Chapter 16: Village Allies and Betrayals

(Penny’s POV)

By the second dawn we were both running on fumes.

The burn scar had given way to rolling hills dotted with scrub pine and the occasional stream. We’d crossed three of them already, cold enough to make my teeth chatter, and skirted two more rogue patrols Genesis scented long before they scented us. My blisters had scabbed over under the bandages, but every step still felt like walking on broken glass wrapped in wool.

We needed rest. Real rest. Not snatched hours beside a dying fire.

“We’re close to Harrowford,” Genesis said as the sun cleared the horizon, painting the grass gold. “Small settlement. Neutral. Humans mostly, with a few half-bloods who keep the peace. They don’t bow to either clan. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us shelter for a day.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

He glanced at me sideways. “Then we run again.”

Harrowford appeared around midday—a cluster of stone cottages with slate roofs, a central well, a blacksmith’s forge sending up thin smoke, and a single longhouse that looked like it doubled as tavern and meeting hall. No walls. No guards at the edges. Just people going about their day: women hanging laundry, children chasing chickens, an old man sharpening tools on a whetstone.

Genesis pulled his hood lower. “Stay quiet. Let me speak.”

We walked in like we belonged.

Heads turned. Conversations paused. Eyes lingered on Genesis’s size, on the sword at his back, on the way I stayed close to his side like I knew he was the only thing between me and trouble.

A woman, broad, shouldered, gray-streaked hair braided tight, stepped out of the longhouse wiping her hands on an apron.

“Travelers,” she said. Not a question. “You look like you’ve been chewing dirt for breakfast.”

Genesis dipped his head. “We have. Looking for a roof tonight. Coin or work in trade.”

She studied us, him first, then me. Her gaze lingered on the way my cloak didn’t quite hide the borrowed tunic or the faint scent of Silverfang that still clung to me despite days of travel.

“Name’s Lira,” she said at last. “I run the hearth here. You can sleep in the loft above the stable. Clean straw, no rats. Supper’s at dusk, stew and bread. You help with the evening chores, you eat free. Otherwise, two silvers each.”

Genesis reached into a small pouch at his belt, counted out four coins, small, dull, stamped with some crest I didn’t recognize, and placed them in her palm.

Lira pocketed them without looking. “Stable’s that way. Water trough’s full. Don’t scare the horses.”

We thanked her and moved off.

The stable was warm, smelling of hay and equine musk. Six stalls, only three occupied. Genesis checked each horse, calm, well-fed, then climbed the ladder to the loft.

Thick straw. A couple of old blankets folded in the corner. A small window overlooking the village square.

“Better than the ground,” I said, dropping my pack.

He grunted agreement. “We stay inside until dusk. No wandering. No talking to strangers.”

I collapsed onto the straw. “Yes, sir.”

He shot me a look, half amused, half warning, then sat beside me, back against the wall, sword across his knees.

We rested in silence for a while. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

“Genesis?”

“Hm?”

“If we make it to the witch… and she opens the door… what happens to you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I keep walking. Find somewhere quiet. No throne. No pack. Just… peace.”

“You’d really leave everything?”

“I already did.” He looked at me then, direct, unflinching. “The moment I knocked you out in that ambush and carried you away from Kael’s wagon, I left.”

My chest tightened.

“And if she can’t open it?”

His jaw worked. “Then we figure out what comes next. Together.”

The word hung there, together, like it had weight.

I swallowed. “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

He reached over, slow, and covered my hand with his. Warm. Steady.

“I’m scared too,” he said quietly. “But not of the marshes. Not of the witch.”

“Then what?”

“Of what happens if you leave.”

The confession landed soft. Heavy.

I turned my hand palm-up. Laced my fingers through his.

Neither of us spoke again for a long time.

Dusk came with the smell of stew drifting from the longhouse.

We joined the villagers at the long tables, simple benches, wooden bowls, spoons carved from horn. Lira ladled thick mutton stew into our bowls. Bread still warm from the oven. A jug of weak ale passed around.

People were wary but not hostile. A few nodded. A child stared at Genesis like he was a storybook giant. An old woman with clouded eyes asked if we’d seen any wolves on the road. Genesis answered carefully, enough to be polite, not enough to invite questions.

After the meal we helped clear plates, stack firewood, haul water for the morning. Normal things. Human things. For a few hours I almost forgot I was in a world of fangs and prophecies.

Until the scream.

It came from the edge of the village, high, terrified.

Everyone froze.

Then the howls started.

Not distant.

Close.

Genesis was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn.

“Rogues,” he snarled.

But it wasn’t just rogues.

A man burst into the longhouse, face pale, blood on his sleeve.

“Crimson scouts! They followed our scent trail! They’re asking for a woman in gray—human, smells of Silverfang!”

Eyes turned to me.

Lira’s face hardened.

Genesis stepped in front of me.

“Stay back,” he told the room. “They’re not here for you.”

The blacksmith, a huge man with arms like tree trunks, grabbed an axe from the wall. “They burn what they can’t take.”

Chaos erupted.

Villagers armed themselves, pitchforks, knives, a few bows. Genesis moved toward the door.

I grabbed his arm. “We run. Now.”

He looked down at me, fierce, protective.

“They’ll follow. They’ll burn this place looking for us.”

“Then we draw them away.”

He searched my face.

Then nodded once.

We slipped out the back, through the kitchen door, past the herb garden, into the dark fields beyond the cottages.

Behind us, shouts. Steel clashing. Howls turning to yelps.

We ran.

Not fast enough.

A shadow detached from the tree-line—red-brown fur, eyes glowing.

A Crimson scout.

Genesis shoved me behind him.

“Run, Penny. Toward the river. Don’t stop.”

“I’m not leaving you—”

“Go!”

He shifted—silver-gray wolf exploding into being, and met the scout head-on.

I ran.

Tears blurred my vision. Legs burned. The river was ahead, black and rushing under the moon.

I reached the bank. Looked back.

Two wolves now, Genesis fighting both, blood dark on his fur.

Then a third appeared, behind him.

I screamed his name.

He turned, just for a second.

The third wolf lunged.

I didn’t think.

I grabbed a rock from the bank, big, heavy, and hurled it with everything I had.

It struck the wolf’s shoulder. Not hard enough to kill. Hard enough to stagger.

Genesis finished the first two, fast, brutal, then spun and tore into the third.

When it was over, he shifted back, naked, bleeding from a dozen cuts, breathing hard.

He staggered toward me.

I met him halfway, threw my arms around him despite the blood, despite everything.

He held me tight. One hand in my hair. The other at my back.

“They’ll send more,” he rasped.

“I know.”

“We can’t go back to the village.”

“I know.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me.

“You threw a rock.”

“Seemed appropriate.”

A ragged laugh escaped him.

Then he kissed me, sudden, fierce, tasting of blood and pine and desperation.

I kissed him back.

Because in that moment, running didn’t feel like escape anymore.

It felt like choosing.

And I was choosing him.