Chapter 2: The Scarred Stranger

Raynor Blackfang’s eyes fluttered open, his senses assaulted by the sterile scent of herbs and the sharp, pungent air of a small room. The familiar weight of pain in his chest dragged him back into consciousness. He tried to move, but a searing ache gripped his body, and he gasped in agony.

"Easy," a voice murmured from nearby. "You’re safe."

Raynor turned his head, blinking against the dim light. The woman sitting by his side was young, her silver eyes gleaming softly in the dark. The glowing mark on her wrist flickered like the moonlight itself. He stared at her for a moment, the remnants of his fever clouding his thoughts.

"You—" His voice was hoarse, struggling to form words. "Who…?"

"Erin Windveil," she answered quickly, her tone more matter-of-fact than concerned. "I found you near the sacred grounds. You were bleeding out."

His lips parted in disbelief. “Sacred grounds…? The hunters…”

Erin tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "They had set traps, yes. You were caught in one. Lucky for you, I was nearby."

Raynor tried to sit up, but a jolt of pain shot through him. He groaned, settling back against the pillow. “I’m not… lucky,” he rasped. His gaze fell to the makeshift bandages covering his wounds, soaked with the remnants of his own blood. He flexed his fingers, his mind clouded by memories he couldn’t quite grasp.

"You’re not lucky," Erin agreed, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "But you’re alive, and that’s something."

She was sharp, direct—he could tell she wasn’t one to indulge in pity. A strange comfort settled over him, though he couldn’t quite place it. She wasn’t afraid of him.

She pressed a small vial into his hand. "Drink this. It’ll help with the fever. You should sleep."

Raynor looked at the vial, a faint suspicion tugging at him. “What’s in it?”

Erin smirked, though there was something guarded in her expression. “Frostbloom essence. It's rare, but effective. You can either drink it or burn your throat out with that fever. Your choice.”

Frostbloom. He recognized the name—a potent herb known for its ability to heal toxins and poison. He narrowed his eyes, studying Erin. "You know your herbs."

“More than just herbs,” she replied, her lips tight. “But that’s not important right now.”

Raynor’s brow furrowed. Something about her words, her manner, unsettled him. He'd been through countless battles and survived by relying on his instincts. Yet, there was a mystery to this woman. A feeling that she wasn’t simply a healer, but someone tied to something far more ancient.

Before he could ask her anything further, a loud crack of thunder sounded from outside, followed by the roar of the wind. Raynor instinctively moved toward his dagger, but Erin stopped him.

“No need,” she said firmly, “you’re safe here. The hunters won’t come for you. Not while I’m here.”

Raynor stiffened at her confidence, a cold smile touching his lips. "You don't seem afraid. What makes you think you're any safer than I am?"

Her eyes flashed with a steely resolve. "Because I’m not afraid of you. And I'm not afraid of the hunters, either."

He studied her carefully, noting the glint of something dangerous beneath her calm exterior. There was more to her than met the eye.

The storm outside howled louder, and the wind rattled the thin walls of the hut. A gust of cold air swept through the cracks, and Raynor shivered despite the warmth of the fire burning in the corner. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the creeping discomfort in his limbs.

"Who are you really?" he asked, his voice low but steady.

Erin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stood and walked over to the small fire, adding a log to keep the flame alive. The shadows on the walls danced, reflecting her silent contemplation.

“I’m no one,” she said at last, her voice softer than before. “Just a healer. A fugitive.”

Raynor watched her for a long moment, her back to him as she tended to the fire. "A fugitive?" he asked, though it wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

Erin's shoulders tensed. “You don’t know me. And I don’t know you. But what I do know is that the Blood Moon is coming, and with it, war.”

Raynor’s gaze snapped to hers, narrowing. "What do you know of the Blood Moon?"

She didn’t answer right away, instead glancing down at her wrist, where the faint glow of her mark shimmered in the firelight.

“There’s a prophecy," Erin said quietly. “A prophecy about someone who can awaken the Wolf God. The Moon’s Orphan. The Silverblood.”

Raynor’s eyes widened in recognition. The Silverblood. His blood ran cold. “You—” His voice faltered for a moment. “You think that’s me?”

She turned sharply to face him, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know. But I think it’s you. And I think it’s time you remembered who you are.”

The weight of her words sank in, settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. He stared at her, unable to speak. The silence between them stretched, filled with the weight of unspoken truths.

Raynor didn’t know if Erin Windveil was telling the truth, but something in his gut told him she knew more than she was letting on. And that something—no, someone—was pulling them both toward a fate neither could escape.

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