The next morning in Ashwood dawned gray, the sky swollen with clouds that promised rain. Aria rose before the bell, her body heavy with the weight of restless dreams. She had not slept well; each time she closed her eyes, she felt the heat of golden eyes staring back at her, heard the whisper of padded paws over fallen leaves.

And the mark—always the mark.

Even when she bound it beneath linen, she felt its pulse, a quiet ember under her skin.

She shook her head as if the motion could dislodge the thoughts. She had work to do. Routine was the only weapon she had against the chaos her life threatened to become.

She gathered bundles of herbs into her basket and set out for the market. The town was already stirring, merchants hammering poles into the ground, chickens darting between boots. But as she walked, she noticed something she hadn’t before—hushed voices that quieted when she drew near, eyes that slid away too quickly.

At first, she thought it was her imagination. Ashwood folk had always been kind, if distant. But when she paused to trade dried sage with the butcher’s wife, the woman leaned close and whispered, “Keep your head down, Aria. Don’t go looking where you shouldn’t.”

Aria blinked. “I… beg your pardon?”

The woman pressed the bundle of coins into her hand and shook her head, lips pressed thin. “Some men bring trouble with them. Trouble best left to the woods.”

Aria’s heart stumbled in her chest. She didn’t ask the question burning her tongue, because she already knew the answer. The woman meant him. The dark-haired stranger whose eyes had pinned her in the square.

She left quickly, but the whispers followed her—snatches of conversation carried on the wind.

“Shadowpine Alpha…”

“…dangerous… blood on his hands…”

“…why would he come here?”

Alpha.

The word jolted through her like a spark. It explained everything and nothing at once. She knew the stories, of course—every child in Ashwood grew up on them. Wolves that walked like men, clans bound by blood and moonlight. Most dismissed them as tales meant to frighten children from wandering the forest. But she remembered her mother’s warnings, spoken with too much urgency to be dismissed as superstition.

Stay away from the shadows, Aria. Stay away from the wolves.

Her grip tightened on her basket. Wolves belonged in stories. Not in markets. Not standing close enough that her skin burned under their gaze.

By the time she reached her cottage again, her thoughts churned so loud she could hardly hear herself think. She set the basket on the table, then moved to the chest that sat at the foot of her bed.

It was an old thing, scarred wood bound in iron. She had not opened it since her mother’s death. But now, with her mark glowing faintly under her collarbone, she couldn’t ignore the weight of it any longer.

The lock gave with a reluctant creak. Inside lay bundles of yellowed parchment, herbs dried to dust, and at the very bottom, a leather-bound journal. Her mother’s handwriting curled across the first page in a careful, looping script.

Aria flipped through the pages, her breath catching as she found notes that made no sense.

“—curse runs through blood, bound by moonlight…”

“—the marked will either save or destroy…”

“—if she is chosen, keep her hidden, keep her safe…”

Her hands shook. She turned another page, but the words smeared as though water had spilled across the ink, leaving only fragments.

The Alpha… the bond… the price of betrayal…

Aria slammed the journal shut, her chest tight. A curse? Bound by blood? None of it made sense, yet her mark seemed to throb harder with every word she had read.

She rose and paced the length of the cottage, restless energy sparking through her veins. She wanted answers. She wanted to march back to the market and demand them from the stranger with storm-dark eyes. But what would she say? Why does my blood burn when you look at me? Why do my dreams fill with your wolf?

A sharp knock startled her. She nearly dropped the journal.

When she opened the door, it was only Mrs. Carter with her order of lavender. But even as the woman smiled, her eyes darted to Aria’s collarbone, to the faint shimmer she hadn’t realized was visible.

“You should cover that,” Mrs. Carter said softly. “There are eyes in Ashwood that notice too much.”

Aria swallowed. “It’s nothing. Just… a mark.”

Mrs. Carter’s mouth tightened. “No mark glows like the moon. Be careful, child.”

Aria closed the door with her heart pounding.

She pressed a hand to her mark, heat blooming under her fingers.

Who am I becoming?

That night, sleep offered no peace.

The wolf was waiting again, golden eyes burning. But this time he didn’t stay still. He circled closer, each step slow, deliberate, his breath a warm rush against her skin. She felt the rumble of a growl, not threatening but claiming.

Her pulse thundered. She should run. She should scream. Instead, she reached out, fingers trembling.

The moment her hand brushed his fur, the mark on her chest ignited, white-hot. She gasped—and woke, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, her body aching with a heat she didn’t understand.

She pressed her face into her pillow, shivering.

Somewhere in the distance, faint but certain, a howl rose into the night. And though every story she had ever been told should have filled her with fear, she felt only one thing.

Longing.