The words on the parchment are a brand of cold iron on my soul. They hunt for the scent of our magic. The forest, which only moments ago felt like a cradle, a place of discovery and nascent power, now feels like a cage. The tall, ancient trees are no longer sentinels of wisdom, but the bars of a prison, and I am the scented bait left inside.
Fear, cold and sharp, slides into my veins. It's a different fear from before. This is not the panicked terror of a helpless victim. This is the calculated dread of a soldier who has just read the enemy's battle plans and knows she is outnumbered and outflanked.
The Iron Hounds. The name itself is a discordant clang in the harmony of this living world. Forged in a dead world's silence. Hunters. They don't just kill witches; they are designed specifically for it.
The Moon-Fox senses the shift in me. It rises to its feet, the starlight fur on its back bristling. It lets out a low, anxious whine and presses against my leg, its sapphire eyes scanning the darkening tree line as if it, too, can feel the words I just read.
My first instinct is to run. To pack the journal and the knife into the satchel and flee, to put as much distance between myself and this clearing as possible. But the journal's warning holds me in place. They can smell the Moon's Mark. They don't hunt my body; they hunt my essence. My magic. My light. Running is futile. If I am a beacon, it doesn't matter how fast I move; they will see the light from over the horizon.
A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbles in my chest. What a cruel paradox. The very thing that is my salvation, my newfound identity and strength, is also the thing that will lead my killers to my door. For my entire life, I have been invisible, a worthless omega no one ever looked at twice. Now, in the world of magic, I am a blazing bonfire in the dead of night.
No. I will not be a beacon for my own executioners. I cannot run from my scent, so I must find a way to hide it. I must learn to snuff out my own light.
My hands, trembling with a new and desperate purpose, fly through the pages of the journal. I ignore the complex rituals for divination, the intricate charts for drawing down the moon's power, the detailed notes on coaxing life from barren soil. I search for something else. Something fundamental. Something defensive.
My eyes catch on a chapter title: "On Quieting the Light."
My heart leaps. I smooth the page with a shaking hand. The script here is calm and instructional, from before the frantic warnings at the end of the journal.
"The apprentice witch must learn that her spirit shines," it reads. "This is our gift and our curse. To a common beast or an unaware shifter, this light is invisible. But to those who hunt what is not mundane, it is a scent on the wind. Before one can learn to wield the flame, one must first learn to shield the candle. A Ward of Sight does not make one invisible to the eye, but it quiets the soul's scent, wrapping it in a shroud of stillness that mimics the mundane world. It is the first and most crucial act of defense."
Below, the instructions are disarmingly simple. A circle to focus the will. A focus of pure silver to anchor the light. A piece of the self—a drop of blood, a strand of hair—to bind the magic. And the words, a simple, rhyming couplet in the Old Tongue.
This is it. A way to fight back, not with claw, but with will. A way to survive.
Fear is still a cold stone in my gut, but now it is overlaid with a fierce, hot determination. I will not be helpless prey. I will learn. I will adapt. I will survive.
I take the small, silver-bladed knife from the satchel. The metal is cool and solid in my palm, a comforting weight. With the tip of the blade, I draw a small, perfect circle in the damp earth at my feet. The Moon-Fox watches, its body tense, its ears swiveling to catch every sound from the darkening woods.
Next, the piece of the self. My hand goes to my hair, pulling a long, brown strand free. The book says it must be given willingly. I lay the strand across the center of the circle.
Finally, the words. They look strange on the page, the letters an archaic and alien script. But as I look at them, an echo of understanding from the knowledge that flooded me earlier allows me to form them. I take a deep breath, my voice a wavering whisper in the quiet clearing.
"By breath of night and silver gleam,
Make me a shadow in the stream."
The words feel strange and powerful on my tongue, like tasting a foreign spice for the first time. I lean forward and plunge the silver knife into the center of the circle, right through the strand of my hair.
The effect is instantaneous.
I feel a distinct pull from the center of my being. It's not a violent rush, but a gentle, deliberate drawing out, like a single thread being carefully pulled from a tangled knot. A stream of cool, silvery energy flows from me, down my arm, and into the knife. The knife begins to glow, its cold light intensifying, and the circle on the ground shimmers, the dirt and mud briefly looking like a ring of liquid moonlight.
For a moment, it's working. I feel the magical 'scent' of myself, that bright, shining presence, being drawn into the circle, contained and dampened. The air around me seems to subtly shift, the vibrant, energetic lines I can now see in the world around me becoming muted, faded, as if a grey veil has been drawn over everything. I can feel myself becoming… quiet. Less distinct. It's an eerie, unsettling sensation, but it's a relief. It's the feeling of safety.
But I am new to this. A child playing with the forces of the cosmos. As I focus on pouring my energy into the ward, I feel my control slip for a fraction of a second. The gentle stream of power becomes a sudden, uncontrolled surge. It's not an explosion. It is a silent, invisible pulse. A flare of pure, raw magic that bursts from me before being sucked back into the ward.
It lasts only a heartbeat. But it is enough.
I know, with a sudden, gut-wrenching certainty, that I have made a terrible mistake. It was like striking a match to light a candle in a pitch-black cavern, but fumbling and sending a shower of brilliant, attention-grabbing sparks into the oppressive darkness.
A profound and unnatural silence descends on the clearing. The chirping of crickets ceases. The rustle of the wind in the leaves dies away. Even the Moon-Fox freezes, its body rigid, a low, guttural growl rumbling in its chest.
Then I feel it. A pressure. A cold, heavy feeling of being watched by something with no soul, no warmth, and no mercy. It is the gaze of the hunter that has found its quarry. My blood turns to ice water in my veins. My breath catches in my throat, trapped behind a wall of pure terror. They are here.
Hidden within the now-active ward, I crawl frantically behind the thick roots of the gnarled oak tree, my body trembling uncontrollably. My gaze is fixed on the edge of the clearing, on the deep, ominous shadows between the trees. I pray to a Goddess I no longer believe in that I am wrong, that it was just my fear.
But I am not wrong.
The shadows at the edge of the clearing darken, an inky, unnatural blackness that seems to absorb the fading twilight. Three figures detach themselves from the gloom, stepping into the clearing with a silent, synchronized purpose that speaks of a single, unified will.
They are not wolves. They are hulking, warped parodies of them, their bodies gaunt and mangy, their fur the color of grave-dirt. But their claws and teeth are not made of bone or keratin. They are forged from dull, black iron that seems to suck the light and color out of the air around them. And their eyes… their eyes are the most horrific part. They are not eyes at all, but empty, soulless pits of absolute blackness.
They are the Iron Hounds.