3. The Woods and the Wolf

Rhea 

Ashwood had a habit of pulling people in. Not with kindness. With curiosity. With rot hiding under velvet. I wasn’t ready to stay inside and play the haunted girl today. After days of eerie dreams, flower threats, and cryptic books, I needed air. Movement. Distance from Elara’s whispers that lingered even in daylight.

So I grabbed my jacket and walked. Past the rusted fence. Past the creek that gurgled like it had secrets. Past the trees that leaned just a little too close to the trail. Then I saw him.

He stood beside a fallen log, kicking loose rocks with the kind of lazy ease that didn’t match his posture—like a man who was too used to being watched. Dark clothes. Wind-blown hair. A scar that cut across the bridge of his nose like a knife had once changed his mind.

His eyes caught me before I could pretend not to see him.

“You don’t look like the ‘morning stroll’ type,” he said, voice smooth like something between a laugh and a challenge. “Guess you don’t look like the welcoming committee.”

He smirked. Touché.

“New girl in town, right? Rhea… Cross?” I hesitated. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” He offered his hand with a tilt of his head. “Name’s Fenrak. But you can call me whatever you like. Everyone else does.” I didn’t shake it. “I don’t usually talk to strangers in the woods.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, that’s smart,” he said, dropping his hand. “But lucky for you, I’m not a stranger. I’m a local.”

“Of course you are.” Something about him felt off—too polished for a trail wanderer. He didn’t look like he’d hiked anywhere. No mud. No sweat. Just easy arrogance and a gaze that lingered a moment too long on my neck.

He walked beside me uninvited. “You’re Elara’s sister,” he said softly. “She used to come out here, too.” I was surprised that so many people already knew about me, yet I knew no one.  “You knew her?” I asked out of patience. “Let’s just say… I knew of her.” I rolled my eyes as I blurted, “Just like you knew of me?” He chuckled lighlty, trying to ease up the tension between us.

“Everyone says that,” I muttered. “But no one ever explains what that means.” He looked amused. “Elara was fire. People either stayed warm by it—or got burned.”

There was a pause.

“Did you get burned?”

His eyes flickered.

“Not by her.”

The way he said it sent a small chill down my spine. Not the words. The certainty behind them.

“Anyway,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his jacket, “you should probably be careful with that journal of hers. Some things aren’t meant to be read.” My fingers curled instinctively. “What do you know about her journal?”

He smiled again—too casual, too careful.

“Just a hunch. You walk like someone carrying secrets.” I stepped back, jaw tightening. “Are you always this invasive?” he pursed his lips, nonchalantly, “Only with people who matter.”

That was the last straw. I turned and walked the other way. But his voice followed me, low and deliberate. “Be careful where you wander, Crimson.” I stopped. He stood still, wind ruffling his hair.

“The woods,” he said, “have memory. And they remember her. They might not like you walking the same paths.” I didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Because even as I turned toward the deeper trees, one truth clawed at my gut: I wasn’t walking into the forest. I was walking into something else entirely.

I didn’t look back after Fenrak disappeared down the trail. His voice still echoed in my mind.

‘The woods have memory.’

He said it like a warning, but it sounded too much like a dare. I walked deeper. Not far. Just a little beyond the clearing behind the cottage. I told myself I needed air, quiet, perspective. But really, I needed to feel in control again. Like I wasn’t being hunted in my own home. Like I wasn’t unraveling.

I carried Elara’s journal in my backpack, like it might protect me. It didn’t. Instead, I got this thought that I needed to protect that journal because it could lead me to unknown places and secrets, which could bring me closer to her death. With so many people already knowing about her journal, it seemed like a threat to me.  

The forest was different in the daylight—no longer haunting, just… hollow. Too quiet. Even the birds didn’t sing here. Trees pressed close like sentries. Shadows didn’t behave the way they should’ve. Still, I kept walking.

Elara had sketched this path in one of her entries, marked it with the word “Threshold.” No explanation. No context. Just a rough map and that strange word.

I found it.

A gnarled oak tree, ancient and split at the base like the mouth of something dead. Carved into the bark was a symbol — circular, with claw-like spirals stretching outward. It pulsed with something. Not light. Not heat. Just… presence.

I reached out to touch it. That’s when I heard it. A crunch of leaves. A growl, low and feral. I froze. “Who's there?” My voice trembled, my entire body shook, with the cold wind howled behind me. 

No answer. But the growl came again. Closer. Then I saw them — those eyes. Not yellow like deer or gold like foxes. These were blue. Cold, gleaming blue. And too high off the ground to be anything natural. The creature stepped into view.

A wolf.

But not like any I’d seen in books or dreams. This one was massive—its fur blacker than the shadows, its jaw wide enough to tear through bone. The moment our eyes locked, I knew I was prey. It bared its teeth.

My breath hitched, and I backed away slowly, heart pounding.

“Easy… I’m not here to hurt you…” It crouched low. It was going to lunge. I turned and ran.

Branches whipped my arms, roots clawed at my boots, but I didn’t stop. The sound of paws thundered behind me—fast, furious. I didn’t scream. There wasn’t enough time. Yet I felt that my legs were becoming paralyzed, my body had no or less stamina to carry me out of these woods. Even if I died here, I knew there wasn’t anyone to look for me. 

I reached a steep slope and stumbled, crashing into the ground with a sharp cry. Mud and blood smeared my hands. The wolf was already at the top of the hill, panting, tongue sharp against its fangs. This was it. This was where I died.

Then—

A second growl. Deeper. Louder. Almost metallic.

Something shot from the trees—a blur of motion and fury. Another wolf. Silver-gray and even larger. Its fur glinted like ash under moonlight. The two collided midair, snarling and tearing. Claws scraped against bark. Jaws snapped. I couldn’t move—just watched in stunned horror as the two beasts fought like titans in a storm. The black one finally retreated, vanishing into the trees like smoke. The silver wolf turned to me. And then, right before my eyes…It shifted.

Bones cracked. Muscles bent. Fur retracted into the skin. And there, kneeling in the dirt— Was Kael Draven.

His chest heaved, bare and marked with deep scars—too old to be fresh and too real to be imagined. His eyes weren’t human. Not yet. They glowed faintly, like the wolf inside him hadn’t fully left.

“You -” he said, voice raw and low. I panted hard, adjusting my breath and my eyes were already widened with astonishment. I stared. “How— What the hell—?” He stepped closer, and I flinched. “You’re safe,” he said quietly. “But you need to come with me. Now.”

I’d just watched a man turn into a wolf… and somehow, that wasn’t the scariest part.