CHAPTER SEVEN - THE HOWL OF THE FORGOTTEN.
~Ava's POV~
The first howl shattered the silence like a scream through glass.
It wasn’t close.
But it was coming.
I stood frozen near the door, Damon’s cloak around my shoulders, Mira’s worn boots biting into my ankles. My fingers trembled slightly as I held the hilt of my hunting knife, small, dull at the edges, and suddenly very inadequate.
Damon was already outside.
I watched him from the porch, his silver hair tangled by the wind, blade strapped across his back. His shoulders were tense, still, like a wolf sensing a storm long before it broke.
“Damon,” I said. My voice was rough, barely above the wind. “What do we do?”
He didn’t look back. “They’re testing distance.”
“Testing?”
A second howl tore through the trees, closer this time. Too close.
“They don’t hunt alone,” he said.
I stepped down from the porch, the snow crunching beneath my feet. “How many?”
Damon turned slowly.
His expression was carved from stone. “Three. Maybe four. Scouts.”
“Scouts for what?”
His eyes met mine. “War.”
A cold breath lodged in my throat.
“They’re not just here for you,” he added. “They’re here for anyone who carries blood like yours.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer. Not immediately.
Instead, he moved forward, closing the distance between us, eyes fixed on me like I was something breakable and dangerous all at once.
“It means they’ll kill you before they let you wake.”
The word hung between us. Wake?
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“You don’t need to yet.”
I flinched. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Guarding me from the truth like I’ll break.”
“You already did,” he snapped.
Silence.
I took a breath, steadying the quake in my chest. “Then let me unbreak the right way.”
Something shifted in his face.
Then, from somewhere deep in the trees, came the unmistakable snap of branches under heavy steps.
I saw his eyes narrow, the frost creeping in.
“They’re close.”
I swallowed. “Do we fight?”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something colder. “We don’t have to. Not yet.”
“But they’ll find us.”
“They already have.”
Just then, the wind carried a sound that froze the air in my lungs.
Not a howl.
A voice.
Slick, smooth, serpentine.
“I smell her…”
Damon moved faster than thought, grabbing my arm and yanking me back toward the cabin.
“Inside. Now.”
“But…”
He turned on me, his voice a whip. “You’re not ready. If you face them now, you die. Understand?”
“But if they’re here for me…”
He slammed the door shut behind us and turned to face me, eyes glowing faintly with something else. “Then let them come for me.”
I stood, breath ragged, blade limp in my hand.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “Why are you protecting me like I matter?”
His shoulders rose and fell once. “Because you do.”
My heart twisted.
Another sound hit the cabin walls—a low, dragging growl. Something heavy is circling the edges.
I stepped forward. “I can fight—”
“No, Ava.” His voice dropped, thick with something too rough to be called fear. “You can’t fight what you don’t understand. Not yet.”
I clenched my jaw. “Then teach me.”
He stepped toward me, slowly.
“Do you know what it means to be marked?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He leaned in, just enough that I could see the faint scar along his collarbone. “It means you were chosen for a fate that’ll rip you open and stitch you back wrong. Over and over again.”
I swallowed hard. “Why me?”
“You’re not the first,” he said quietly. “But you may be the last.”
I froze. “What are they? The Shadowborn?”
“Wolves who gave up their souls in exchange for power.”
My fingers tightened on the knife. “You think I’ll become one of them?”
“No.” His gaze met mine. “I think you’ll destroy them.”
Another howl split the air. This one is right outside the door.
Damon turned sharply. “Stay behind me.”
My voice cracked. “Are you going to kill them?”
“If I can.” He drew his blade, the metal hissing. “If I can’t…”
He paused.
“…then you run.”
I didn’t argue.
Not because I agreed.
But because something inside me—low and burning—had already begun to stir.
Something older than fear.
The door shattered.
A blur of claws and black shadow surged through, too fast to think, too fast to breathe.
Damon was already moving.
Steel sang. Fang cracked against metal. The wolf, its fur darker than night—lunged, snarling, but Damon twisted with practiced grace. His blade drove deep, and a hot spray of blood streaked across the floorboards.
I stumbled back, breath caught sharp in my throat.
Another one.
Smaller. Quicker.
It slipped past Damon, straight for me.
I couldn’t even scream.
My arm moved before thought caught up. A blur. A flick of motion. The knife I’d tucked into my boot flew from my fingers.
A thunk. A howl.
It hit, buried deep in its shoulder. The creature faltered mid-leap.
Damon didn’t pause.
He was on it before its feet hit the ground, blade slicing through the silence. Flesh. Bone.
Two thuds.
Two bodies.
Still.
Then…quiet.
Except it wasn’t.
The third stepped into the threshold.
Taller. Broader. Eyes like tar left too long in the sun, burning, slick, wrong.
He didn’t move. Just stood there. Watching.
“You’re late,” he said, voice like gravel dragged across ice.
Damon stepped between us, blood dripping from his blade.
“I won’t let you take her.”
The Shadowborn’s smile was a grim slash of teeth. “She’s already chosen.” His eyes slid to mine. “Whether she wants to or not.”
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t back down.
My feet found the ground again. My voice, my spine.
I stepped forward.
“I’m not yours,” I said, throat raw but steady. “And I’m done hiding.”
The air shifted.
Something cold slithered through the room like a breath before a storm.
The Shadowborn’s smile faded, replaced by something colder.
“Then I’ll see you soon.”
He vanished.
Not a blink. Not a blur.
Gone.
Like he’d never been there at all.
The wind sighed through the broken door, snow spiraling in soft and soundless swirls.
Damon didn’t lower his blade.
Neither did I.
It wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Not by a long stretch.
Only when the fire cracked again, low and slow, did we finally move. Damon dropped to his knees, blood still sliding from a tear in his arm. I knelt beside him, grabbing the cloth and bowl from earlier.
No words.
Just warmth. Water. The sting of alcohol.
He hissed but didn’t pull away.
I wrapped the bandage tightly. He watched me, not blinking, as if I’d become something new.
Something real.
“They’ll come again,” he said.
“I know.”
He hesitated, jaw tight, voice rough. “You still think you’re weak?”
I looked at my blood-streaked hands. Then the dea
d on the floor.
“No,” I said softly. “Just unfinished.”
His breath was barely audible. His gaze didn’t waver.
And after a long moment, he nodded.
Like he understood.
Because maybe he was too.
Unfinished.
Broken in the same places.
But I'm no longer running.
