The last time I rode out of Silvercrest with a hunting party, I was Luna.
This time, I was nothing.
No armor. No title. Just a borrowed body and a name that didn't belong to me. "Aira Doe"—they'd given me that label like a bandage over a wound they didn't want to look at too closely.
We moved fast through the frostbitten trees, horses kicking up snow and pine needles. Breath steamed in the cold. The patrol split into two lines—Kael in the front, Dax close behind him. I rode toward the rear, surrounded by wolves who hadn't even bothered to learn my name.
That was fine. Let them underestimate me.
Let them not see me coming.
I kept my head down, but my senses were wide open.
The rogue attacks had gotten closer to the border—more violent, more strategic. This wasn't the disorganized madness I remembered from loners scavenging for food.
This was planned.
Someone was stirring the wild.
And we were being sent to bleed for it.
---
The first body was hanging from a tree.
It dangled above the riverbank, half-shifted, throat torn open. Blood froze in ribbons down its chest.
Kael didn't flinch. He stepped forward, sniffed the air, and signaled for two of the guards to cut it down.
Dax crouched beside the body, inspecting the torn flesh.
"No clean kill," he muttered. "Whoever did this wanted them to suffer."
One of the guards growled. "It's a message. Rogues don't hang their own."
Kael stood slowly, his jaw like stone. "Check the perimeter. Don't speak again unless it's important."
I moved closer, my feet light on the icy path.
The rogue's face was twisted in pain. But the body—it was built. Not feral. Not wild.
Trained.
"Something's wrong," I said before I could stop myself.
Kael turned sharply. "What?"
I met his eyes. "This rogue was trained. His stance, his muscle structure—this wasn't some feral loner. This was someone who knew how to fight. He just didn't know how to win."
Dax blinked, staring at me.
Kael's stare hardened. "And how would you know that?"
I looked down at the body. "I don't."
He studied me for another beat, then looked away.
But the air had shifted. And I knew—Kael had started to truly watch me.
---
We traveled deeper into the Pines. The wind whispered through bare branches, carrying the stench of blood and charred fur. The others were silent. Even the horses seemed uneasy.
It was nearly dusk when we set up camp, in a clearing ringed by stone and shadow. The perimeter was set with tripwire and scent wards. Fires burned low and mean.
No one joked. No one laughed. No one trusted.
I sat apart, away from the center, sharpening a borrowed dagger with a stone. My hands moved automatically—muscle memory, deep and old. It felt natural, dangerous.
Too dangerous.
"Where'd you learn that?"
Dax.
He dropped beside me, tossing a hunk of bread and dried meat onto the log where I sat.
I shrugged. "Don't know."
"Convenient."
"I didn't ask for the food."
"You looked hungry."
I said nothing.
Dax leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're not who they think you are."
"That makes two of us," I said quietly.
He smiled slightly. "Fair."
The fire cast light over his jaw, catching the thin scars along his cheek. Claw marks, by the angle. He caught me looking.
"First shift. Lost control. My brother tried to spar me the same day. Didn't go well."
"I'm surprised he lived."
"He didn't."
The words hung between us. Sharp. Honest. No apology in his voice.
"Why are you being nice to me?" I asked.
"Because I remember what it felt like not to be trusted."
"And now?"
He tilted his head. "Now I trust my instincts. And they say you're dangerous—but not to me."
He stood.
"Get some sleep. You'll need it."
---
Sleep didn't come.
The wind howled like wolves mourning something they couldn't name. My dreams were fractured—flashes of blood, broken teeth, a girl screaming with my voice but someone else's eyes.
I woke with a start, heart pounding.
Then the scent hit me.
Smoke.
Not from the firepit.
From the woods.
I was up in seconds, grabbing the dagger, sprinting toward the treeline just as the first scream rang out.
Rogues.
They came fast—too fast. Three shadows slammed into the camp, teeth and claws flashing. One took down a guard before he could shift. Another lunged at Kael and was met midair with a blade to the gut.
I didn't think. I moved.
My body knew what to do. I ducked low, rolled under a swipe, and drove my dagger into a rogue's thigh. He roared, spun, and backhanded me into a tree.
Pain exploded in my ribs.
I got up anyway.
I tried to shift. Called the wolf.
Now. Come now.
But again, my body stuttered. Bones cracked—but not enough. The shift failed. My blood felt too cold, too still.
So I fought like I used to.
I ducked another blow, slashed his side, twisted behind him and drove my blade straight into the soft spot beneath his jaw.
He gurgled. Fell.
Breath ragged, I turned—just in time to see another rogue charging me.
Too fast.
Then he collapsed, a throwing knife lodged in his temple.
Dax.
He appeared beside me, panting, blade bloodied.
"That move—where did you learn that?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
Because I was already looking past him.
To the rogue body near the fire.
Something was carved into his chest.
Burned into the flesh.
A circle.
Inside it: a crescent moon. Crossed through.
A silence fell over the camp.
Dax followed my gaze. His face paled.
Kael strode toward us, blood on his jaw, eyes sharp. He stopped when he saw the mark.
"Do you know what that means?" he asked.
I shook my head.
But I did.
I'd seen that mark before.
Carved into the door of my quarters the night before I was murdered.
That symbol wasn't for the rogues. It was for me.
Whoever left it... knew I was back.
And they weren't just sending a warning.
They were calling me out.