The first time they saw him, he looked like something the woods had swallowed and then spat back out. A man carved from dusk and battle.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like something meant to endure the worst of winters, he moved through the forest not like a traveler, but like a ghost returned to the place it died. His skin held the warmth of sun-dried earth, but there was something cold in the sharpness of his cheekbones, in the quiet fury stitched into the furrow of his brow. Loose strands of raven-dark hair curled against his temple, damp with the weight of mist, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—were the kind of pale that demanded attention. Not grey. Not blue. Something between stormlight and a wolf's moon.
Under his cloak his shirt was half-unbuttoned, the linen clinging to his chest with the damp of sweat and night air, revealing a body sculpted by war and wandering. And though he walked with the slow, even pace of someone who didn't fear ambush, the edge of him was ever-braced. Tense. Waiting.
He did not know what he was looking for.But he felt it.Something—someone—was pulling him forward.
He walked into the border village just before dawn, when the mist was still thick and the wolves had not yet shifted back into skin. The hunters paused, instinct bristling against his presence. Not just because he was large, or armed, or quiet. But because something in him rang wrong.
He didn't smell like a rogue.He didn't smell like anything at all.
His name—when someone finally asked—was Alaric.
He gave no last name. But the oldest wolves in the village, the ones who still whispered their grandmother's prayers to the Moon when no one was listening, looked into his eyes and went very still.
Because they'd heard of Draugrson. The line cursed by the gods.The blood that couldn't die. The wolf whose mates never lived past their first moon.
They said he'd been born three generations ago.They said he'd died in battle—twice.They said he'd walked through fire, through winter, through every war the old kingdoms ever fought.
And here he was again.
Alive. Alone. And looking like he didn't quite know why.
Alaric didn't speak much. He didn't need to.
His presence was enough. Sharp, heavy, the way a storm rolls in—not fast, but inevitable. He took odd jobs, avoided full moons. He did not howl.
But sometimes, late at night, he stood at the edge of the trees, head tilted slightly to the sky.
As if listening for something he'd forgotten.
On the third night in the village, something called him into the woods.
The forest whispered secrets in its branches.
He'd passed through this region before, he was sure of it. Though the memory slid through his grasp like water, he recognized the way the wind moved here, the curve of the hills, the scent of something just beyond reach.
And then, deeper among the brambles, he saw it.
A mark.
Carved into the bark of an ancient tree, barely visible beneath lichen and time: a jagged, curling rune. Old magic. Older than any pack or priestess he'd known. And still, his blood reacted.
His breath caught.
The symbols spun like a wheel in his skull—flashes of flame, snow, laughter, her, and then nothing.
He staggered back, dizzy, a sharp ache blooming behind his eyes.
And that's when he heard the scream.
It wasn't loud.It didn't need to be.
A woman's cry, strangled with pain and shock, pierced through the branches like a blade. Alaric didn't think. His body moved before memory could argue.
He ran.
Branches clawed at his shirt. Brambles tore at his forearms. The air grew thicker with scent—blood, not yet dried. Magic, sharp and rotten.
And then, in a clearing of overturned stone and sickly moonlight, he found her.
She was on her knees, arms braced around a basket of scattered herbs, blood running down her forearm where something had slashed through skin. Pale hair spilled like moonlight over her shoulders, tangling with the torn laces of her blouse. Her eyes—green and wide—locked on him for a single heartbeat, and he felt it.The thread.
Time halted.
And then the thing lunged.
It was barely a shape—shadow and teeth and too many eyes. A creature birthed of curse and bone-deep rage. It was fast.
But he was faster.
Alaric moved like something born to break monsters. His body collided with the beast mid-charge, knocking it off-course. He drew his blade—short, curved, silver-etched—and drove it into the creature's flank.
It shrieked.
Clawed him across the ribs.
He grunted but didn't fall. His grip held. His blade twisted. He fought with the desperation of a man who didn't care if he bled—because he'd bled before. Many times. And he always got back up.
This time was no different.
The creature's body thrashed, spasmed… then collapsed.
Alaric swayed.
And finally dropped to one knee, breath ragged, blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt.
The woman—Isolde Silvanne, though he did not know her name—was already beside him.
"Gods, you're bleeding," she whispered, voice soft but commanding. "Hold still."
His gaze flickered up, locking on hers.
That face—so familiar. As if he'd dreamed it. As if he'd spent lifetimes searching for it and forgotten why.
"Who…" he rasped, but the darkness pressed in.
Her fingers found his wrist, his pulse, her other hand steady against his jaw.
"Save your strength. I'll take you back. My cottage's not far."
"You shouldn't…"
"I heal, stranger. It's what I do. Let me."
And whether it was her voice, her touch, or the thread humming like a heartbeat in his chest—he let go.
The night swallowed them both.