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Chapter 142: The Silent Storm
The old lodge sat brooding at the northern edge of the forest, a decaying relic of another age. Its timbers had long surrendered to damp and frost, warped and bitten by time, yet the heart of its structure still clung to stubborn life. Once it had been a proud hunting retreat, a gathering place for men who drank, laughed, and told stories of conquest around roaring fires. Now it stood hollow and forgotten—a carcass of wood and iron, its spirit drowned beneath the smell of wolfsbane, oil, and the lingering residue of bloodlust heavy in the air. The windows were blinded by grime, and from within came the faint scent of fear masked by smoke.
The night pressed close around it. Mist curled through the trees, carrying whispers of rain and the metallic tang of thunder. Beneath that hush, something moved — silent, deliberate.
Lucas moved through the surrounding underbrush like a living shadow. Each step melted into silence, his body a seamless extension of the night. Every movement was measured, deliberate, and deadly. The forest whispered around him—the rustle of damp leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the low rumble of the clouds. Lightning stirred beneath his skin, an electric pulse yearning to escape, crackling faintly like a caged storm he barely contained. He forced it down with practiced control, steadying his breath. The mission demanded precision, not chaos.
Just ahead, two hunters stood guard near the back entrance, their silhouettes barely discernible in the dim light filtering from within. They leaned lazily against the wall, crossbows hanging loose across their shoulders. Their conversation was muted but tense; whispers about new orders, about Edward losing patience, and about how he "wasn't taking any more of Chris's crap." Their laughter was short, brittle, and nervous—the kind that dies too quickly.
Lucas didn't wait. He struck between heartbeats.
One instant he was crouched in the dark, the next he materialized behind them—silent, spectral, hands hovering inches from the exposed skin between collar and spine. A flicker of blue light rippled through the air, followed by a hushed crack, barely audible yet final. Both men stiffened, eyes wide, muscles locking as the current surged through their bodies. A second later, they dropped wordlessly to the forest floor. No shout. No struggle. Only the soft thud of collapsing weight and the faint ozone tang of spent lightning.
He dragged their bodies into the shadows, concealment born of habit more than mercy. Then he paused, still as a statue. Inside the stale air of the lodge, every sound carried differently—sharper, nearer. He extended his senses outward, letting perception bloom. Heartbeats painted the darkness in rhythm: twelve distinct pulses. Two steady but quickened—fearful, restrained. Malia and Isaac. The rest, ten strong, deliberate, armed—hunters.
Edward's voice threaded through the silence, calm and composed, carrying authority like a sharpened knife. "Keep the wolfsbane close and ready. Don't give them a chance to shift."
Lucas's jaw tightened as he crept along the lodge's outer wall. Through a grime-smeared window, he caught sight of Isaac tied to a chair, bruised but unbroken, eyes lit with defiance. Malia knelt nearby, iron cuffs biting into her wrists, her muscles tensed with contained fury. Their captors moved mechanically—checking weapons, whispering orders, oblivious to the gathering danger outside.
Lucas began his approach to the door, muscles coiled, lightning simmering low, when the fragile equilibrium shattered.
From within came a metallic snap, sharp as a rifle crack. Then splintering glass, followed by a pulse of raw, feral energy that rippled through the air like a shockwave.
Malia had broken free.
Almost instantly, the faint threads of old magic woven around the building blazed red-hot. The alarm rune ignited, its sigil pulsing violently before bursting into a screeching wail that tore through the night—metal screaming alive as blood surged in every living body. Hunters reacted at once: someone shouted, "She's loose!" Others grabbed weapons, the scrape of boots and steel filling the air.
Lucas froze in place, pulse steady amid the chaos. Inside, ten heartbeats spiked in unison. Windows flared with movement. Hunters pivoted toward exits, weapons raised, voices overlapping in panicked orders.
The hunt's quiet had ended.
But Lucas did not falter. His face remained carved from calm, though the world around him seemed to bend. The air shimmered, alive with growing tension. Lightning crawled up his arms in restless strands, climbing his neck and pulsing bright beneath his skin. The glow spread, burnishing his outline with light too fierce to belong to anything mortal.
When he looked up again, his eyes were no longer human—they blazed with steady crimson fire.
The storm that had waited patiently in silence had finally arrived.