The smoke wasn't from firewood.
It was bitter, acrid—faintly metallic. Eira's pulse spiked as she crept through the thinning mist that clung to the edge of the Hollow. The forest here was dense, tangled in roots and secrets. Most strangers never found the village. The old runes saw to that.
Whoever this was… they weren't lost.
She slipped between the trees, every sense on edge. Her transformation was stalling—but barely. The moon called to her, tugging at the wild thing in her blood, and it was getting harder to ignore the itch behind her teeth, the pull in her limbs.
And then she saw him.
A man, alone, half-kneeling in a shallow clearing. His cloak was torn, dark with blood at the shoulder, and a curved blade lay beside him—its edge gleaming with the unmistakable shimmer of silver. He turned at her approach, and for a moment, the world fell silent.
His eyes weren't normal.
They glowed faintly gold, like wolf's eyes caught in lantern light. But he was no beast.
"Stay back," he warned, voice rough with exhaustion. "You don't want to come any closer."
Eira didn't listen. "You crossed into Hollow territory. That blade—where did you get it?"
He looked at her, really looked, and something flickered in his gaze. Recognition? Regret?
"You're Aldwynn," he said quietly. "The last."
Eira stiffened. "Who are you?"
He hesitated, then dropped his gaze. "Cael."
No title. No clan. No pack.
Just Cael.
He swayed suddenly, his knees buckling, and Eira's instincts overrode her caution. She rushed forward, catching his arm just as he crumpled. His skin was hot—feverish. And beneath his coat, she saw the cause.
A silver wound, pulsing, angry, and deep.
"You're cursed," she whispered.
"No," he rasped. "I'm hunted."