Aiden's Point of ViewThe late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting slanted golden stripes across my desk. I sit in my office, the chair creaking quietly beneath me as I shift my weight. The pack house is unusually quiet, too quiet. Just the steady ticking of the old clock on the wall and the faint rustling of papers keep me company.I rub a hand over my face, then lean forward again, elbows braced on the desk. The reports are scattered across the surface, incident reports, scout updates, doctor's assessments, and maps marked with the attack patterns. I’ve read them all more times than I can count, but I go through them again, methodically. Page after page. Every detail is a puzzle piece, and I keep hoping the right pattern will suddenly click into place.The Gray Mountain attack. The claw marks. The strange burn pattern left near the tree line. The scent that disappeared mid trail. I circle back to the part about Abby, how the sudden chaos sent her to the hospital, becau
Hazel's Point of View The afternoon sun slants through the trees as I walk back to my apartment, the world quiet around me. The sound of my boots on the pavement, the rustling of wind through the leaves, the occasional bird, everything feels too normal for the storm stirring in my chest. The vision of the woman with crimson eyes lingers at the edges of my mind, pressing in like fog. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and pull the curtains closed, shutting out the light. The stillness in my apartment is familiar, grounding, and yet today it feels more like a sanctuary for something sacred. I move with purpose, setting my bag down and crossing the room to the bookshelf where I keep my supplies. From a drawer beneath it, I pull out an old, folded map, well worn and yellowed at the edges, showing our town and several others nearby. I clear the coffee table and smooth it flat on the surface, weighing down the corners with crystals: obsidian, quartz, tiger’s eye. I grab a small clay
Hazel's Point of View The sharp shrill sound of my alarm splits through the quiet, dragging me from restless sleep. I groan and slap at my phone until the noise stops. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the last wisps of dream clinging to the edges of my mind. Crimson eyes. Dark hair. The woman still lingers in my thoughts like a shadow refusing to lift. But the day is waiting, and I have a lecture to give. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch, my joints protesting the movement. The morning light spills weakly through my curtains, casting faint gold streaks across the hardwood floor. I shuffle into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and run a comb through my tangled hair. My reflection stares back at me, tired, but determined. I dress in something comfortable but professional, a cream sweater tucked into high waisted trousers, my boots scuffed but dependable. I pull on a long coat and sling my bag over my shoulder, stuffing my lecture
Aiden's Point of ViewI slow my pace as the forest begins to thin, my breath coming in steady pants, the pounding in my chest finally dulled to a quiet thrum. The run helped clear my mind, somewhat. The edge of the storm still lingers inside me, but at least now it isn’t screaming.I shift back into my human form, the familiar jolt of bones snapping and fur receding sharp but manageable. The air is cool against my skin, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp leaves. I head for the tree where I always stash clothes. A pair of loose black shorts hangs from the lowest branch, right where I left them.I tug them on, brushing dirt from my legs as I move. My skin is still damp with sweat, my muscles buzzing with exertion, but I welcome the soreness. It makes me feel present. Anchored.The walk back to my apartment is quiet. A few pack members cross my path, offering polite nods of their heads or small greetings, but I keep moving, not stopping for small talk. My mind’s already shifting
Aiden's Point of ViewThe morning light seeps through the crack in the blinds, painting pale golden stripes across the ceiling. I blink against it, disoriented for a moment, caught between sleep and the heavy, lingering haze that’s clung to me since I got back last night.My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears, makes your heart beat just a little louder in your chest. I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. Everything looks the same, the worn dresser in the corner, the boots kicked haphazardly by the door, the photo of me and Abby framed on the nightstand, but it all feels different. Off. Like I’ve stepped back into a version of my life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.I push the covers off and sit up, muscles stiff, joints sore in that way that tells me sleep didn’t do much. My feet hit the floor with a dull thud. The wood is cold under my heels. Familiar.I move through the motions on autopilot. Pulling on
Hazel's Point of ViewThe bell over the café door chimes again, but I barely register it now. The hum of quiet conversation and clinking mugs creates a gentle cocoon around us. I rest my elbows on the wooden table, tracing the faint scratches etched into its surface, signs of time, of stories shared at this very table. Across from me, Valerie scrolls through her phone for a second before setting it aside, her gaze flicking to the counter.A moment later, the waitress returns balancing a small tray. “One caramel latte with a raspberry danish, and a cappuccino with a blueberry scone,” she says, placing the warm mugs and plates down in front of us with practiced grace.The cappuccino smells heavenly, bold espresso with a delicate dusting of cinnamon on the foam. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my skin. The blueberry scone is golden and flaky, with sugar crystals catching the light like tiny diamonds. Valerie’s danish looks equally divine, the raspberry fillin