Chapter 4 Echoes in the ash

The rogue wolf turned to ash in my hands.

I stared at the smoldering remains, still crouched in the dirt, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun the memory. The air smelled like burnt hair and blood, a combination that never sat right in my lungs.

"He said they're coming," I murmured again.

Eira wiped blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist. "The pack."

The word dropped like a stone between us.

I hadn't heard it in years. Not out loud. Not since I left mine behind-if they were even still alive. I didn't know. I didn't care. They'd made their choice. I made mine.

But this pack wasn't mine. It was his.

A rogue that strong, that wild, didn't survive alone. That meant others were out there. Stronger. Smarter. And if he was the messenger...

"What do they want?" I asked aloud.

Eira's voice was low. "What all predators want. Territory. Blood. Submission."

I stood, staring out into the forest. The night was still. Too still. No insects. No wind. Just the sound of my own breath, ragged and full of questions.

I didn't know how many were coming.

I didn't know when.

But the rogue's death was just the beginning.

And we'd already run out of time.

We got back to the garage just before dawn. Eira collapsed on the couch, arm clutched to her ribs, while I poured water into a bowl and grabbed the rag.

"You've got a cracked rib," I said. "Maybe two."

"I've had worse."

"You say that a lot."

She smirked, but her wince gave her away when I dabbed the wound.

"Hold still."

"You do this often?" she asked.

"First aid?"

"Taking care of strangers who hunt werewolves."

I gave a tight shrug. "You're not a stranger anymore."

Something flickered in her eyes then. A softness. A question. But she didn't ask it.

Instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a tattered notebook. Leather-bound, the corners worn, the pages yellowed. She flipped through it until she found a passage marked with a red string.

"I've seen this before," she said, voice quieter now. "The self-burn. It's part of a magic contract. Old blood magic. It binds the wolf to silence. If they're about to be captured or killed, the spell activates. Total obliteration."

"Why haven't I heard of it?" I asked.

"Because it's forbidden," she said. "And because it only works if someone else owns your soul."

I stared at her.

"You're saying he was bound to someone?"

She nodded. "A pack leader. Probably an Alpha."

A chill went through me. "You think they sent him here on purpose?"

Her lips tightened. "As a scout. Or a warning."

I sat back on the edge of the coffee table and rubbed my temples. My body still ached from the fight, and my mind was spiraling through possibilities like a broken gear.

"Why here?" I whispered. "Why Hollow's Edge?"

Eira looked up. "That's the part I'm afraid I know."

Later that day, while Eira slept in the cot I dragged out from the backroom, I drove up the ridge road toward the old church.

The town was on edge. Shutters nailed shut. No kids playing. No porch lights on. Maddox had men stationed outside the post office like a damn military checkpoint. He watched me pass with that same suspicion in his eyes.

Let him stare.

I wasn't hiding anymore.

I parked just outside the ruins of St. Elira's, a chapel abandoned since the fire ten years ago. They said lightning struck it. I knew better. The wolves always left marks when they passed through.

Inside, the pews were still scorched. Vines climbed through broken stained glass. And at the altar, carved into the blackened wood, was the symbol I feared I'd see:

A clawed circle.

It wasn't random.

It was a claim.

This place-my town-was marked.

I crouched, fingers tracing the grooves. Something cold slithered up my spine. I wasn't just a werewolf living on borrowed time anymore.

I was prey in someone else's hunting ground.

I came back to the garage and found Eira awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her notebook open and several old photographs spread across the concrete like tarot cards.

One of them caught my eye.

It was a picture of a man-tall, lean, wild-eyed. He had dark hair like mine, but his face was sharper, hungrier. He wore a necklace made of bone and silver.

"Who's that?"

She tapped the edge of the photo. "Alaric. A rogue Alpha. Exiled from the Nordic packs almost a decade ago. Rumor is, he started gathering broken wolves. Turning humans. Building something."

I studied the picture again.

"You think he's behind this?"

"I don't think," she said. "I know. I saw him once. Years ago. In a dream. He was wearing that same necklace."

"You dream about wolves often?"

"Only the ones that matter."

She handed me another photo. It was blurry. Black and white. A figure crouched in front of a bonfire. Symbols on the ground around him-some familiar, some ancient.

"This is what he does," she said. "Rituals. Control. He doesn't just lead a pack. He commands it. Through blood and magic."

"Why now?" I asked. "Why come here?"

Her eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw fear in them.

"Because of you."

I froze. "What?"

Eira stood. "Your name is known, Ronan. You're not just some random loner who ran from a curse. You're the last of a bloodline they couldn't break. Your family had something they want."

I swallowed hard.

"My family is dead."

"But their legacy isn't."

I stepped back, heart racing. "You're saying they're coming here for me?"

She nodded.

"And when they get here," she said softly, "they'll tear this town apart to get what they came for."

That night, I didn't sleep.

Instead, I stood on the roof again, watching the sky bleed into stars.

Eira joined me near midnight. She said nothing at first, just handed me a flask and stared into the trees.

"You ever think about running?" I asked.

"Every day."

"And?"

"I always find reasons to stay."

I looked at her. "And me?"

"You're one of them," she said.

We didn't touch. We didn't kiss.

But in that moment, something shifted.

The kind of shift that had nothing to do with the moon.

Around 3 a.m., I heard it.

Not a howl. Not footsteps.

A voice.

It slid into my skull like a whisper of broken glass.

"Ronan..."

I jerked upright.

Eira saw it too. Her eyes went wide.

"You heard that?"

I nodded.

"Then it's starting," she said. "He's reaching out."

"Who?"

"Alaric. The Alpha."

The voice came again.

"You are marked... You are mine..."

I gripped my head, growling, trying to fight it off.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the whisper vanished.

But it left behind one thing:

A brand on my arm-faint, glowing.

The same clawed circle from the church altar.

Burned into my skin.