Chapter 4: The Imprint

POV: Viggo

Pain lived in my marrow.

It wasn't a concept. It was a biological reality—a fire that ate through the lining of my bones. It chewed on my nerve endings.

The wolf inside me paced behind my eyes, scratching at the back of my skull, always hungry. Always demanding blood or breakage to quiet the static screaming in my nervous system.

But this... this silence was new.

I pressed my hand to my abdomen as I stumbled out of the subway ruin. The air of the Dregs tasted like rust and rot—thick, particulate matter coating my tongue—but I barely smelled it.

My attention was fixed inward. On the patch of skin where she had touched me.

It felt... cool.

Not the bite of winter. Not the numbness of frostbite. It was the coolness of a deep cave. A hollow, peaceful absence of heat. The screaming static in my head had stopped. Cut. Severed.

She smells like nothing, my wolf whispered. The thought itch in my brain. Why does she smell like nothing?

I reached the extraction point. The white armored transport sat idling in the shadow of a collapsed bridge. The engine thrummed—a low, subsonic vibration that rattled the loose gravel. The ramp was down.

Standing at the top of it was a mountain of black steel and red fabric.

Commander Barzil Ashfang.

He did not look pleased. His scent hit me before I even reached the ramp—forge smoke, oiled steel, and the sharp, ozone tang of suppressed fury. It triggered the submission instinct in my hindbrain. My neck muscles tightened.

"You are alive," Barzil said.

His voice was not a question. It was a judgment. It vibrated in my chest like grinding stones.

I stopped at the base of the ramp. My legs felt heavy. Muscles loose. Drained of tension. Not from injury. From the pull. The vacuum she had created inside my own body.

"I am alive," I answered. My voice sounded wrecked. Wet gravel.

Barzil marched down the ramp. His heavy boots rang on the metal—rhythmic, heavy impacts that promised violence.

He stopped inches from me. Looming. He is the only wolf bigger than me. The only one whose gravity makes my own knees want to bend.

"You broke formation," Barzil growled. The sound rumbled deep in his chest. "You chased a runner into the Dregs alone. You disconnected your comms."

"I caught the scent."

"You walked into a trap! Intel confirmed silver-nitrate blades. You should be dead, Viggo. You should be rotting in that tunnel."

He grabbed my chin. Fingers like iron clamps forced my head up. His golden eyes searched mine. Drilling. Looking for the tell-tale red bleed of the Feral Rot.

He expected to see a dying beast. Expected to see the madness foaming behind my pupils.

"I was dying," I admitted. "The silver... it was deep. It burned."

Barzil released me, stepping back with a scowl. "And yet, you stand here. You speak. Your color returns." He crossed his arms over his chest armor. Ceramics clicked against plasteel. "Explain."

I looked down at my stomach. The blood—my blood—was still drying on my skin. Sticky. Gold. Cooling rapidly in the toxic wind. But beneath it...

"A Null," I said.

Barzil frozen. His stillness was terrifying. "A Null? You claim a human slave healed a Tier 3 Highblood wound?"

"She did not heal." I struggled to find the words. My brain felt slow. Foggy. Thinking is Wolfy's job. I just feel. "She... drank."

"Drank?"

"She touched the wound. And the poison... she pulled it out."

Barzil stared at me. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the transport's engine—a hungry, mechanical purr. Then he shook his head. A sharp, dismissive motion.

"You are delirious. Blood loss has compromised your senses. Get to the medic."

"Look."

I didn't wait for permission. I wiped the smear of dried blood away from my midsection. The flakes crumbled under my fingers.

Barzil looked.

His eyes narrowed. Pupils contracted to pinpoints. He stepped closer, stripping off his gauntlet. The metal seals hissed as they disengaged.

He touched the skin with his bare hand. Callused fingertips traced the angry pink scar that ran across my abs.

It was already fading to white.

"Impossible," Barzil murmured. "This was a gut wound. I can smell the necrosis lingering on your clothes. This should have taken weeks to knit, even with a Healer."

"She touched me," I whispered. The memory made my skin prickle. "And the fire stopped."

Barzil looked up. His expression shifted. The anger evaporated, replaced by the cold, calculating look of the Iron Warden. The look he wears when he is weighing casualties against victory.

"Describe her."

I closed my eyes.

I could still feel her ghost-weight on my chest. Small. Sharp bones digging into my muscle. The frantic jackrabbit beat of her heart against my ribs. Terror.

"Small," I said. "Hair like starlight. Eyes like... bruises. Violet."

"Violet eyes?" Barzil’s voice dropped. Heavy. "And her scent?"

"Nothing," I growled. The frustration bubbled up—heat rising in my throat. "She has no scent. It is like a hole in the world."

Barzil stood straighter. He turned away from me, looking out over the ruined landscape of the Scrap Fields. He was silent for a long time.

I shifted my weight. The need to find her itched under my skin. A new hunger. I wanted to go back. I wanted to see if the coolness was real or if my brain was finally breaking.

"A Null who can purge silver," Barzil said, more to himself than me. "A Null with no scent track."

He turned back to me. His face was hard. Stone. "Did she run?"

"Yes."

"Did you mark her?"

I shook my head. Shame burned my neck. "I could not move. She... froze me."

Barzil’s nostrils flared. He inhaled sharply, testing the air for truth. "She froze a Vanguard Shock Trooper?"

"Yes."

He nodded slowly. He walked back up the ramp, his cape snapping in the toxic wind. He punched a code into the comms panel on the wall.

"Wolfy," Barzil barked into the receiver. "Cancel the extraction protocol. We are not leaving."

He turned to look down at me.

"Commander?" I asked.

Barzil’s eyes were cold gold. Predatory.

"You say she ran into the Warrens?"

"Yes."

"Good." Barzil re-equipped his gauntlet. The metal clicked into place—a sharp, mechanical lock sound. Like a prison door slamming shut.

"Find the Null," he ordered. "Bring her in alive."