Chapter 1: Mist and Arrival
The wind howled like it had a grudge as Rowan Hayes wrestled with the steering wheel of his rented Land Rover. The Scottish Highlands stretched out around him, a sea of mist that swallowed the road and turned the world into a gray blur. Up ahead, a blood-red moon hung low, its light bleeding into the fog and making the whole scene feel off, like something out of a dream he couldn't shake. He squinted at the map crumpled on the passenger seat. Skyevale was supposed to be close, but with the fog this thick, he might as well have been driving blind.
Rowan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the ache from hours on the road. He wasn't used to this kind of isolation. Back in London, he was the guy who could explain away a fox raid or a badger's mess with a quick look at the evidence. A wildlife researcher with a head full of science, he'd taken this job for the grant money and the chance to get away from the noise of the city. Strange animal attacks in some backwater town? Probably just a big cat or a dog gone wild. The locals' talk of curses and moonlit beasts sounded like campfire tales, the kind he'd always laughed off. Still, the quiet out here had a way of getting under his skin.
The first glimpse of Skyevale came like a ghost rising from the mist, stone cottages huddled together, their roofs sagging under years of rain and wind. The main street was empty, save for a few dim streetlamps flickering like they were about to give up. He pulled up to an inn called The Moon's Whisper, its sign creaking with every gust. The name made him smirk… someone here had a flair for the dramatic.
Stepping out, the damp air hit him hard, seeping through his jacket. He grabbed his duffel bag, the weight of his gear pulling at his shoulder, and pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, the warmth wrapped around him, thick with the smell of peat smoke and old beer. A few locals turned to look, their faces weathered and suspicious, like they weren't sure what to make of a stranger. Behind the bar, a burly man with a wild beard wiped a glass with a rag that looked like it hadn't been clean in years.
"Evening," Rowan said, dropping his bag at his feet. "I need a room. Name's Hayes. Called ahead."
The innkeeper grunted, his voice rough as the stones outside. "Aye, we've got ye. Room three, upstairs. Breakfast at dawn if ye can handle it." He slid a key across the counter, his eyes lingering a bit too long. "Ye here about the attacks, then?" Rowan nodded, keeping it simple. "Just looking into what's been going on. Wildlife stuff."
A low mutter rolled through the room, uneasy and sharp. An old woman in the corner crossed herself, her lips moving in a silent prayer. "Silent Moon's curse," she whispered, loud enough for him to catch. He ignored it, scooping up the key and heading for the stairs. But a voice stopped him short.
"Wait. Take this."
He turned to see a young woman stepping out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, and her eyes carried a depth that made him pause. There was something steady about her, like she belonged here in a way he never could. She held out a lantern, its flame dancing behind the glass.
"Power goes out at night," she said, her voice soft with a Highland lilt. "I'm Elara. My dad runs the place."
Rowan took the lantern, nodding. "Thanks. I'm Rowan."
She met his gaze, her expression hard to read, but there was a shadow in her eyes, like she was holding something back. "Watch yourself out there. The mist hides things, and not all of them are just animals."
He gave a small laugh, brushing it off. "I've dealt with my share of wildlife. They usually run from me."
Elara didn't smile. She glanced at the window, where the blood moon stared down. "Sometimes they don't," she said quietly, then turned back to her work. Up in his room, the place felt lived-in but worn. Creaky bed, peeling wallpaper, a window that rattled with the wind. Rowan unpacked his stuff: notebooks, camera traps, a tranquilizer gun he hoped he wouldn't need. The walls were thin, and voices drifted up from below, snippets of conversation that stuck with him.
"…another outsider, stirrin' up the pack's business…"
"…Silent Moon's comin'. Blood'll call to blood…"
He shook his head, chalking it up to small-town nerves. After a quick shower in the tiny bathroom, he stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling beams. Sleep came in bits, broken by dreams of shadows moving through the fog, their eyes glowing like coals.
Morning brought rain, a steady patter against the window that woke him to a gray dawn. The mist was thicker now, clinging to everything. Downstairs, the inn was quiet except for Elara setting out plates of porridge and eggs. She moved with a calm grace, her hands steady as she worked.
"Morning," he said, sliding into a chair. "Got any coffee? Tea's not my thing." She poured him a mug without a word, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Americans and their coffee. It'll do the trick, at least."
As he ate, Rowan spread his map on the table, tracing the forest edges with his finger. "You've been here a while, right? Anyone I should talk to about these attacks? I'm heading out to the woods today."
Elara paused, her hand tightening on the rag she was using. "The forest's tricky this time of year. Folks say the Silent Moon brings out the old ones (the alphas), they call them."
"Alphas?" He leaned in, curious despite himself. "Like wolves? Thought they were gone from here."
Her eyes locked with his, steady and serious. "Not all packs are just wolves, Rowan. Some are tied by blood, by curses older than these hills. My gran used to say the moon quiets the weak and wakes the beast inside."
He tilted his head, intrigued but skeptical. "Sounds like a good story. I'm just after tracks and signs, though. Stick to what I can see."
She nodded, but her look stayed troubled. "Just get back before dark. The mist doesn't let go easily."
He agreed with a nod, grabbed his gear, and stepped into the rain. The forest loomed ahead, a dark wall of trees that seemed to watch him. The ground squelched under his boots as he followed a muddy path, the air heavy with wet earth and pine. Birds chirped now and then, their calls muffled, like they didn't want to be heard.
Hours later, he found the first sign…. a deer, or what was left of it, torn apart with claw marks that didn't add up. Too big for a fox, too wild for a dog. He knelt, snapping photos, his mind turning over possibilities. "Not wolves," he muttered. "Can't be."
The sun dipped lower, and the mist thickened, wrapping around him like a damp cloak. A low growl rumbled from the trees, stopping him cold. He spun, hand on his tranquilizer gun, but saw nothing, just shadows shifting in the fog. Then, eyes…amber and glowing…. stared back from the underbrush. "Easy," he whispered, stepping back, his heart thudding. This wasn't like any animal he'd tracked before. It felt… aware.
The thing lunged, a blur of fur and teeth. Pain ripped through his shoulder as claws tore into him, blood soaking his shirt. He fired the tranq dart blindly, heard a yelp, then the world went black.
When he came to, the moon was higher, its red glow faded to silver. His shoulder burned, but the wound was already scabbing over, faster than it should. Stumbling back to the inn, he burst through the door, collapsing into a chair. Elara rushed over, her hands quick as she checked the injury.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice tight.
"Something got me," he rasped, wincing. "Big. Like a wolf, but...…. "
Her face went pale, but she didn't look surprised. "The pack's mark," she said softly. "It's started."
Rowan leaned back, breathing hard. The pain, the healing, those eyes, it didn't make sense. What had he walked into? And why did Skyevale feel like it was waiting for him to figure it out?