CHAPTER 8: Captive in Ashmoore

N Y X A R A

I wake up cold. It presses through my back and into my shoulders, like the ground is trying to remember me. I don’t open my eyes right away. I check my body first. That habit survives most things. I try my hands. They don’t move. There’s pressure at my wrists, even on both sides, like whatever’s holding me down thought about leverage. I try my ankles next. Same answer.

My limbs feel slow.Heavy. Awake, but not responding right. Like they’re waiting for permission that isn’t coming. The last thing I remember is his breath at my throat. The word he used. Then heat. Then nothing. I’m alive. That settles fast.

The second thought comes just as clean. I’m not free. I open my eyes. The ceiling is stone. Dark, but clean. No cracks. No moss. I catalog the angle of the light, where it’s coming from, what time it might be. My neck is stiff when I turn my head, but not painful.

I reach for the bite without thinking. My fingers stop short. I can’t reach it anyway. I swallow instead. It’s lower than I expected. Not where a threat would linger or where anyone would mark a claim if that was the point. The skin feels tender. Warm. Like something passed through and kept going.

Whatever he did wasn’t meant to hurt. It was meant to stop me. That part works. I listen. There’s movement somewhere beyond the walls. Footsteps, but not hurried. They pass, pause, then pass again in the opposite direction. The spacing feels deliberate. Measured.

A voice carries faintly. One word. Then silence. The room smells like metal and old ash. I smell clean water, too, somewhere close. The air is cold, but it doesn’t drift. It stays where it’s meant to.

This isn’t a cave. It isn’t a den. There are corners here that were shaped on purpose. Lines that were kept straight because someone wanted them that way. I was trained to expect chaos. Noise. Teeth and fury and hunger. This place feels like rules. The quiet presses in because it’s maintained, not because no one’s here. That makes my chest tighten more than screaming ever would. The door opens without warning.

He steps through and stops, like the room itself told him where to stand. He’s tall, broad through the shoulders, dressed in dark layers that don’t drag or rustle. His presence changes the air, just enough that I notice. His eyes go to the restraints first. Then my face.

“Awake,” he says. Not a question. I don’t answer right away. I met his gaze instead. He looks back like he has time.

“Where am I?” I ask.

He considers that, or pretends to. “Ashmoore.” The name means nothing to me. That bothers me more than it should. He moves closer enough that I’d feel it if he wanted me to.

“You’re human,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You killed wolves.”

“Yes.” His mouth tightens, like he’s annoyed rather than furious.

“And yet,” he says, “you’re still breathing.” I don’t bother circling it.

“Why?” I ask. He watches me for a long second. I can tell he’s deciding how much to say, not whether to answer.

“That wasn’t my call,” he says finally.

“But you’re here,” I say. “So you have a guess.” He looks uncomfortable for a moment.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “You shouldn’t be alive. You definitely shouldn’t be in Ashmoore.”

“And yet,” I say. His jaw sets. The room seems to follow his lead, like the walls are listening.

“Our Alpha brought you in,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

I hear the part he doesn’t say. That no one argued or stopped it. Whatever decision was made out there, it was final. And it wasn’t meant to be understood. They move me without ceremony. The restraints come off my wrists first. My arms feel light and useless at the same time. A hand closes around my elbow before I can test them. 

The corridor outside is narrow and straight. Stone underfoot, worn smooth in the center. Torches set at even distances. Wolves pass us without stopping. Each one nods once to the man beside me and keeps going.

I count turns without meaning to. Left. Down. Right again. Every path feels intentional, like there aren’t many wrong ways to go. I don’t see cells or cages. That’s worse. The place doesn’t feel built to hold prisoners. It feels built to function without them.

As we walk, a thought surfaces that doesn’t belong here. Thorne’s voice. Flat. Precise. The way it always was when something mattered. Do not let them question you. At the time, I assumed he meant pain. Tricks. Something obvious. Now I realize something else.

No one has asked me anything yet. Not my name or who sent me and why I crossed the border. The silence isn’t hesitation. It’s control. And whatever answers I carry, the Guild didn’t want them pulled out of me by wolves. They stop outside another door. Two voices carry from inside. Low. Careful.

“She’s human,” one says.

“That’s what worries me,” the other answers. A pause. Then quieter. “If he’s right… she might be the one from the prophecy.” The word hits wrong. Like a language I don’t speak being used about me. And the door opens.