Chapter 4 The Quiet Hours

Rhea had never cared much for peace. It was a luxury wolves like her were rarely given.

But the stillness of Silver Hollow unnerved her in a way battle never did.

Every wall was too smooth. Every path too swept. Even the trees that curved over the territory like watchful sentinels whispered in a language she didn't quite know how to hear.

There were no barked orders here. No sparring circles filled with roars and blood. No wild laughter around fire pits. No brutal training drills in the freezing dawn.

Instead, the wolves of Silver Hollow moved like shadows, quiet and efficient, as if their thoughts weighed more than their claws. Strategy over strength. Control over chaos.

It was everything Ashen Fang was not.

And maybe... that was the point.

---

Her quarters had been moved.

No explanation. No knock. Just a new attendant with a folded note and a sharper gaze.

"Second level," the girl said. "More comfortable. More private."

The room was larger, warmer. It smelled like old pine and sage. A heavy wooden door, thick curtains, a fire pit near the wall.

It was nice.

Too nice.

She sat on the edge of the bed that night, staring into the fire, trying not to think about the way Lucien's voice had lingered in her mind.

"Be careful, Rhea. This place looks calm. But it watches everything."

She didn't know what he wanted from her. Maybe nothing. Maybe too much.

But he was right about one thing.

Silver Hollow was not what it appeared to be.

---

Two days passed.

She trained with the outer patrol.

Walked the borders.

Studied the layout of the Hollow.

Watched which wolves whispered when Lucien passed, and which ones didn't meet his eyes.

She learned fast.

There was a structure beneath the politeness.

A chain of command that didn't speak its rules out loud.

Lucien was high up-higher than most. He didn't flaunt it. He didn't need to. Wolves moved aside for him in the hallways. Elders nodded when he entered a room. Even the Alpha's son kept his distance.

Still, he rarely spoke to her.

Except during brief glances and shared silences.

Except for the way his gaze sometimes lingered a little too long.

And the way she didn't look away.

---

Then the knock came.

Late at night. Near midnight. Soft but sure.

She was on her feet in seconds.

No scent on the other side of the door. Just shadow.

She opened it slowly.

But no one was there.

Only a folded piece of dark grey cloth on the floor.

A mark stitched into the corner.

Not a wolf symbol.

Not a pack crest.

A single silver eye.

Rhea stared at it for a long moment.

Then she shut the door and locked it twice.

---

The next morning, everything felt wrong.

The sky was heavy with fog. The Hollow's courtyards were quiet. Too quiet. Like someone had turned the volume of the world down to a murmur.

Wolves moved slower. Their voices hushed. Even the guards looked uneasy.

Rhea caught whispers as she passed a training yard.

"Gone."

"Just vanished."

"Another scout, same trail."

"North edge."

She kept walking, not slowing her pace, but the words curled around her spine like ice.

Disappearing wolves.

No blood. No signs of a fight. Just... gone.

And no one wanted to say it out loud.

But she knew what fear smelled like.

And this place reeked of it.

---

Later that afternoon, she saw Lucien again.

She was walking the edge of the stone bridge that overlooked the northern woods, pretending not to be listening to the scouts below when he stepped beside her.

Neither of them spoke at first.

Then he asked, "Did you sleep last night?"

She glanced at him. "Not really."

"Did you hear anything strange?"

"Like?"

He hesitated. "A howl. Just one."

She went still. "No. You?"

Lucien's jaw tightened. "Not me. Others."

"North edge?"

He nodded.

They stood in silence again.

"Someone left something at my door," she said after a pause.

"What was it?"

"A symbol. An eye. No name. No scent."

Lucien turned toward her fully. "Did you keep it?"

She nodded once. "It's hidden."

His eyes searched her face for a moment.

Then he said quietly, "This place is built on silence. Not trust."

"I'm starting to notice."

A faint wind stirred between them, carrying the scent of pine and stone.

"You should be careful," he said again, voice softer this time. "Not just with what you say. With what you feel."

That hit harder than it should've.

She looked away.

And that was when she saw it.

Far below-just for a second-a flicker of silver between the trees.

Not fur. Not metal.

Eyes.

Watching.

And then... gone.

---

That night, Rhea dreamed of fire.

Not just smoke and flame-but something older. Red stone. Wolves howling. Blood spilling over an altar. A silver eye watching her from the dark.

When she woke, her room was cold.

The fire had gone out.

And someone had slid a second note under the door.

No name. No scent.

Just four words, written in old ink:

"You are not safe."