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Chapter 4 - The Price of Survival

Dawn was a pale, sickly thing when it finally broke over the ruins. The crumbling stone walls offered little comfort, but Kaelen wasn't here for comfort. She needed time—time to think, time to breathe, time to plan.

She crouched near the remains of an old hearth, absently turning her dagger between her fingers. The blade felt different this morning. Not heavier, just… colder. Like the fight from the night before had left a residue she couldn't shake.

You can't outrun your blood.

She clenched her jaw, forcing the memory out of her mind. Focus on the present. That's how she'd survived this long—not by drowning in what was lost but by sharpening what remained.

The man from the woods wasn't just an enemy.

He was a message.

Someone knew who she was.

Someone wanted her dead.

But Kaelen wasn't going to die quietly.

She pulled herself to her feet, brushing dirt from her leathers. First, she needed information. She wasn't the type to ask nicely, which meant heading somewhere she could buy—or beat—answers out of someone.

The Hollow.

A city nestled between warring territories, The Hollow was a cesspool of mercenaries, thieves, and worse. If rumors had legs, that's where they ran fastest.

By the time she reached the outskirts, the sun was high, baking the mud roads into cracked veins beneath her boots. The Hollow was as filthy as she remembered—shanties stacked like broken bones, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and desperation.

Kaelen moved through it like she belonged. She did.

Her destination was a rundown tavern called The Crooked Fang, the kind of place where you could hire a killer, get stabbed, and still finish your drink before anyone noticed.

Inside, it was dark and loud, voices clashing with the clatter of mugs and the occasional thud of fists against flesh. Kaelen's presence drew a few looks—her blood-soaked cloak, the jagged scar across her jaw—but no one was stupid enough to approach.

She headed straight for the bar.

The barkeep was an old wolf with more scars than hair, polishing a glass that would never be clean. His name was Varek, and he knew things—because he made it his business to know.

"Drayce," Varek grunted, not looking up. "Didn't expect to see you breathing."

"Disappointed?" Kaelen leaned on the counter, her dagger tapping rhythmically against the wood. "I need information."

Varek finally glanced at her, one brow arched. "Don't we all?"

Kaelen slid a small pouch across the bar. It hit with the soft jingle of coin. "Make it worth your while."

Varek's hand covered the pouch, disappearing it like magic. "What's the question?"

Kaelen's voice dropped to a low growl. "A man found me. Tall, dark armor, eyes like… ash. Fast. Strong. Not human. He knew my name."

Varek stiffened, just for a second. But Kaelen noticed. She noticed everything.

"You've seen worse," she pressed.

Varek hesitated, then leaned in. "Word is, there's been a shadow moving through the territories. Not a name, not a face. Just a feeling. Packs disappearing. Entire outposts wiped clean—no bodies, no blood, nothing but ash left behind."

Kaelen's spine tensed.

"Some say it's a ghost. Others say it's something older." Varek's voice dropped lower. "Whatever it is, it's hunting. And now… it's hunting you."

Before Kaelen could respond, the door slammed open behind her.

Three men entered—mercenaries, judging by the mismatched armor and the stink of cheap bravado. Their leader's eyes locked on Kaelen like a wolf scenting blood.

"Drayce," he snarled, cracking his knuckles. "There's a bounty on your head. Dead or alive."

Kaelen smiled. Finally, something simple.

She stood slowly, blades sliding free with a hiss of steel.

"Then come and collect."

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