Logan ran.
Branches tore at his arms as he pushed through the undergrowth, every step pounding in rhythm with the thrum of blood in his ears. Lila was ahead of him, her cloak streaming behind her like the shadow of a hawk, pale fire still flickering in her hand. She moved with the grace of a predator, weaving through trees without hesitation, as if she knew these woods blindfolded.
Behind them, the howls faded into snarls. Into whispers.
"They're falling back," Logan gasped, slowing. "Why?"
"They won't cross into Wyrdekin territory tonight," Lila called over her shoulder. "Not with me burning the path."
He stumbled after her, chest heaving. His body didn't feel right—like it wasn't his anymore. Every muscle coiled tighter than it should, strength thrumming beneath his skin, nerves alight. His senses hadn't dulled since the attack; they'd sharpened.
"You're bleeding," Lila said suddenly.
Logan looked down. His side was wet and warm. Blood had soaked through his torn shirt, a slow seep from the earlier wound. He hadn't even noticed.
"I've had worse," he muttered.
"Stupid brag," she said flatly. "Come on. Almost there."
They broke through a thicket and into another clearing. This one was smaller, ringed by standing stones blackened with soot and time. Strange carvings curled across their surfaces, some filled with moss, others bleeding faint light like veins of quartz.
A small cabin hunched at the clearing's center. Stone walls, an iron roof, a chimney still puffing weak tendrils of smoke into the moonlit sky.
Lila led him inside.
The warmth hit him first—a woodstove's glow, faint but comforting. Shelves lined with jars and bones and things he didn't want to identify. Maps pinned to the walls. An old rifle was propped near the door.
Lila shut the door behind them, sliding three bolts into place.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing at a battered armchair near the fire.
Logan collapsed into it, suddenly aware of how badly he was shaking. His adrenaline was wearing off. The ache seeped deeper.
Lila crossed to a cabinet and pulled down a bottle and a small metal tin. She handed him the bottle.
"Drink."
Logan uncorked it and took a swig. Whiskey. Cheap, biting, perfect.
Lila knelt beside him, opening the tin to reveal a spool of black thread and a wicked-looking needle.
"Hold still."
"You know," Logan muttered, "most people ask first."
"I'm not most people."
She cleaned the wound with something that stung like hell, then began stitching. Her hands were quick, practiced, the needle darting in and out of his skin with mechanical precision.
"You're lucky," she said. "Claw marks like this should've gone deeper."
"Yeah," Logan said hoarsely. "Luck."
She tied the last knot and sat back, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You're healing faster than you should. That knife's the only reason you're still breathing."
Logan glanced at the blade, still sheathed at his belt. "You're gonna tell me what the hell this thing is?"
Lila hesitated. Then she stood, pacing the room like a restless wolf.
"That's not just a knife," she said finally. "It's a sigil blade. Old. Older than the clans. Designed to kill our kind. Or bind us."
Logan's stomach twisted. "Someone gave me that. Told me to stay alive."
"They weren't wrong," Lila said quietly.
She stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. Her amber eyes glowed faintly in the firelight.
"You don't belong to Bloodhowl," she said. "And you're not Wyrdekin either. You're… something else. Something neither side's prepared for."
Logan leaned forward. "Start talking. What the hell's going on?"
Lila sighed, rubbing her temples. "Long story."
"I'm not going anywhere."
A faint smile tugged her lips. "No. I guess you're not."
She crossed to a shelf and pulled down an old leather-bound book, flipping it open to a page filled with sketches—wolf shapes, sigils, battle scenes.
"Two main clans have ruled the wild bloodlines since the Schism," she explained. "The Wyrdekin—my people—we believe in staying hidden. Living alongside humanity without interfering. The Bloodhowl… they want war. Revenge. They think humans betrayed us. Hunted us into hiding."
Logan frowned. "And which side wants me dead?"
"Both, probably."
"Great."
She flipped the page, revealing a sketch of a man half-shifting—claws, fangs, wild eyes. "You weren't turned by a bite," she said. "No infection. No curse. You woke up with it."
"Yeah," Logan said darkly. "Trust me. I noticed."
"That means it's in your blood," Lila said. "An inherited trait. Old bloodlines—ones we thought were extinct."
He stared at the drawing. "So what? I'm some ancient werewolf prince or something?"
Lila laughed, short and bitter. "Hardly. But you're tied to the old ways. The Pale Packs. Before the clans split. Before the war."
Logan sat back, trying to process. "Why does that matter now?"
"Because Bloodhowl's leader—Ashe Corvin—he's searching for anyone with old blood. Anyone who can break the Balance."
"What balance?"
"The one keeping the clans from ripping the world apart."
A howl sounded in the distance.
Logan stiffened. "They followed us."
"No," Lila said grimly. "That wasn't for you."
She moved to the window, peering out into the night.
"They're hunting someone else."
Logan stood, muscles coiled. "The girl."
Lila's head turned sharply. "What girl?"
"Juno," Logan said. "She's why I came here. She went missing four days ago near Black Hollow. She's out there somewhere."
Lila's expression darkened. "Bloodhowl doesn't take hostages."
Logan's jaw tightened. "Then what do they take?"
"Blood," Lila said softly. "Or vessels."
Something cold slid down Logan's spine.
"I'm going after her," he said.
"You're not ready."
"Doesn't matter."
Lila stepped in front of him, blocking the door. "If you go out there tonight, you won't come back."
"Then come with me."
Silence stretched between them.
Outside, the howls multiplied. Closer. Angrier.
Lila's shoulders slumped. "Damn it, Wren."
She grabbed the rifle by the door, slinging it over her shoulder.
"Fine," she said. "We hunt at dawn."
Logan's lips curled into a grim smile. "Sounds like a plan."
But in the pit of his stomach, he knew—
Dawn might be too late.