Chapter 4: The Howl Beneath Stone
came like a bruise over the Hollow.
The sky bled orange and violet between jagged treetops as the pack gathered at the eastern edge, ready to move. Their breath fogged in the cold. No one spoke, but the tension rippled through them like static — coiled, alert, half-shifted already.
Fenra tightened the leather straps on her boots. Beside her, Kira fastened a second dagger to her thigh.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Kira asked.
Fenra raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm not?"
Kira's smirk was sharp. "Just wondering if you can keep up."
"I don't run," Fenra said coolly. "I hunt."
Kira laughed, low and fierce. "I like you, She-Wolf."
Across the camp, Draven stood apart, speaking with Amoga and Thorne. His dark cloak was dusted with frost, and a greatsword was strapped across his back — not silver, but forged from obsidian star-iron, a gift from the Duskforged tribes.
Corren, still pale but breathing steadily, slept in one of the healing tents. The fever had broken, but the dark veins under his skin remained — a scar of what had almost turned him.
They would leave him behind. For now.
But Fenra knew what Rauthar was doing.
He was taking the smallest of them. The weakest. Those without clans, without protectors. He was building not just an army — but a creed. Wolves who owed him everything. Who would tear apart the world for him.
And worse — he was changing the bloodline itself.
She clenched her jaw.
He would pay.
The Path of Echoes
The pack moved in silence. Seven of them. Draven led, Fenra beside him. Amoga and Kira flanked the sides, with Thorne guarding the rear. The other two — twins from the eastern range, Lys and Varric — moved like shadows between the trees.
They followed an old path. One no longer marked on any map. The Path of Echoes — once used by the Lunar Priests to reach the Moon Shrine in times of ritual or mourning.
The forest here was different.
Thicker. Hungrier.
Roots rose like serpents from the soil. Trees leaned in too close. And beneath the ground, something hummed — a low, pulsing rhythm just on the edge of hearing.
"Feel that?" Amoga whispered. "That's old magic."
"It's watching us," Varric said.
"No," Lys replied. "It's remembering us."
Draven halted, holding up a hand.
In the center of the path was a stone marker — cracked, covered in moss. The moon symbol etched into it was scratched out, claw marks burned into the granite.
"He's defiled the path," Thorne growled. "He's close."
Fenra knelt, brushing her fingers across the stone.
The earth beneath it was blackened — not burned by flame, but by something colder.
Shadowfire.
A rare, forbidden magic used by only the darkest of wolves — the kind that didn't just kill… but erased.
Draven's face hardened. "We move faster."
A Warning in the Trees
Hours passed. The trees grew taller, their trunks wider than towers. At the heart of the forest, they stopped for water at a glacial stream. Fenra leaned against a fallen log, watching the others.
Her gaze lingered on Draven — not just the way he moved, precise and controlled, but how the pack watched him. Trusted him.
He didn't speak much.
But he didn't need to.
Kira sat beside her. "You were pack once, weren't you? Somewhere else."
Fenra hesitated. "I was Luna's Fang. Westreach."
"Damn." Kira gave a low whistle. "You're far from home."
"I had to be," Fenra said quietly. "My Alpha… made a deal with hunters. Sold out our young. Said it was 'peace.' I called it treason."
"What happened?"
"I killed him."
Kira's eyes widened.
"I don't run," Fenra said again.
Before Kira could answer, a howl pierced the air — long, ragged, and close.
The pack was up in an instant, weapons drawn.
"South ridge," Draven growled. "Move."
They reached the ridge within seconds — and what they saw made even Thorne flinch.
A wolf. Alone. Limbs too long, mouth dripping black. Its fur was matted, eyes glowing red. Runes burned into its skin — ritual symbols, warped and bleeding.
Not a wolf.
A Ravaged One.
One of Rauthar's experiments.
It turned toward them, teeth bared. Its voice was wrong — echoing and distorted.
"I remember you, Alpha," it hissed.
Draven stepped forward. "Who were you?"
"I was Lyric," it said, twitching. "Once. From Hollow's Watch. Before He made me perfect."
It lunged.
The battle was swift — but brutal. The Ravaged One moved like it had no bones, twisting through the trees, claws slashing, shrieking in a voice that wasn't fully its own.
Thorne took a deep cut to the shoulder.
Amoga unleashed a burst of moonlight fire, searing its flank.
But it was Fenra who brought it down.
She leapt high, dagger gleaming, and plunged it into the thing's throat. As it collapsed, it whispered:
"Too late… He's already awakened the Well…"
Draven's blood ran cold.
"The Well?" Kira asked, panting.
Draven didn't answer.
He just turned toward the horizon, where the trees parted in the distance — and beyond them, the jagged silhouette of the Moon Shrine stood against the blood-orange sky.
Cracked. Defiled. But pulsing faintly with life.
The old magic had been stirred.
And something — or someone — was waiting.
[END OF CHAPTER 4]