Silver Oath

The wind shifted over the village of Brindlemark, carrying with it the smell of rain, woodsmoke, and something metallic that Kaelen Thorne could not place. He sat hunched over his desk in the loft of his small home, the flame of a beeswax candle throwing long shadows over the cluttered parchment and ink stains. His spellbook lay open to a page on fire wards, though his eyes had drifted long ago from the curling runes. Instead, the margins were filled with sketches of forests, stars, and faces he had never seen but always dreamed of—sharp features, pointed ears, and hair that shimmered like moonlight.

He should have been studying. Master Renald, the village’s only mage, often reminded him of his shortcomings: his spells fizzled, his concentration broke too easily, and his mind wandered like a boy chasing fireflies. But tonight his thoughts felt heavy, pulled toward something beyond the ink and parchment.

Then the howl came.

It rose through the night like a blade of ice, so sharp it made the candle flame shiver. Every hair on Kaelen’s neck stood on end. Wolves were not uncommon near the border forest, but this sound was different—deeper, more resonant, as though the earth itself had given voice to hunger.

Kaelen froze, listening.

A second howl followed, closer now. Then came the first scream.

He was on his feet before he realized it, knocking his chair over. Shouts erupted in the streets below, followed by the unmistakable crash of timber and the crack of splitting roofs. Kaelen grabbed the nearest thing to hand—a rusted iron poker from the hearth—and flung open the door.

The night was chaos. Villagers ran in every direction, clutching children or stumbling under the weight of what belongings they could snatch. A fire roared where a thatched roof had collapsed, sparks carried into the night sky. And among the running shapes, Kaelen saw them—taller than men, their bodies rippling with muscle, their fangs gleaming wet in the firelight. Their eyes burned silver, unnatural and cold.

Werewolves.

Kaelen’s stomach dropped. These were creatures from stories told in hushed voices around the tavern fire, monsters that belonged to the old wars, not to the quiet borderlands. What were they doing here?

He stumbled forward, heart hammering. One of the beasts tore through a wooden wall as though it were parchment, dragging a screaming man out into the street. Another leapt onto a roof, its silhouette massive against the flames. Villagers scattered like leaves in the wind.

And then Kaelen saw her.

Amid the wreckage of a toppled cart, half-hidden by broken wood and spilled grain, a young woman lay struggling to rise. An arrow jutted from her side, the shaft snapped in half. Her hair shimmered silver in the firelight, cascading around a face too sharp, too perfect to belong to any villager. Her ears, Kaelen realized with a jolt, were pointed.

An elf.

Her violet eyes locked on his. And though he had never seen her before, something deep in his chest tightened, as though he had always known her.

“Run,” she hissed, her voice low but commanding.

A shadow fell across her. One of the wolves, massive and snarling, lunged toward her, claws outstretched. Kaelen’s breath caught—he could not move, could not think. The beast was almost upon her.

Something broke loose inside him.

Heat surged in his chest, spreading through his veins like wildfire. Fear became rage, and rage became something greater. His vision blurred white. With a shout he did not know was his own, the world exploded.

Flame and wind erupted outward, a storm tearing through the street. The werewolf was thrown back, its fur igniting, its body slamming into the smoldering wreckage of a house. Sparks rained around them, villagers screaming as the blast echoed through the night.

Kaelen collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, his hand still clutching the iron poker though it glowed faintly with residual heat. Smoke stung his eyes.

The elf stared at him, wide-eyed. Not with fear—no, with recognition.

“You…” she whispered, her voice sharp with something between awe and dread. “It’s you.”