
Far away, Fangxin dreamed.
He stood upon a battlefield of bone and ash, where wolves howled beneath a dying moon. The air smelled of betrayal. In the distance, a man with golden eyes knelt beside a burning village.
Fangxin took a step forward, but his paws sank into blood-soaked earth. The man turned—and it was Wuji, face hollow, eyes no longer gold but silver.
"You taught me to hunt," Wuji said. "But you never taught me what happens after."
Fangxin tried to speak, but his voice came out as a growl swallowed by wind. The ground trembled. From behind Wuji rose a great silver shape—the moon itself, bleeding light.
When Fangxin woke, the valley was silent. His breath came out in clouds. For the first time since the curse began, he felt something colder than fear.
He whispered to the night, "The blood shifts again."
The River of Smoke
At dawn, the Silver Order reached the northern edge of the forest. The air was heavy with mist, and the river ran black with soot. Elira halted her horse and stared at the treeline. Something in her chest tightened—a pulse that wasn't hers.
"Captain?" Garran asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she lifted her hand and whispered, "He's close."
And somewhere beyond that fog, Lin Wuji knelt beside the same river, hand pressed against his chest, feeling the same echo. Not pain, not hunger—but a presence, calling.
He didn't know it yet, but the paths of Alpha, Hunter, and Half-Born had begun to twist toward each other again, bound by something far stronger than vengeance.
Something that remembered.