The city's underbelly swallowed Abel whole. The oppressive grandeur of the Tiber estate was replaced by the claustrophobic chaos of overflowing dumpsters, the acrid sting of urine and stale grease, and the distant, mournful wail of sirens. He moved like smoke, clinging to the deepest pockets of shadow afforded by the narrow alleyways, his senses dialed to an excruciating pitch. Every rustle of a rat in discarded cardboard, every drunken shout echoing from a main street, every distant footfall on wet pavement, sent jolts of adrenaline through him. Hunters. Already? The paranoid thought was a constant drumbeat beneath the frantic rhythm of his heart.
He navigated by instinct and fragmented memory, heading towards the city's decaying periphery. The scent trail he followed wasn't visual; it was an olfactory map only another supernatural could discern – the faint, persistent tang of ozone and damp earth that clung to Ava, cutting through the urban miasma. It led him past flickering neon signs advertising pawn shops and dubious massage parlors, under rusted fire escapes, and across deserted lots choked with weeds. He avoided main thoroughfares, his preternatural agility allowing him to scale fences and traverse rooftops with unnerving silence. The weight of the backpack, laden with his meager future, was a grounding counterpoint to the terrifying lightness of leaving everything else behind.
A memory surfaced, sharp and unbidden: Roman, laughing, clapping him on the shoulder after a successful (and ethically dubious) business maneuver orchestrated by Kenneth. "That's how it's done, cousin! Sharp as fangs, smooth as silk. You're a natural." The warmth in Roman's voice had felt genuine then, a beacon of belonging. Now, it felt like another layer of the gilded trap. Would Roman be part of the hunt? The thought was a physical pain.
Two hours of tense navigation brought him to the edge. The concrete jungle thinned, replaced by scrubland, skeletal trees clawing at the night sky, and the pervasive smell of neglect. The air grew marginally cleaner, carrying hints of damp soil and decaying vegetation. Ahead, nestled against the crumbling remnants of an old brickworks, sat Ava's cottage. It looked less like a dwelling and more like something the land had reluctantly allowed to exist – low-slung, walls patched with mismatched wood and stone, the roof sagging under a thick blanket of moss. A single window glowed with a soft, buttery light that seemed utterly alien to the harsh city glare.
Relief warred with renewed dread. Sanctuary was steps away, but so was the unknown pain Ava had promised.
He approached silently, senses scanning the perimeter. No obvious wards pulsed, but a subtle stillness hung in the air around the cottage, a watchful quiet. The door, made of weathered, unpainted wood, creaked open before he could knock.
Ava stood framed in the doorway. She was slight, dwarfed by a thick shawl woven in muted, earthy tones. Her hair, the colour of tarnished silver as he'd noted before, was loose and fell past her shoulders. Her eyes, that same unsettling silver, fixed on him, seeming to pierce the shadows clinging to his form. She didn't speak, simply stepped back, gesturing him inside with a nod.
The interior was a stark contrast to the Tiber mansion's calculated opulence. Warmth radiated from a small, efficient woodstove. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the low ceiling beams, releasing a complex, medicinal aroma – sage, mugwort, something pungent and pine-like. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars containing roots, powders, dried flowers, and unidentifiable specimens floating in murky liquids. Books, their spines cracked and leather worn thin, shared space with bundles of feathers, smooth river stones, and intricately woven baskets. The air hummed with a low-level energy, the quiet pulse of earth magic.
"Cutting it fine, Tiber heir," Ava murmured, her voice a dry rustle like autumn leaves. "The moon climbs. The window narrows."
"Abel," he corrected softly, shutting the door behind him, the simple act feeling like sealing a tomb. "Just Abel now. Or soon, no one at all."
Ava's gaze held his for a long moment, assessing. "'No one' is harder than you think. But the path starts here. You have it?"
Wordlessly, Abel unclipped the small leather pouch from inside his shirt. He handed it to her. She took it, her fingers surprisingly strong, and moved to a sturdy wooden table cluttered with mortar and pestle, a blackened iron cauldron, and an array of small, sharp tools. She spilled the contents: a twist of dried, silvery-blue petals (moon-bloom, rare and potent), a sliver of obsidian that seemed to drink the lamplight, and a tiny vial stoppered with wax containing a few drops of his blood, collected weeks ago under a waning moon.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a low stool near the stove. "Remove your shirt. The connection must be skin to spirit."
Abel obeyed, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. The warmth from the stove felt suddenly insufficient against the chill of anticipation. Ava busied herself, grinding the moon-bloom petals into a fine, iridescent powder in the mortar. She hummed a low, tuneless melody that vibrated in Abel's bones, a sound older than cities. She placed the obsidian sliver on a small copper dish and set it close to the stove's heat.
"The ritual is transformation," Ava said, not looking up from her work. "Not of the body, but of the essence. The scent is the signature of the soul, tied to the blood, the spirit, the pack bond. To change it is to rend a piece of yourself. To become… unmoored. Are you certain?"
The image of his father's face, smug and predatory over the dinner table, flashed before him. The memory of the suffocating weight of expectation, the constant thrum of pack politics, the shame of their exploitation. "Certain," Abel rasped, the word scraping his throat. "What must I give?"
"Focus," Ava said, finally turning to him. In her hands, she held the mortar with the glowing powder and a small, obsidian-tipped knife. "Pain. And a lock of hair, closest to the mind that conceived this escape." She gestured to his temple.
He inclined his head. The knife was cold against his skin, then a sharp tug as she cleanly severed a thick lock of his dark hair. She added it to the mortar, grinding it in with the moon-bloom powder. The mixture began to emit a faint, cold blue light.
"Blood completes the triad," Ava stated, picking up the vial. "Body, mind, spirit. Offer it willingly."
Abel extended his arm. Ava unstoppered the vial. Instead of pouring it, she dipped the tip of the obsidian knife she'd used into his blood, then touched it to the heated obsidian sliver on the copper dish. A sharp hiss and a curl of dark, acrid smoke rose. She then poured the remaining blood into the mortar with the glowing powder and hair.
"Now," she said, her voice gaining resonance, filling the small space. "The intent. Hold it fast. Who are you? Not Abel Tiber. Who will you be? Nameless. Rootless. Free. Pour your will into the void you create. This is not concealment. This is annihilation of the old self."
She dipped her fingers into the now-luminescent paste in the mortar. It pulsed with an eerie light. "This will burn," she warned, no trace of sympathy, only certainty. "Into the skin, into the spirit. Hold your intent, or it will consume you."
Before Abel could fully brace himself, Ava's fingers, coated in the cold-fire paste, touched the center of his chest, directly over his heart.
Agony.
It wasn't the surface burn he expected. It was deeper, far deeper. It felt like liquid ice and white-hot needles driving inward, seeking his core. It seared along his nerves, into his bones, into the very marrow of his being. He gasped, muscles locking, his vision whiting out. The carefully constructed image of the nameless wanderer he aimed to become wavered, threatened to shatter under the onslaught.
"Hold it!" Ava's voice cut through the pain, sharp as the obsidian knife. "Who are you?!"
Images flooded him, fighting the focus. His mother's smile, warm and proud. Kenneth's hand on his shoulder, heavy with expectation. Roman's boisterous laugh. The sprawling estate. The weight of the heir's ring he'd left on his dresser. The suffocating scent of pack, of family, of duty.
The denial roared from the deepest part of his soul, fueled by the memory of shattered human lives, of his father's contempt, of the gilded cage. Not Abel. Not Tiber. Free. Nameless. He visualized the vast northern forests, the endless sky, silence instead of scheming whispers. Alone. Unbound. He poured every ounce of his yearning, his disgust, his desperate hope into that image of the void, the absence of Abel Tiber.
Ava's fingers moved in intricate patterns across his chest, shoulders, down his spine. Each touch reignited the freezing fire, etching invisible sigils of unmaking into his essence. She chanted now, words in a language that scraped against reality, ancient and powerful. The air crackled. The herbs hanging overhead trembled. The obsidian sliver on the dish glowed cherry red, then cooled rapidly to utter blackness.
The pain peaked, a crescendo that felt like his soul was being unraveled thread by thread. Abel bit down on a cry, tasting blood. He clung to the image of the wild horizon, the scent of pine and snow, the silence. He envisioned his unique scent signature – the complex blend of Tiber lineage, pack bond, and individual spirit – not just fading, but being actively scoured away, replaced by… nothing. A blank olfactory slate.
Just as suddenly as it began, the agony ceased. Ava withdrew her hands. The luminescent paste was gone, absorbed. Abel slumped forward on the stool, drenched in cold sweat, trembling violently. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw, utterly spent. The warmth from the stove felt distant, insignificant.
Ava watched him, her expression unreadable. She picked up the now-cool obsidian sliver and the copper dish. The sliver was dull, lifeless, covered in a fine grey ash – the residue of his sacrificed identity. She blew gently on the ash, scattering it towards the fire in the stove. It vanished in a tiny puff of smoke.
"It is done," she stated, her voice returning to its normal dry rustle. "The binding is severed. The signature is… muted. Not gone entirely – such things leave echoes – but buried deep, shrouded. To most trackers, even skilled ones, your scent will now register as… wilderness. Stone. Running water. The cold air before snow. Untraceable to Abel Tiber."
Abel dragged in a shuddering breath. He raised a trembling hand to his chest. The skin felt normal, unmarked. But inwardly? He felt fundamentally altered. Lighter, yes, but also strangely… disconnected. The constant, subtle hum of the pack bond, a presence he hadn't even consciously registered until now, was gone. A profound silence echoed in its place, both terrifying and exhilarating.
He tried to reach for it, that comforting thrum of connection, and found only void. A pang of loss, sharp and unexpected, pierced the relief. He had sacrificed a part of his very nature.
"The wilderness awaits, Nameless One," Ava said, turning back to her cluttered table, her task seemingly complete. "But remember: erasure comes at a cost. You walk alone now, truly. The hunt begins at dawn, if not sooner. Go. Follow the cold star." She gestured vaguely north, towards the window showing the night sky. "And know this: the old ways you seek… they remember those who remember them. The path is long, and the roots you find may be more tangled than you know."
Abel forced himself to stand. His legs felt weak, foreign. He pulled his shirt back on, the fabric abrasive against his sensitized skin. He shouldered his backpack, its weight suddenly immense. Words of thanks felt inadequate, trapped in his raw throat. He simply nodded at Ava's back, a gesture she didn't see.
Stepping back out into the night felt like stepping onto a different planet. The city's stink was still there, but distant, muted. He inhaled deeply, testing. Beneath the urban decay, he could smell damp earth, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to life in the scrub, the metallic tang of distant rain. And beneath it all… nothing. No Tiber musk, no pack signature. Just elements. Just the world.
He looked back once at the cottage, a dim beacon in the wasteland. Then he turned north, towards the deeper darkness beyond the city's glow, towards the whispering trees and the indifferent stars. The first true step into anonymity. The air he breathed now was the air of a stranger. The hunt might be coming, but Abel Tiber was already gone. Only the echo remained, and the vast, terrifying silence of freedom. He started walking, each step a little firmer on the path away from everything he had ever known. The price was paid. The wilderness awaited its new, scentless creature.