The eastern ridge had always been quiet this time of year. The river ran clear, the wind carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, and the occasional bird song was the only interruption.
Today it was shattered.
A scream cut across the forest, sharp and urgent. Wolves came running, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, breaths harsh in the crisp morning air. Elara, already halfway along the path to her patrol post, froze. Her heart sank before she even saw the source.
A young scout, barely out of his adolescence, lay sprawled on the ground. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, blood dark against his fur.
The pack surrounded him instantly, circling, murmuring, pushing and shoving. Elara's boots crunched on the dirt as she ran closer.
"What happened?" she called, kneeling beside the injured wolf.
"He fell near the eastern cliff," a warrior said, voice tight. "No one knows why. One moment he was checking the markers, the next—" He gestured at the scout, who groaned, eyes squeezed shut.
Elara's wolf prickled beneath her skin, uneasy, restless. Something about the air felt… wrong. Not random. Not natural.
The murmurs began almost immediately, low at first, then growing.
"It's her."
"Of course it's her."
"The Moon mark didn't lie—she brings this."
Elara looked up, confusion flashing through her chest. "I—I wasn't even near the eastern ridge today. I was patrolling the central trail."
Maera stepped forward, voice tight with accusation. "You were near it. Everyone knows you go where you want. If anything happens, it follows you."
"I do not bring misfortune," Elara said evenly, rising to her full height despite the pack's tightening circle around her. Her wolf stirred, calm but fierce beneath her skin. Stand your ground.
"Then why does it follow you?" Maera spat. "Why are accidents happening only where you've walked? Why do we lose scouts and hunters after you pass?"
Elara's breath hitched. This was familiar, but it was worse. They weren't just whispering now—they were ready to act on it.
"I can't control accidents," Elara said softly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. "I am not a curse. I am not the storm. You are wolves—they walk paths, make mistakes, and sometimes fate takes them anyway. Don't put it on me."
Her words echoed against the silence. A few younger wolves looked away, uncertain, but the elders held fast, eyes sharp and unforgiving.
The injured scout groaned, gripping his leg, and someone muttered about sending for the healers. Mira arrived quickly, her hands gentle as she checked the wound. "He'll be fine," she said, giving Elara a quick, meaningful glance. "The boy isn't dead, and neither is the pack."
Elara nodded, but the tension didn't leave her shoulders. The pack's eyes lingered, untrusting, waiting for her to falter.
By the time she returned to her cabin, the forest was silent again, but the weight of the day pressed down like stone. The whispers weren't gone—they had just moved to the walls of her room, the cracks in the floor, the corners of the hearth.
She sank onto her bed, wolf curling around her heart.
They will test you again. They will try to push you to breaking.
"I know," she whispered. "Let them try. I will not break."
Far across the river, Kael Thorn felt the tremors of Silvercrest's turmoil. Every pulse of fear, every spike of mistrust, reached him through the bond—even the ones they didn't suspect existed.
His wolf growled beneath his skin. She's in danger. They're moving too close.
Kael's eyes narrowed, shadows flickering over the ridges of Blackridge territory. The wind carried her scent faintly, wrapped in tension and defiance.
Soon, he thought. Soon we will cross paths, and nothing will be the same.
Back in Silvercrest, Elara closed her eyes and let the ache settle into determination. The pack blamed her. That didn't make it true. And if the Moon had plans for her, she would not falter beneath whispers and suspicion.
She would survive.
And when the time came, she would be ready.