INTO THE WOODS

The transition from civilization to the wild wasn't subtle. It was violent.

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‎One moment, the tires of the Rolls Royce were humming smoothly over the paved asphalt of my father’s territory, passing manicured lawns and electric streetlights. The next, the pavement ended abruptly, replaced by a rough, gravel-strewn track that wound like a scar into the heart of the forest.

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‎The Neutral Territory.

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‎No pack claimed this land. It was a no-man's-land—a buffer zone of ancient, gnarled wilderness that separated the civilized packs from the chaos of the Rogue lands. It was a place where laws didn't exist, where cell service died, and where monsters were said to roam freely.

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‎The car dipped into a pothole, jarring my spine.

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‎"Sorry, Miss," the driver grunted. I had learned his name was Vance—a Beta from Magnus’s personal guard. He was built like a tank, with a neck as thick as my thigh and a scar running through his left eyebrow. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the holster of a silver-plated handgun strapped to his chest.

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‎"Is the road always this bad?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. The silence in the car was suffocating me.

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‎"Worse in the winter," Vance muttered, his eyes flicking constantly to the rearview mirror. "The Rogues dig traps. Pits to break axles. Spikes to shred tires. They're like rats. Always gnawing at the edges."

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‎I looked out the window. The trees here were different from the pines back home. They were massive oaks and elms, their branches twisted together overhead to form a canopy so dense it blocked out the gray afternoon sky. It felt like we were driving into the throat of a beast.

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‎The forest was dark, bathed in an unnatural, greenish twilight. Fog curled around the trunks like ghostly fingers, clinging to the underbrush.

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‎I shivered, pulling my coat tighter around me. The leather seats, which had felt luxurious an hour ago, now felt cold and slippery.

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‎"Why do they do it?" I asked softly. "The Rogues. Why do they attack the convoys?"

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‎Vance let out a harsh, dry chuckle. "Hunger, mostly. They’re savages, Miss Black. They don't have agriculture, electricity, or order. They live in caves and eat whatever they can kill. When they see a car like this..." He tapped the steering wheel. "They don't see people. They see supply crates on legs."

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‎I touched the hidden dagger strapped to my thigh beneath the silk of my dress. The cold steel was a comfort, but Vance’s words made my stomach churn.

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‎Supply crates on legs.

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‎I tried to distract myself by thinking of Magnus. I tried to conjure his handsome face, his promises of a safe, wealthy life. But every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the hungry look in his eyes as he watched my blood fill those vials. All I felt was the phantom pain of the needle.

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‎The Violet Gene.

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‎Dr. Aris’s words echoed in the silence. What did it mean? My mother had violet eyes when she used her magic, yes. But was it a gene? A mutation? And if Magnus wanted to "extract" it... what would be left of me when he was done?

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‎"We’re entering the Dead Zone," Vance announced, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

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‎The convoy slowed down. The two armored SUVs flanking us tightened their formation, boxing us in.

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‎"Why is it called the Dead Zone?"

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‎"Because nothing lives here," Vance said grimly. "Even the birds avoid this stretch. It’s too close to the Butcher’s territory."

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‎The Butcher.

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‎Kaelen.

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‎The name sent a jolt of electricity down my spine. I had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. They said he was seven feet tall. They said he wore the pelts of the Alphas he killed. They said he once slaughtered an entire patrol of twenty wolves with nothing but his claws.

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‎I peered into the dense fog, half-expecting to see glowing red eyes staring back. But there was only shadow.

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‎Suddenly, the radio on Vance’s dashboard crackled to life. It was a static-filled, garbled voice from the lead SUV.

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‎"...movement... sector four... eyes open..."

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‎Vance stiffened. He sat up straighter, his hand moving from the steering wheel to grip the handle of his gun.

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‎"What is it?" I whispered.

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‎"Nothing," he lied smoothly. "Just a deer, probably. Stay calm, Miss Black."

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‎But he didn't look calm. He pressed a button on the door panel, and I heard the distinct click-clunk of the heavy locks engaging.

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‎The convoy sped up. The gravel crunched loudly under the tires as we surged forward, the trees blurring into a wall of gray and black.

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‎ My heart began to hammer against my ribs. I could smell Vance’s scent changing. The calm musk of a bored driver was gone, replaced by the sharp, acidic stench of adrenaline.

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‎Fear.

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‎He was afraid. An armed Beta in an armored convoy was afraid.

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‎I leaned forward, trying to see through the windshield. The lead SUV was about fifty yards ahead of us, its taillights cutting through the fog like bloody eyes.

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‎Then, I saw it.

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‎It wasn't a shadow. It wasn't a deer.

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‎It was a shape, moving through the trees to our right. It was fast—unnaturally fast. A blur of black fur that kept pace with the car, weaving effortlessly through the dense timber.

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‎"Vance," I said, my voice rising in panic. "There’s something out there."

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‎"I see it," he snapped, losing the polite veneer. He grabbed the radio. "Lead One, you’ve got a bogey on your three o'clock. Flank right. Flank right!"

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‎"Negative, Vance," the radio crackled back, the voice frantic now. "I’ve got three on the left. They’re herding us!" 

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‎Herding us. Like cattle.

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‎The car swerved violently as Vance dodged a large pothole. I was thrown against the door, my head cracking against the glass.

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‎"Get down!" Vance roared.

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‎But I couldn't look away. I was frozen, staring into the woods.

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‎The blur of black fur burst from the treeline. It was a wolf—massive, mangy, and scarred. It lunged at the SUV in front of us, snapping its jaws at the tires.

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‎Then, another wolf appeared. And another. They poured out of the fog like a nightmare manifesting, silent and coordinated. They weren't just attacking; they were executing a strategy.

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‎"It’s a raid!" Vance screamed into the radio. "Defensive formation! Protect the package!"

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‎The package. That was me.

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‎The lead SUV slammed on its brakes, trying to avoid a wolf that had leaped into the road. But it was a trap.

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‎Above us, a terrifying, cracking sound echoed through the valley—louder than thunder, sharper than a gunshot.

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‎I looked up through the windshield just in time to see the world come crashing down.

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‎A massive ancient oak tree, its trunk as wide as a house, was falling. It hadn't fallen naturally; it had been cut. It plummeted toward the road with terrifying speed, aiming straight for the gap between the lead SUV and our car.

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‎"BRACE!" Vance yelled, slamming both feet on the brake pedal.

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‎The Rolls Royce skidded, the tires screaming in protest against the gravel. The smell of burnt rubber filled the cabin. I was thrown forward, the seatbelt cutting into my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

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‎CRASH.

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‎The earth shook. The oak tree slammed into the ground just inches from our front bumper, creating a wall of wood and leaves that completely blocked the road. Dust and debris exploded into the air, coating the windshield in a layer of brown filth.

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‎We were stopped dead.

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‎"Reverse!" I screamed, finding my voice. "Vance, reverse!"

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‎Vance shifted gears, his face pale and sweating. He stomped on the gas.

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‎But as he looked into the rearview mirror, his face went from pale to ghostly white.

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‎ I turned around.

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‎Behind us, a second tree came crashing down, sealing the road. We were trapped. Boxed in between two fallen giants.

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‎The silence that followed was heavy, ringing in my ears. The engine idled nervously. The dust settled slowly.

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‎"They cut us off," Vance whispered, drawing his gun. His hand was shaking. "They knew the route. They knew exactly where to hit us."

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‎Then, the howling began.

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‎It wasn't the lonely, mournful howl of a wild wolf. It was a war cry. Dozens of voices rose from the fog, surrounding us on all sides. It was a sound of triumph. A sound of hunger.

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‎And then, from the top of the fallen oak tree in front of us, a figure rose.

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‎He stood on the trunk, looming over our car like a god of death. He was in human form, but he looked more savage than any wolf. He was shirtless despite the cold, his chest broad and covered in intricate, tribal tattoos. Dark hair fell over his eyes, and a jagged scar ran from his jaw to his collarbone.

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‎He held a massive, curved blade in one hand—a blade that dripped with something dark.

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‎Vance gasped, the gun trembling in his hand. 

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‎"The Butcher," he choked out.

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‎The man on the log looked down at us. Even through the tinted glass, I felt his gaze. It was heavy. intense. It pinned me to the seat.

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‎He didn't yell. He didn't roar. He simply raised his free hand and pointed a single finger at the car.

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‎At me.

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‎Then, the glass of the passenger window shattered.