Mist still curled along the floorboards where the hooded stranger had stood moments ago. The sigil he had carved into the doorframe glimmered silver-red like a wound that refused to close. Selene’s claws were still out, breath shallow and quick. He was gone, but the echo of his words lingered: You carry something you don’t understand.

She pressed a trembling hand to her belly. The warmth there pulsed once, sharp, insistent—like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. “I won’t let them take you,” she whispered. Her wolf shifted under her skin, pacing, ears pinned, a low rumble in her throat.

She slammed the door shut and slid the latch. With shaking fingers she gathered salt, moonwort, strands of dried herbs. She traced the warding circles Eira had taught her, sprinkling salt in the corners, pressing leaves into the seams of the door, humming the low tune that steadied her wolf. The sigil’s glow dulled but did not fade completely. She pressed her palm against it and hissed as cold bit into her skin.She caught herself scanning the cabin, noting every creak in the rafters, every shadow in the corners. Even the smell of the herbs seemed sharper, edged with metal. Her wolf prowled, wanting to test the intruder’s scent, but all that lingered was damp earth. Selene moved to the window and stared out into the mist. No shape, no eyes , just a silence that felt heavier than noise.”

When at last the cabin felt steady again she sank by the hearth, arms wrapped around herself. Eira was gone. No one was coming. Whatever hunted her would keep coming back. That left only one choice: grow stronger.

Sleep never came. She lay awake on the floorboards, the glow from the hearth dimming to embers, listening for the faintest footstep. When the sky finally lightened she rose stiffly, as if she’d aged years overnight. Training wasn’t a choice anymore; it was survival.”

Dawn came pale and wet. Selene stepped into the clearing behind the cabin, boots squelching in moss. Mist clung to the trees like cobwebs. Her wolf stretched inside her like smoke in glass, restless and eager. She knelt, palms to the earth, breathing slow until the pulse of the forest rose under her hands, roots, stream, wind, all steady and alive.

Listen with it, not above it, she reminded herself. Eira’s voice without Eira’s presence. The ache of absence stung but she pushed it aside.

She rose and moved through the drills she remembered: call the wolf without shifting fully, extend claws, heighten senses, then let them recede. Again. Again. Sweat ran down her back despite the cold. Her belly tightened each time power flared; she pressed a hand there to steady it and kept going.

On the fourth round something strange happened. A silver wind swept the glade though the trees were still. Pine needles shivered as if in a tide. The Moon above, pale even in daylight, dimmed for a heartbeat like an eclipse. Tiny sparks floated between her fingers, as if the air itself had turned to fireflies. Her wolf hissed in surprise. The sparks winked out but the pulse in her belly came back stronger, answering her.

She staggered back, staring at her hands. “Lira… was that you?” she whispered. No answer. Only the hush of the forest.

Afternoons smelled of herbs. Selene walked the woods alone, gathering what she remembered: moonwort, crow’s-root, fever-fern. Her fingers brushed leaves until she knew them by touch alone. She listened for the soft crack of branches, the hiss of unseen eyes, but nothing came close. Still, she kept her claws half-extended as she worked.

Back at the cabin she ground, steeped and strained the herbs into potions: fever-breakers, salves, protective oils. Her hands stained green and brown; her eyes stayed sharp. Sometimes when she worked she saw flashes that weren’t hers: a hall lit by torches, Kael’s scarred hands on a map, Rowan’s voice in the distance. They came and went like dreams. She didn’t know if they were real or traps. She only knew they left her heart hammering.

The Wild Bond, she thought once. It isn’t just her reaching out. It’s me reaching back.

One afternoon she bent to collect moonwort and the stream beside her suddenly rose in a silver spray though no wind blew. For a second the water reflected not her face but a great white wolf with burning eyes. She blinked and the image was gone. Her belly fluttered hard as if the child had kicked.

Evenings she built new protective circles, this time weaving in a few strands of her own hair as Eira had hinted once. The circle shone faintly blue then settled into the moss. Inside it the air felt steadier, her wolf calmer. She would sit cross-legged within, eyes closed, letting the pulse of the forest echo through her until she could feel each heartbeat of root and river.

But when she opened her eyes she sometimes saw things that shouldn’t be there: far away through the trees a flicker of torches where no path should be; a smell of sickness on the wind—iron, ash and something rotten. She blinked and it would be gone. Only mist remained.

A vision? A warning? She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling two heartbeats echo in one chest. “We’ll be ready,” she whispered. “Whatever’s coming.”

Inside the cabin the mark on the door still glimmered faintly, silver-red like an eye half-open. Outside, the wind carried a low, distant howl. Not wolf. Not human.

Selene closed the shutters and set another ward. Alone in the dim light she whispered to the child she hadn’t yet seen: “They’re hunting us, but we’re learning. They won’t win.”

Above the trees the Moon flickered again, silver, then dark, then silver as if a heartbeat pulsed through the sky itself. Selene felt the child shift inside her, not in fear but in answer.

And in the mist beyond the cabin, unseen eyes shifted, watching, waiting for her next move.