Chapter 5

​My eyes fluttered open to the soft, rhythmic crackle of burning wood.

​For a wild, terrifying second, I panicked. I scrambled backward, my heart slamming into my throat, expecting the sharp river stones beneath my back or the wild, bloodshot eyes of the gray rogue tearing at my flesh.

​Instead, my hand pressed against soft, dry straw covered by a heavy wool blanket.

​"What... where am I?" I whispered, my voice rough and raspy.

​I looked around frantically. I wasn't on the muddy riverbank anymore. I was inside a small, weathered cabin built of thick pine logs. Sunlight peeked through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting warm golden beams across the dusty floorboards. A small stone fireplace burned steadily in the corner, filling the room with the sweet, nostalgic scent of burning cedar.

​I quickly pulled back the blanket, looking down at my body.

​My dress was still torn and dirty, but my left arm—the arm the rogue had crushed in his jaws—was neatly wrapped in clean, tight linen bandages. The sharp, thudding agony had dulled into a manageable ache. Someone had applied a cooling herbal salve beneath the wraps. Even the deep scratches on my shoulder had been cleaned and carefully dressed.

​On a low wooden stool beside my makeshift bed sat a carved wooden bowl filled with steaming meat broth, along with two thick slices of fresh, crusty bread and a cup of clean, sweet water.

​"Hello?" I called out, my voice trembling as I swung my legs over the edge of the cot. "Is anyone here?"

​Silence answered me. Only the crackle of the fire and the distant whistling of the mountain wind filled the cabin.

​I stood up slowly, clutching the wool blanket around my shoulders, my eyes scanning every dark corner of the small room. "Is this a trap? Show yourself!"

​I took a cautious step toward the wooden door. It was unlocked, swaying slightly on its rusted iron hinges. I pushed it open, stepping out onto the small wooden porch.

​The morning mist was thick, rolling through the pine trees like ghostly ribbons. The air was crisp and biting cold, but there was no one in sight. No footprints in the mud except for a single set of heavy boot tracks leading away from the porch toward the dark treeline, already fading in the fresh layer of frost.

​I walked back inside, staring at the warm bowl of soup sitting on the stool.

​"Why?" I muttered, sinking down onto the floor beside the stool, tears welling up in my eyes as the mouth-watering scent hit my nose. "Why save me? Why bring me here?"

​My wolf stirred faintly inside my chest. She was still weak, still scarred from Calix's ruthless rejection, but for the first time in four agonizing days, she felt calm. She didn't sense immediate danger.

​"Is it you?" I asked the quiet room, my thoughts instantly flying back to the masked warrior with the razor-sharp silver eyes. "Did you bring me here?"

​I picked up the wooden spoon with a trembling hand, lifting a small sip of broth to my chapped lips. It was warm, rich, and seasoned with wild herbs that instantly brought life back to my numb, exhausted body. I ate ravenously, practically sobbing into the bowl as I tore through the crusty bread.

​It was the first warm meal I had eaten since the night of the Mate Ceremony.

​"Who are you?" I whispered to the empty cabin, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve, staring at the crackling flames in the hearth. "And why are you watching over a cursed girl?"

​Three days passed in that abandoned hunter’s cabin.

​I expected the stranger to come back. Every time a floorboard creaked or the wind rattled the shutters, my head would snap toward the door, my heart pounding in anticipation. I wanted answers. I wanted to look into those silver eyes and demand to know why a random warrior was playing guardian angel to Asteria's most hated exile.

​But he never appeared.

​At least... not while I was awake.

​Every morning when I opened my eyes, fresh supplies would magically appear on the small wooden table near the hearth. A bundle of dry firewood, a freshly dressed rabbit wrapped in clean parchment, a small pouch of salt, and a small glass vial of healing salve for my arm.

​On the second night, a pair of thick, durable leather boots laid neatly by the door, sized perfectly for my feet, along with a heavy woolen cloak to replace my thin, shredded one.

​And whenever danger crept close to the cabin, the shadow returned.

​On the third afternoon, while I was out near the creek gathering fresh water, I heard the familiar, terrifying growl of two roaming rogues lurking in the brush fifty yards away. I had frozen in terror, dropping my wooden bucket, preparing to fight for my life with a sharp stick.

​Before the rogues could even spring from the bushes, a dark blur dropped from the high canopy above.

​There were no long speeches. No dramatic warnings. Just two swift, brutal cracks echoing through the silent woods, followed by the dull thuds of two heavy bodies hitting the mud.

​By the time I mustered the courage to step through the bushes to look, the rogues were dead, their necks broken—and the masked warrior was already gone, leaving only a single dark feather resting on a branch where he had stood.

​I stood over the dead rogues, clutching my heavy cloak tightly around my neck, but I didn't feel relief anymore.

​I felt a cold, sharp coil of suspicion tightening in my gut.

​"This isn't kindness," I whispered to the quiet forest, my eyes scanning the high pine branches. "Nobody does this out of kindness. Not for me."

​"Why are you following me?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing off the surrounding mountain cliffs. "What do you want from me?! Are you waiting for my mark to consume me? Are you waiting to turn me in to Alpha Ashborne for a reward?!"

​Only the wind rustled the leaves in response.

​I turned on my heel and marched angrily back to the cabin, slamming the wooden door shut so hard the hinges groaned in protest.

​"He knows my name," I muttered, pacing back and forth across the creaking floorboards, my fresh leather boots making sharp, rhythmic thuds against the wood. "He knew my name back at the riverbank. He knew who I was before he ever saw my face."

​If he was sent by Alpha Ashborne, why hadn't he dragged me back in chains?

​If he was an assassin sent by the High Council, why feed me? Why patch up my wounds and give me boots?

​And if he was just a rogue or a mercenary... why waste precious supplies on a girl whose very existence was declared a death sentence by every High Priest in the realm?

​"Pity," I spat, stopping in front of the small glass window, looking out at the dark treeline as twilight began to swallow the mountains. "He pities me. He looks at me like a pathetic, broken dog dying on the side of the road."

​A hot, bitter wave of anger flared through my chest.

​I had been pitied my entire life. I was Beta Marcus's adopted daughter—the poor orphan girl taken in out of charity, the girl who was expected to smile, nod, and play the dutiful future Luna to Alpha Calix. And the moment my mark proved I wasn't a pretty trophy, that charity vanished in an instant.

​"I don't need your pity," I growled, my fingers clenching into fists at my sides, my short nails digging deep into my palms. "I don't need anyone's charity ever again."

​I turned toward the hearth, my eyes landing on a long, iron-tipped hunting knife resting on the wooden table—a tool I had found in the cabin's rusted iron chest earlier that morning.

​I picked up the knife, testing its weight in my hand. It was sharp, balanced, and lethal.

​"Tonight," I whispered, sliding the knife into the leather sheath at my belt. "Tonight you're going to answer my questions."

​Night fell heavy and dark over the mountains. A thick blizzard began to blow in from the north, howling outside the cabin, whipping snow against the wooden shutters.

​I sat by the dying fire, keeping my eyes wide open, holding the hunting knife firmly beneath the folds of my heavy woolen cloak. I pretended to sleep, leaning my head against the log wall, letting my breathing slow into a steady, rhythmic pattern.

​Hours passed in the freezing darkness.

​The soft, almost imperceptible sound of the iron door latch lifting made my ears twitch.

​The wooden door swung open silently, allowing a swirl of freezing white snow and icy wind to burst into the room. A tall, dark shadow stepped across the threshold, carrying a heavy bundle of dry oak logs under one arm.

​He wore the same dark leather armor, the same deep hood, and the same black cloth mask concealing the lower half of his face. His razor-sharp silver eyes flickered over my form resting by the hearth.

​He turned toward the woodpile near the corner, lowering his body slightly to stack the logs.

​I didn't hesitate.

​I sprang up from the floor, drawing the iron hunting knife with a sharp, ringing SCHWING, and lunged across the small room. I slammed my shoulder into his back, pressing the cold, razor-sharp edge of the blade directly against the side of his neck.

​"Don't move," I gasped out, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, my breathing fast and frantic. "Don't you dare move!"

​The masked warrior froze instantly.

​He didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He didn't even drop the log he was holding. He simply stood there, bent slightly over the woodpile, my blade resting right against his exposed throat.

​"I said don't move!" I barked, my voice cracking with a mixture of fear, exhaustion, and boiling anger. "Hands where I can see them!"

​Slowly, calmly, the stranger set the oak log down onto the pile. He raised both of his gloved hands to shoulder height, his stance completely relaxed, as if he weren't holding a razor-sharp hunting knife against his jugular.

​"You're awake," he said quietly. His deep, rough baritone was completely devoid of panic.

​"Of course I'm awake!" I shouted, my arm trembling as I pressed the steel a fraction of a millimeter tighter against his skin. "Did you really think I'd just sit here like a helpless idiot while you creep into my room every night?!"

​"I was dropping off firewood," he replied smoothly, his tone maddeningly calm. "It's freezing outside."

​"I don't care about the firewood!" I yelled, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. "Turn around! Slowly! Let me see your face!"

​The stranger took a slow, deliberate breath. He turned his head slightly, his piercing silver eyes meeting mine over his shoulder. "Lower the knife, Nyx. You don't want to do this."

​"Don't tell me what I want!" I snapped, my chest heaving. "You've been following me for days! You tracked me from Oakhaven, you fought off those rogues, you patched up my arm, and you know my name! Who are you?!"

​Silence filled the small cabin, save for the howling wind outside.

​"Answer me!" I demanded, shaking the blade. "Are you an assassin sent by Alpha Ashborne?! Did the High Council send you to execute me far away from the kingdom so nobody sees my blood on their hands?!"

​"If I were sent to kill you," the stranger said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat register, "you would have died four days ago on that riverbank."

​"Then who sent you?!" I screamed, my grip on the handle turning white-knuckled. "Why are you doing this?! Is this some sick game to you?! Are you enjoying watching the Cursed Luna squirm in the mud?!"

​"No one is playing a game," he said quietly.

​"Then give me a reason!" I choked out, a hot tear slipping down my cheek, leaving a clean trail through the grime on my face. "Give me one good reason why a deadly warrior is acting like my personal servant! Why feed me?! Why give me boots?! Why give me medicine?!"

​"Because you were dying," he replied simply.

​"So what if I was?!" I roared, my voice breaking completely as raw, suppressed agony flooded out of my chest. "Everyone in Asteria wants me dead! My own pack threw me away! My fated mate publicly rejected me and called me a plague! My adoptive parents turned their backs on me! Why do you care if I starve in a ditch?!"

​The warrior turned around fully, stepping into the space of my knife, forcing me to take a half-step back so I wouldn't accidentally cut him. He towered over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint light of the dying fire.

​"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. "You think I'm doing this out of pity?"

​"Yes!" I sobbed, holding the knife up between us, though my hands were shaking so violently the blade was trembling in the air. "You look at me and you see a pathetic, weak, broken girl who can't even defend herself against a common rogue! You're feeding me out of charity, just like Beta Marcus did before he threw me out!"

​"You know nothing about why I am here," he said, his voice cold and hard as iron.

​"Then tell me!" I screamed at his masked face. "Talk to me! Stop hiding behind that stupid mask and talk to me like I'm a human being!"

​"I owe you no explanations, Nyx," he countered sharply, stepping closer, his imposing presence filling the small room. "I gave you food. I gave you shelter. I gave you a chance to survive. What you do with it is your choice."

​"I don't want your damn charity!" I spat, tears pouring down my face as I lowered the knife, slamming my uninjured hand hard against his armored chest. "I don't want your food! I don't want your boots! If you won't tell me who you are or why you're here, then get out! Leave me alone!"

​The warrior looked down at my hand resting against his chest, then lifted his eyes back to mine. There was no anger in his gaze. Only a freezing, terrifying detachment that made my blood run cold.

​"You have a lot of rage inside you, little wolf," he spoke quietly, his deep voice carrying a dark, chilling resonance. "You're angry at your pack. You're angry at your mate. You're angry at the moon. But anger won't keep you warm when the real snow comes."

​He reached out with a lightning-fast motion, his gloved fingers wrapping around my wrist. He didn't squeeze hard enough to bruise, but his grip was an unyielding iron vice. He gently pushed my hand and the hunting knife away from his body.

​"Look at yourself," he said, his silver eyes pinning me to the spot. "You can barely hold that blade straight. Your wolf is dying inside you because you're clinging to the grief of a boy who threw you away. You're reckless. You're loud. And you're letting your emotions blind you to everything around you."

​"Shut up..." I choked out, trying to yank my wrist out of his grip, but he wouldn't budge. "Shut up!"

​"If you keep relying on anger to survive in these mountains," he continued coldly, letting go of my wrist and stepping back toward the open doorway, "you won't make it to next winter. The rogues won't kill you, Nyx. Your own foolish pride will."

​He turned his back on me, stepping out onto the snow-covered wooden porch.

​"Get back here!" I screamed, my vision turning red with pure, unadulterated fury. "Don't you dare walk away from me!"

​He didn't stop. He stepped off the porch into the howling blizzard, his black cloak whipping wildly in the freezing wind.

​"I said stop!" I raged, my mind snapping under the weight of his cold, arrogant words.

​Driven by pure, blinding instinct, I flipped the iron hunting knife in my hand, holding it by the tip of the blade. I drew my arm back and hurled the heavy knife straight at the back of his head with all the force left in my body.

​The blade sliced through the freezing night air, spinning rapidly toward his dark hood.

​The warrior didn't turn around. He didn't even break his stride.

​Without looking back, his right hand shot up like a striking viper, his gloved fingers snapping shut in mid-air right beside his ear.

​He caught the spinning iron blade cleanly by the hilt, less than two inches from his head.

​I froze on the porch, my breath catching in my throat, my eyes wide in absolute horror and shock.

​The stranger stopped in the deep snow. He held the knife in his gloved hand for a long, agonizing second, testing its weight.

​Then, slowly, he tilted his head sideways, his silver eye catching mine through the swirling white snow of the blizzard.

​He didn't throw it back. He didn't yell.

​He simply opened his fingers, letting my iron hunting knife drop silently into the soft, white snow below, before stepping into the gray fog and vanishing completely into the storm.

​I stood alone on the freezing porch, the icy wind tearing at my cloak, my heart hammering like thunder in my ears as the blizzard swallowed the only person who had kept me alive.