Novelas de Raine Whitlock

N Y X A R AI wake up cold. It presses through my back and into my shoulders, like the ground is trying to remember me. I don’t open my eyes right away. I check my body first. That habit survives most things. I try my hands. They don’t move. There’s pressure at my wrists, even on both sides, like whatever’s holding me down thought about leverage. I try my ankles next. Same answer.My limbs feel slow.Heavy. Awake, but not responding right. Like they’re waiting for permission that isn’t coming. The last thing I remember is his breath at my throat. The word he used. Then heat. Then nothing. I’m alive. That settles fast.The second thought comes just as clean. I’m not free. I open my eyes. The ceiling is stone. Dark, but clean. No cracks. No moss. I catalog the angle of the light, where it’s coming from, what time it might be. My neck is stiff when I turn my head, but not painful.I reach for the bite without thinking. My fingers stop short. I can’t reach it anyway. I swallow instead. It’

N Y X A R AThe wolf moves closer. At a pace that doesn’t ask permission. Just forward, like the distance between us was always meant to close and I’m only now catching up to that fact. I pull a blade free. Late. My fingers fumble the wrap for half a second before muscle memory snaps it into place. The sound feels too loud. Metal whispering in a forest that has gone quiet again.The clearing behind me feels farther than it should. Like a memory I’m already losing access to. The wolf lowers his head. I don’t wait for him to decide what that means. I move first. Left blade high. Right low. I cut in, not aiming for the throat. Shoulder. Joint. Anything that slows him. I don’t need to kill him. I just need space.He lunges and I pivot, boots skidding in loose dirt, blade flashing past his ribs. I feel the resistance this time. The give. I slice and pull back hard. Blood darkens his fur. He doesn’t make a sound. The cut doesn’t slow him. I duck under a snapping jaw and roll, coming up on

N Y X A R AI don’t move. That’s the first mistake. Or maybe the last clean one. The gathering continues as if nothing has changed. Voices low. Bodies shifting in slow, deliberate ways. The kind of movement meant to look casual while staying ready.I stay at the edge. Exactly where I was. My breath is steady, but I’m too aware of it now. On the way my chest rises. Of how my weight favors my back foot, prepared for motion I haven’t chosen yet. The scent hasn’t faded.If anything, it’s closer. Sharper. That same cold-metal bite, sitting heavy at the back of my throat. I swallow and keep my gaze lowered, fixed on the ground just ahead of me. I don’t search for him. I already know where he is.The knowledge sits wrong in my body. Like a misaligned joint. Subtle. Constant. I tell myself I’m still observing. That nothing has happened yet. That being seen doesn’t change the task. But the space feels narrower now. Not physically. Intentionally. As if the clearing has decided I belong to it.I

N Y X A R AThe village sits where the road thins and pretends it isn’t about to end. No marker to tell you when you’ve crossed. No gate to stop you. Just fewer ruts in the dirt and a way the trees lean closer, like they’re trying to hear what’s being said. I slow my pace without meaning to. Not because I’m tired. Because rushing feels noticeable here.I pull my hood up. Let my shoulders round. Traveler posture. Harmless. I’ve worn it long enough that it settles on me easily. People move aside as I pass. Not sharply. No fear flare. Just a soft adjustment, like water parting around a stone. They don’t stare. They don’t ask where I’m going. A few nods. Most don’t. Everyone avoids looking past the last row of houses.The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago. Sound doesn’t carry the same way and my boots land quieter than they should. I take note of it and keep walking. There’s a stall near the center, if you can call it that. A board laid across crates. Apples with soft spots. Root

NYXARAThe forest doesn’t follow me. That’s the first thing I register as I move deeper along Ashmoore’s edge. No shift behind my shoulders. No sound closing in. My pace stays steady. Breath matched to steps. I keep part of my attention angled backward anyway, counting heartbeats, tracking what doesn’t change.Nothing tightens. The sensation is still there, though. More like weight, held above me instead of around me. I don’t have a name for it that fits training, so I leave it unnamed.I adjust my route regardless. Choose ground where my prints won’t matter. Roots are already breaking the soil. My body knows what to do. Habit holds. What doesn’t hold is the pause. I stop once for no reason I can justify. Check my orientation. I know where I am. The map in my head is clean. Still, I check again. The forest answers with stillness. Not empty, just contained.I move on. The drop is where it should be. Three paces off the marked birch. A slab of stone that looks like debris until it isn’t

NYXARAThe guard at the eastern gate barely looks at my face before waving me through. His attention stays on the stamp. The ink. The seal, pressed slightly off-center. For this crossing, my name is Elira Marr. Twenty-four. Weaver’s apprentice. Traveling west to join an aunt who may or may not exist. The details are consistent. The story folds cleanly if pressed.The cart lurches forward once I’m aboard.Someone nearby smells like damp wool and old oil. I sit near the back with my pack between my boots and watch the city thin behind us. I catalogue the terrain ahead from memory. Routes. Distances. The river bend where sound carries wrong at night. The stretch people avoid after dark. I don’t think about what I left behind. Procedure resumes. That should be enough.The road narrows without warning. It just thins, packed earth splitting into uneven tracks that don’t quite come back together. The cart doesn’t slow, but my legs register the change as the wheels jolt harder. The air shifts