Wolf and Blades: Moonbound Blood

N Y X A R AThe Guild trained me to kill wolves. They taught me where to place the blade, how to cut through muscle before the beast could shift, and how to walk away before the body hit the ground. Tonight, they gave me my most important target yet.An Alpha.The training wing is colder than the rest of the compound. They keep it that way on purpose. Cold slows reaction time, and cold makes mistakes visible.Stone drains heat through the soles of my boots. The air smells like metal and antiseptic—clean enough to sting if I breathe too deeply. I stand at the edge of the hall with my hands behind my back and my eyes forward. My breathing settles without instruction.In through the nose.Out through the mouth.Four counts each. A habit from early training, back when panic still needed managing.Two Candidates spar under a handler’s supervision. One hesitates, and the correction comes fast—a short baton strike, controlled and precise. Not enough to break skin, but enough to teach. Pain h

NYXARAThe eastern gate smells like rust and horse sweat. The guard doesn’t look up until I clear my throat.“Papers,” he says.I hand them over. He studies the seal longer than he studies me. That’s fine. Seals are easier to trust than faces.“Elira Marr,” he reads. “Weaver. Traveling alone?”“Yes.”He glances past me toward the treeline beyond the road. The trees look darker than they should for this hour.“You picked a bad time to be heading out,” he says.“I don’t mind the cold.” He shakes his head slightly.“Not the cold.” He lets that sit between us.“Bandits?” I ask. His jaw shifts. “I wish.” That’s new.“I’ve traveled before,” I say.“Not out that way,” he replies. His thumb rests on the stamp, but he doesn’t press it yet.“People have been missing past the bend,” he says quietly. “Livestock too. Something’s not right in those woods.”“Not right how?”He finally looks at me properly, like he’s trying to decide something.“Too quiet,” he says. “No birds. No usual sounds. Just…

NYXARAThe village starts where the road gives up.There’s no sign, no gate—nothing that says you’ve arrived. The dirt just smooths out, and the trees lean closer to the path. I slow down without thinking about it. I’m not tired. It just doesn’t feel right to walk in fast.I pull my hood up and let my shoulders slump slightly. I’ve done this enough times to know how it looks—smaller, quieter, harmless. Just another traveler passing through the village.People move aside when I walk by. Not quickly. Just a small shift, like it’s easier that way. No one really looks at me. No one asks where I’m headed—just a few quiet nods. Mostly nothing. And nobody looks past the last house at the edge of the village. The air feels heavier here, quieter than it should be. My boots make less sound than they should.I notice. But I keep walking.There’s a small stall near the center of the road—if you can even call it that. Just a board balanced on crates with bruised apples and a bundle of roots tied

N Y X A R AThe wolf moves closer. At a pace that doesn’t ask permission. Just forward, like the distance between us was always meant to close and I’m only now catching up to that fact. I pull a blade free. Late. My fingers fumble the wrap for half a second before muscle memory snaps it into place. The sound feels too loud. Metal whispering in a forest that has gone quiet again.The clearing behind me feels farther than it should. Like a memory I’m already losing access to. The wolf lowers his head. I don’t wait for him to decide what that means. I move first. Left blade high. Right low. I cut in, not aiming for the throat. Shoulder. Joint. Anything that slows him. I don’t need to kill him. I just need space.He lunges and I pivot, boots skidding in loose dirt, blade flashing past his ribs. I feel the resistance this time. The give. I slice and pull back hard. Blood darkens his fur. He doesn’t make a sound. The cut doesn’t slow him. I duck under a snapping jaw and roll, coming up on

N Y X A R AThey move me through the doorway without touching me this time. That alone tells me something has changed. The room is round, stone all the way up, the ceiling low enough that sound would carry if anyone raised their voice. I notice who stands closest to the wall and who stands near the center. I notice who looks at me and who makes a point of not doing that. There are no chains, no chair waiting and no questions.The silence feels arranged. Like the space between steps on a staircase that’s been measured before. I don’t relax. I count exits anyway. I tell myself this is just another holding room, another tactic. But my shoulders don’t settle the way they usually do.The woman near the far edge of the room turns her head before I reach the inner circle of stone markings. She does it slowly, like she has time to spare. Her eyes don’t focus on my face right away. They drift, then land, as if correcting themselves.No one tells her I’m there. A few of the wolves shift their