> "When wolves bleed, predators come. When monsters bleed, gods notice."
---
The command echoed across the smoldering woods:
"Bring me the runt alive."
The Ravenscourge moved instantly—no hesitation, no question. Their war instincts snapped into focus like blades unsheathed. Ten pairs of blood-dripping eyes turned from the burning corpses of Selene's kin to her.
And they smiled.
Selene stumbled back. Her breath fogged in the heat. The dagger in her grip felt suddenly smaller. Lighter. Almost useless.
But she didn't run.
Not yet.
The black phantom beast behind her shimmered like oil and smoke, its jaws snapping in sync with her heartbeat. She could feel it now—not just beside her, but within her.
> Not a curse.
Not a gift.
A bond.
One of the Ravenscourge—a woman with iron piercings hammered through her face and three blades welded into her fingers—charged first. No words. Just a growl and a leap.
Selene didn't think. She rolled aside.
The woman struck the dirt, spinning with beastlike grace, swiping her claw-blades toward Selene's spine.
The phantom lunged.
It passed through Selene and slammed into the attacker with a snarling wail, like death howling into bone. The woman screamed, clutching her head as if something clawed at her from the inside.
Her skull cracked.
She dropped, twitching.
The others slowed.
Selene turned slowly toward them, the blood-mist curling around her legs like smoke from a dying god.
"Still want me alive?" she asked hoarsely.
They did.
But now with caution.
Two circled wide. One crept from behind. Another sprinted up the trees to strike from above.
Selene's pulse spiked.
She couldn't win this—not against six. Not wounded. Not alone.
> Run.
The voice wasn't hers.
It was beneath her voice. Ancient. Deep.
The phantom's eyes glowed in the dark.
Selene turned and ran.
---
Branches clawed at her face. Roots threatened her footing. Fire closed in from all sides. But the forest—her forest—seemed to shift for her. Trees parted. Wind rose. Shadows bent.
And behind her—death chased her on four paws.
The Ravenscourge didn't howl. They didn't bark. They hunted. Silently. Swiftly.
She leapt over a stream of fire. Skidded down a slope of ash. Her arm throbbed. Her lungs burned.
A blur slammed into her from the left.
Selene hit the ground hard, face-first, her dagger flying from her hand.
The Ravenscourge wolf atop her was lean, fast, grinning.
"I'll take your legs first," he hissed, "then your throat. But don't worry—your alpha wants your heart intact."
Selene spat blood into his eye.
He recoiled.
She bit his neck.
Teeth—not claws, not blades—her teeth tore into his skin. He screamed.
She drove her knee into his gut, shoved him off, and grabbed a broken branch beside her.
She jammed it into his chest—again and again.
When he stopped moving, she screamed wordlessly into the forest. Blood on her lips. Tears on her face. Ash in her hair.
> This wasn't survival.
> This was war.
---
She turned—and froze.
The cloaked figure stood on a nearby cliff, watching.
Unmoving. Unbothered. As if this entire battle was theater.
Then he raised his hand again.
But this time—he didn't point.
He beckoned.