Chapter 5: Contact

N Y X A R A

The village sits where the road thins and pretends it isn’t about to end. No marker to tell you when you’ve crossed. No gate to stop you. Just fewer ruts in the dirt and a way the trees lean closer, like they’re trying to hear what’s being said. I slow my pace without meaning to. Not because I’m tired. Because rushing feels noticeable here.

I pull my hood up. Let my shoulders round. Traveler posture. Harmless. I’ve worn it long enough that it settles on me easily. People move aside as I pass. Not sharply. No fear flare. Just a soft adjustment, like water parting around a stone. They don’t stare. They don’t ask where I’m going. A few nods. Most don’t. Everyone avoids looking past the last row of houses.

The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago. Sound doesn’t carry the same way and my boots land quieter than they should. I take note of it and keep walking. There’s a stall near the center, if you can call it that. A board laid across crates. Apples with soft spots. Root bundles tied with twine. A woman stands behind it, folding a strip of cloth over and over. She glances up when I stop, then back down again.

“Bread,” I say. My voice sounds too loud to my own ears. She reaches for a loaf and hesitates, just a fraction. Enough that I see it. Her gaze flicks to my hands. Then past me. Then back to the bread. I place a coin on the board. She takes it quickly, like it might burn her.

“Passing through?” she asks. I nod. It’s the answer she wants.

Her mouth tightens. “You’ll want to turn back before dark.”

“I’m looking for a place to sleep.”

She exhales through her nose. Not quite a sigh. “Not here.”

“Why not?” The question hangs longer than it should. She lowers her voice even though no one else is close.

“Because this isn't an unclaimed road,” she says. “Not anymore.” I don’t ask who claimed it. I already know what word she’s weighing.

She says it anyway. Quiet. Careful. “The Alpha.” Her hands still. She waits, like she expects something from me. Fear. Recognition. I give her neither.

“Does he bother travelers?” I ask.

That earns me a look. Sharp, measuring. “Only the ones who don’t listen.” I nod again. Thank her. Take the bread. As I turn away, I feel eyes on my back. Not hers. A child stands near the edge of a doorway, half-hidden behind a post. Thin. Dark hair pulled tight. She watches me openly. No fear in her face. Just certainty.

“You shouldn’t be here on Moon’s eve,” she says. It isn’t a warning. It’s a statement. The woman moves fast then, a hand snapping around the girl’s arm. “Inside.”

The girl doesn’t fight it. As she’s pulled back, she looks at me once more. “If you hear them,” she adds, quieter, “don’t move.” 

I leave the village the long way. Loop around instead of heading straight for the road. Old habit. I don’t want to be followed, and I don’t want them to see where I go. The trees accept me without comment.

I choose a rise overlooking the eastern edge, where the ground dips into a shallow clearing. From here, I can see movement before it reaches the houses. I settle behind a fallen trunk and still my breathing. The pressure returns. Like a hand resting between my shoulders.

I wait longer than I need to. Part of that is habit. Part of it is the sense that moving too soon would be noticed, even if nothing is looking directly at me. The forest doesn’t shift. No birds scatter. No small sounds flee. It feels staged. Like something is being held back on purpose.

Then the first shape steps out between the trees. Just appearing where there wasn’t anyone a moment ago. A cloak, dark and heavy, breaks up the outline of a body beneath it. The figure stops near the edge of the clearing and doesn’t move again. Another follows. Then another. They come from different directions, spacing themselves with intention. 

I count without meaning to. Five. Seven. More. All cloaked. All quiet. The sound of their movement barely reaches me, and I’m close enough that it should. They form a loose ring around the center of the clearing, leaving a space open. Waiting.

One of them steps forward. There’s nothing dramatic about it. No display. No posturing. The others shift their weight as if reacting to a change in pressure rather than a command. A few lower their heads. Not in submission but in acknowledgment.

This isn’t a patrol. It isn’t a hunt. It’s a gathering. My fingers curl against the inside of my glove. I’m aware of my breathing now. Slow. Even. I don’t change it. The air carries that sharp scent again. Storm-metal. Closer. Strong enough that it settles at the back of my tongue. I swallow and keep my eyes where they are.

I tell myself I’m here to observe. I tell myself this is information. One of the cloaked figures shifts. Not the one at the center. One on the far side of the ring. Their head turns slightly, like they’ve heard something that doesn’t belong.

Their gaze lifts. Straight to me. The distance shouldn’t allow it. I’m downwind. Covered. Still. But the hood angles until there’s no doubt. I don’t look away. It’s a mistake. I know that even as it happens. Training surfaces too late to stop it. My body locks in place.

The hood slips back just enough for me to see eyes in the dim. Gold. Steady. Too clear. They widen a fraction. Then the flinch. Small. Sharp. Controlled too late to hide it. Like I’ve stepped into a line of sight I wasn’t meant to cross yet.

My breath catches before I can stop it. The figure stills again, posture resetting, but the moment has already passed. Something has shifted. I don’t move. Neither do they. The ring holds. The forest stays quiet. No one speaks. But I know, with the same certainty that warned me before, that this is no longer an observation. I’ve been seen.