Aria Vale woke before dawn, as she always did. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth through the open shutters of her little cottage. Morning light hadn’t yet reached the valley, but the forest was already alive with whispers — birds shifting in the branches, the distant creek humming its endless song.

She rose from bed and tied her braid quickly, the dark waves falling heavy over one shoulder. Her hands were always busy: fetching water from the well, grinding herbs in the mortar, folding dried bundles of lavender to sell in town. Most days were simple, predictable. She liked them that way.

Except for the dreams.

Every night that week, she’d dreamt of a wolf.

Not just any wolf, but a massive creature of midnight fur and golden eyes. He never attacked. He only stared at her across some unseen boundary, muscles coiled, as if waiting for her to make the first move. She would wake with her heart racing, her skin damp with sweat, and the strange heat low in her belly that she dared not name.

Today, though, her dreams followed her into waking.

While tending the fire, a sharp pulse of pain seared just below her collarbone. She winced, clutching her chest. When she tugged down her shift, the sight stopped her breath: a faint silver glow, curved like a crescent moon, burned against her skin.

“What in the Goddess’ name…”

She touched it. The mark was warm, as if lit from beneath by living flame. It didn’t fade when she rubbed at it.

Then the sound came.

A howl, deep and resonant, rolled over the valley. The mug in her hand slipped and shattered on the floor. She clapped a hand over her mouth, heart hammering.

Wolves were said to haunt the borderlands — stories told by mothers to frighten their children indoors. But no tale had ever described a howl that made your blood answer, rushing faster, louder, like a drumbeat echoing the sound.

She forced herself to move, to clean the broken mug, to pack her basket with remedies for the Miller’s boy. But the mark burned beneath her collarbone with every step, and the echo of that howl would not leave her ears.

The town of Ashwood was small, pressed close to the forest’s edge. By the time Aria arrived with her basket, the streets were stirring with merchants setting up their stalls. She greeted people with her usual polite smile, ignoring the throbbing mark hidden beneath her shawl.

“Morning, Aria,” called Mrs. Carter, the baker’s wife. “Another late night of herbs and potions?”

Aria smiled faintly. “When people keep falling ill with fevers, someone has to brew the remedies.”

She delivered her medicines, traded coin for dried herbs, and tried her best to appear normal. Yet she felt anything but. Every movement, every passing glance, seemed to scrape against her skin.

It was then she noticed him.

Across the market, a tall man stood apart from the bustle. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with an air of command that bent the space around him. His eyes—impossibly sharp—locked on hers, and for an instant she couldn’t breathe.

Heat surged from her mark, spreading across her chest like wildfire. She pressed her hand against it, startled.

He began to move toward her.

Each step was slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The crowd parted without him asking, merchants lowering their voices, villagers stepping aside instinctively.

Aria’s throat went dry. Whoever he was, he wasn’t ordinary. He carried power the way storms carried thunder—unspoken but impossible to ignore.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low, smooth, but edged with something dangerous.

Her tongue tangled in her mouth. “Do I… know you?”

His gaze flicked briefly to her shawl, to where the glow pulsed beneath. Her skin burned as if he could see straight through fabric and flesh.

“No,” he said at last. “But I know what you are.”

She stepped back, clutching her basket. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A faint curve touched his lips, though it was not a smile. “You will.”

Before she could answer, another man joined him—a broad, watchful figure with pale eyes. The first one turned away, dismissing her without another word, and the pair melted into the crowd as swiftly as they’d appeared.

Aria stood frozen, her heart pounding against her ribs. The mark on her chest burned hotter than ever, and though she didn’t know his name, she knew one thing for certain:

The man was dangerous.

And the moment his eyes touched hers, something inside her had already chosen him.

That night, the dreams returned.

The wolf waited for her again in the forest of her mind. Only this time, he stepped closer, close enough that she felt his breath stir the air against her throat. Golden eyes pierced hers, and the mark on her chest flared in answer.

Mine, the word pulsed—not spoken, but carved into her blood.

Aria jolted awake, hand pressed to her racing heart, breath ragged.

She didn’t see the shadow outside her window, or the tall figure standing at the edge of the trees. Watching. Waiting. Fighting the pull that told him to claim her then and there.