Chapter 3 Hunted

I tried to tell myself it was just fear. A trick of my imagination. I’d been alone for two years. But the memory of those silver eyes lingered, the mysterious figure haunting my thoughts, etched in my mind like a curse. It was maddening. Who was he really?

I couldn’t let fear control me. My life felt cursed, unlucky, but I had to keep moving. That was all that mattered.

Lying under my pillow, clutching a dagger, didn’t feel like surviving. It felt like waiting. Waiting to be hunted, dragged off, maybe killed. I needed to know if the footsteps I kept hearing were real or if my mind was finally snapping, spinning stories from paranoia.

I rolled off the bed, feet slapping the cold wooden floor, and slipped into the alley behind the inn. The night air bit my skin, damp and smelling of rotting vegetables. I pressed close to the stone walls, moving through the darkest patches, dagger ready, every muscle coiled.

The street was empty. Only a distant guard’s horn and drunken laughter from a tavern broke the silence. My breath came out in white puffs. Then I saw it, a strip of black cloth caught on the wall, held by a rusty nail. A mark. Someone had marked me.

My stomach twisted. That wasn’t trash. Someone meant it as a warning. I crouched against the damp bricks, scanning every shadow. Then it happened, a figure forming at the far end, emerging from the darkness itself. I knew immediately. It was him. The same man.

Blood froze in my veins. I wondered if my heart was still beating or if I had imagined the last pulse. My lungs burned from holding air too long.

He stepped forward slightly, yet the ground seemed to obey him before I even noticed. His shoulders were broad, stance composed, naturally intimidating. Predators didn’t rush. They watched. They waited.

The air thickened. Maybe it was just my effort to stay calm. My heartbeat pounded. The dagger felt like nothing in my hands.

He didn’t move further. Just being there twisted my fear into something colder. I hated how weak my hands felt. I hated knowing he could probably see it.

The silence stretched. I almost begged him to speak. When he did, his voice cut through quietly, steadily.

"You can run," he whispered. "But you will never be able to hide. Remember that, Elara."

I tightened my grip. If he lunged, I was ready. Still, I knew deep down it wouldn’t matter. A weapon like this was useless against him. My body screamed to run, but my legs refused. Fear locked me in place like chains.

Then he vanished. I was halfway to losing it. He melted back into the darkness silently. No footsteps. No shift of fabric. Only the whisper of wind and the heavy trace of his presence left behind.

I trembled in the alley, every nerve on edge. Whoever he was. Kael, his envoy, or something worse, I could only hope not. He had found me. The hunt had begun again, even after two years of surviving that night of slaughter.

••

Morning came, and Ashvale looked almost normal again. Not completely normal, but better than most cities. Sunlight pierced clouds, slanting across rooftops and tangled laundry. The illusion of peace almost made me laugh, but my face stayed blank. I had forgotten how to smile.

I forced myself to breathe. To act like nothing happened last night. Fear would only get me killed, and the Silverfangs would be left with nothing.

With the last coins I had, I made my way to the market. The square smelled of toasted bread and boiled nuts, merchants shouting prices, children running between stalls with sticky hands and muddy shoes. The market was filthy, familiar in every way.

I bought nearly stale bread because it was cheap, and a thin soup from a woman who didn’t even look at me, then sat at the square’s edge. The food warmed my stomach, but didn’t touch the anxiety twisting in my chest. It only kept me from starving.

That’s when I saw them. Three men, standing stiffly beside a cart. Cloaks tight, hoods over their faces. Hands close to weapons. They didn’t look like buyers. They looked like hunters, waiting for prey to pass.

Whispers spread through the crowd.

“The hunters are back, not here… shush, do as your mother says,” murmured a woman, pulling a child close.

“Tsk, Hunter Guild again. Don’t want trouble,” another said with hatred.

My breath caught. Hunter Guild. Mercenary hunters sworn to hunt and kill werewolves. No king, only a blood oath older than the kingdom. No mercy, no rest. They didn’t stop until prey lay cold. A shiver ran down my spine. I was a werewolf or a lone wolf.

One turned slightly, and I caught a scarred jaw. His lips curved faintly, as if he knew exactly who I was. I could be dead if they realized my true identity.

I lowered my head, forcing myself to chew slowly. The bread was dry, tasteless, but I pretended nothing was wrong. My heartbeat pounded. If the Hunters were here, last night wasn’t paranoia. I was being watched.

I slipped into the crowd, hoping the market chaos would swallow me. I focused so hard on escaping that I nearly ran into someone.

"Careful," a soft voice said.

I froze, looking up. Relief. Dorian.

He was the same as yesterday. Tall, upright, cloaked, surrounded by that unnerving calm like fog. Mysterious. His gaze pinned me, and I wavered despite trying to look casual.

I forced a smile. "Oh, it’s you. What a coincidence."

The corner of his mouth lifted, almost mocking. But his eyes… his eyes said otherwise. Like he had planned this.

“I didn’t expect to see you here again,” I added quickly, then asked, "Do you… know of any work? Anything. I just need money. Enough for food and a bed. I’m not asking for more. I’m not someone who forces things."

He stared. Too long. Uneasy. It felt like he had been watching me before I realized it. A shiver ran down my spine.

Finally, he spoke. "Work, yes, there is work. But not for the faint of heart. Tasks no one else will touch. Dangerous. No thanks when done. But pay is good."

His words hung heavy. Dangerous? Maybe. But if the pay was right, it didn’t matter.

Footsteps hit the stone. The Hunters moved again. He tilted his head slightly, watching.

Dorian stepped closer, voice nearly a whisper in my ear. "If you want money, Elara… stay close. You might get more than you expect."

Huh? He knew my name? Maybe he’d heard it from those searching for me.

"I don’t care what kind of work," I whispered, surprised at my own steadiness. "As long as it keeps me alive, I’ll do it."

Something passed over his face. Not mockery. Not coldness. Something too close to pity. But it vanished, replaced by calm.

"You’re stubborn," he murmured. "Too stubborn for your own good. But that’s fine, at least for today."

I looked down, embarrassed. "I just… don’t want pity. I want to earn it on my own."

It seemed to amuse him. His smile sharpened, not cruel, not soft. Strange.

"Then work with me. Every morning. Deliver goods. Handle tasks unseen but important. You’ll have enough to eat and pay for a bed."

"With you?" I asked, wary. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Tasks," he said, vague, eyes flicking toward the Hunters. "Not to be discussed in public."

My instincts screamed caution. No mockery. No pity. He judged me well, I’d rather risk my life for coin than accept handouts. And maybe that was the scariest part. The Hunters were gone, but the silence felt heavier than their presence.

I took a slow breath. "Fine. I’ll do it, whatever it is, as long as it’s for money."

Dorian’s smile widened slightly. A promise or a warning, I couldn’t tell.

"Good," he said. "We start tomorrow. Don’t be late."