Chapter 3: Ash and Blood
Expanded version
The Hollow slept lightly that night.
Not because of fear. Not because of weakness.
Because something in the air had changed.
The moon was full, but the silver light felt thin — as though it had to fight its way through the dark clouds crawling over the treetops. The mist didn't roll tonight. It slithered. The forest watched from the shadows.
And Draven could feel it.
He stood on the northern ridge, where the wind carried the taste of ash and old blood. Trees bent in reverence around him, their ancient roots tangled like the bones of giants. His boots crunched frost, but he barely felt the cold.
He was too lost in memory.
It had started with a howl.
Years ago. Before the Hollow had been broken. Before Rauthar had become a name the pack couldn't say without growling.
They had run together as boys — him and his brother — chasing deer through moonlit pines, racing the wind itself, laughing like immortals. Back then, they were inseparable. The world hadn't turned cruel yet.
When their father — High Alpha Elric — was killed in the Siege of Hallowstone, the Council had chosen Draven as Alpha.
Not because he was older. He wasn't.
But because the moon chose him.
Rauthar had bowed at the ceremony, kneeling in the silver pool. But that night, he left the Hollow without a word.
And when he returned?
He didn't come back alone.
"I should've seen it," Draven whispered.
Behind him, the mist shifted.
"You were a brother first," said Fenra. "A leader second."
Draven didn't turn. "He came back with wolves that didn't howl. Eyes like glass. Movements like puppets. He said he'd found a new path — the bloodpath."
Fenra moved closer, her boots silent in the frost. "He believed strength could be bred."
"He believed it could be stolen," Draven snapped, voice tight. "He started forcing turns on captured humans. Rituals. Magic soaked in silver and bone. It tore their minds. Turned them feral."
"Why didn't you stop him then?"
"I tried," he said.
Flashback: The Hollow, 6 years earlier
Draven stood at the edge of the sacred ring — seven stones, carved with lunar sigils, pulsing faintly. Rain fell through the canopy like whispered warnings.
Across from him, Rauthar grinned — eyes blazing yellow, hair soaked in blood. Behind him stood his new followers: rogue wolves with claws dipped in mercury, teeth marked with ash.
"Submit," Rauthar had said. "Or be replaced."
"I'd rather die on my paws than kneel to a butcher."
They clashed. Not as brothers — but as beasts.
Draven had nearly killed him that night. Held him down, fangs inches from his throat.
But something in Rauthar's eyes had stopped him — not fear, not hate… but pity.
"You'll regret this," Rauthar whispered, before vanishing into the dark.
Back in the present, Fenra watched him quietly.
"You let him live."
"I hoped he'd come back." Draven looked down at his hands. "He didn't."
They stood in silence, the weight of history between them.
Then came the howl.
High and sharp — not from the pack. From below. From the edge of the southern glade.
Kira burst through the trees, cloak flying behind her.
"You need to see this. Now."
The Southern Glade
The firelight flickered across the clearing. The entire pack stood in a loose circle, surrounding a small, shivering figure.
A boy. Barely twelve.
Clothes torn. Skin fevered. Eyes rolling white. His breath came in ragged gasps, lips flecked with foam. He was in half-shift — claws extended from too-small fingers, fur patchy, back twisted. His veins ran black beneath his skin.
"Moon Fever," Fenra whispered, kneeling beside him. "He's caught between forms. It's killing him."
Amoga stepped forward. "We found him near the border stones. He had this."
He held up a charm — a broken medallion etched with the sigil of the Moon Shrine: a tree wrapped in a crescent moon.
Draven took it slowly. "This hasn't been seen in decades."
"He must've escaped," said Thorne, voice gravelly. "From wherever Rauthar's keeping them."
Fenra pressed two fingers to the boy's chest. "His heart's failing. We need to cool the fever — fast. Amoga, get mountain sage. Now."
The warlock vanished into the trees.
Draven knelt. "What's your name?"
The boy whimpered. "C…Corren."
"Who did this to you, Corren?"
The boy's fingers tightened around Draven's hand.
"H-he wore… a wolf's face. But not like yours. He was hollow. Like a shadow in fur. H-he… he made the others scream…"
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Draven brushed them away.
"You're safe now. I promise."
Corren's eyes closed.
Fenra stood slowly. Her hands were shaking.
"He's not just making ferals anymore," she said. "He's experimenting with old magic. The kind that should've died with the First Moonfall."
Draven turned to the pack.
"We move at dawn."
"Where?" asked Kira.
Draven held up the charm.
"To the ruins of the Moon Shrine. If Rauthar's digging into the old blood — we need to stop him before he finds the root."
Later that night, Fenra stood alone in the Hollow, watching Corren sleep.
Draven approached quietly.
"You blame yourself," she said.
"For all of it."
"You shouldn't," she said. "You didn't make your brother a monster."
Draven's voice was soft. "No. But I left him alive."
Fenra turned, her amber eyes glowing faintly.
"Then maybe it's time you correct that mistake."
They stood together in silence.
And above them, the moon began to fade.
[END OF CHAPTER 3]