I sit straight up as pain shoots through my left wrist. White‑hot heat lectures my skin, diving me from the final chain of sleep. I swallow a scream long before sunrise kisses the window, and I slam my other hand on the groaning floor to steady myself.
My breath catches. I have to drag my shaking arm into my sight. A ragged splinter of silver light hangs over my palm—each breath driving splinters of fire down my arm. Muscles scream. My vision swims. I gulp back the bile, feeling copper on my tongue, but I fight not to lose to the nausea.
"Maris!" The fog is pierced by Rowan's voice. The door behind him is slammed open by a fist, and his healer's satchel is thrown to the floor. He's crouched, looking up at guan dao in hand, his eyes opened wide with fear and confusion, a hand held out in front of him.
"Back off," I snarl, agony searing with each word. "I can't—let you near."
He stops, his breath steaming before him with the cold of my small cottage. One oil lamp continues to flicker dimly on the table, its flame sputtering sullenly back against the darkness. Outside, the horizon oozes bruised purples and golds. Dawn should bring hope. Instead, it brings terror.
I clench my jaw, willing myself to tune out the heat that cuts like a blade through my veins. There's a power I can't controlling pulsing through my wrist. Just hours ago the crescent mark had been sleeping, the graven spoor of an ugly scar. Now it was throbbing, alive and hungry.
Rowan's voice softens. "Let me know what I'm facing."
I swallow hard. The silver crescent flares once more, burning deeper. My vision flashes white. I jump from the cot, mattress creaking beneath the sudden weight. Pain lances through every nerve. Dizziness and darkness strike me, whipping the cloak behind me like a black banner as I stagger toward a shrinkingly narrow door.
"Maris, wait!" Rowan pounces, but I dodge him, trembling so hard I think I'll drop. I let my boots clack across the worn wood floor as I walk out into the pre‑dawn chill.
Veils of storm clouds hang heavy over the checkerboard fields below. No birdsong. There was not a sign of life — nothing but the far horizon, black as if drawn in spilled ink. Mist oozes between fenceposts like unhappy souls.
I lean my back against the doorjamb holding my wrist as though it would rip from my hand. The agony cuts deeper than bone—like my blood's on fire. My wolf scratches at my brain, howling for freedom. I forcibly close my gob clenching my jaw so hard that I won't let the beast out.
There is Rowan behind me, shoulders hunched. His satchel is slung uneven on his side. "You're bleeding," he whispers, his voice is husky and urgent. "Let me staunch it."
"It isn't blood," I whisper, and it shakes my throat to say it. "It's…power." I look down, unable to look at the horror in his eyes. "Something's changed."
He drops to his knees next to me, gaze flicking from my shaking body to the thing on my wrist. His fingers are inches away from my wrist. "We can handle this," he breathes. "There's herbs—salves—"
"Herbs won't fix this." I push him gently but firmly away from me. My skin is alive everywhere his fingers have just hovered. The crescent waves, slivers of light wrestling on my veins. My core is liquid iron right now.
There is a low hum in the air. The lamp's flame gutterers, sputters — and is out. In a twinkling darkness envelops the cottage. A chill wind wiggles through the broken windowpanes, and with it comes a smell that makes my heart contort: rain, earth, and something wild.
"Rowan?" A voice small in the black, I murmur. There was nothing in response—just the hum growing louder, deeper. It thrums against my bones.
I sit up groggily, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. My hand jerks out to the crescent, which burns now brighter than ever, as if compelled by an innate reflex. The mark throws silver shadows on the walls, like claws raking wood.
Thick, crunching footsteps on the path outside. My heart hammers. Figures—silhouettes—assemble beyond the threshold. My wolf rushes forward, primal, enraged. Every instinct screams to flee, to fight.
I taste adrenaline. My senses grow keener: the smell of ozone, the far sound of thunder, and the unmistakable wail of wolves. Not one, but several, crawling across the fields like an animate tide.
"Maris!" Rowan's voice cracks with dread. He rushes me, but I pivot on him, baring my teeth. Not at him — at the dark beyond.
The door shakes on its hinges. Shadows burst inside. My lungs pump hot as I take in the smell of fur and wet dirt. Ragged and mournful, a single wolf's howl rending the night. And then another, and another — until the chorus of voices reminds the walls of the cottage who's boss.
My blood sings. The tug of the moon rakes at my heart. The silver crescent expands to a silver crescent moon, sharp and hungry. I grip the doorframe, and my knuckles go white.
Rowan scrambles to my side. He whispers, "Together." He wraps his hand over top of mine, firm and warm.
I nod—too stunned to speak. The wolves are almost here.
A deafening crash. The door shudders. Planks splinter. Unrefined energy crackles in the air. My wolf howls down deep inside me, an answer to the pack outside.
And then—silence.
It fades the shine of the silver crescent but I know it hasn't gone. It throbs under my skin, tying me to something old and unbidden.
Footsteps stomp closer. I raise my head, my breath returning. Rowan stands up straight beside me, his cloak dancing a billow in the sudden gust that puts our last lamp out.
"Whatever it is — " he says, and his voice is low, "we face it together."
A last howl rings through the broken night.
My jaw sets. My wolf purrs, ready.
I grip Rowan's hand tighter.
The door bursts inward.
And everything changes.