Chapter 4 The quiet before the snare
Hollowfang’s forest was quieter than Blackridge’s had ever been. The trees here grew tall and thin, their trunks pale as bone, their leaves whispering in a different tongue. Even the wind felt foreign.
Anya had been in this new territory for less than a month, and every day the strangeness pressed in. The Hollowfang wolves moved with an unhurried grace, their patrols more ritual than necessity, their hunts strategic rather than instinct-driven. It was a pack that measured every move, that carried its rules like carved stone. Blackridge had been a pack of fire and steel; Hollowfang was made of ice and patience.
Kael, their Beta, had been her first point of contact — a man with dark hair, quiet eyes, and a sharp way of studying her without letting it seem like he was. He was the one who had convinced Alpha Soren to let her stay. She owed him for that, though she suspected part of his interest was caution rather than kindness.
The Hollowfang wolves didn’t speak much of the rogue attacks in the outer territories. But Anya caught fragments — whispered conversations when they thought she wasn’t listening. Rumors of lone wolves growing bold, of mangled bodies left near the borderlands, of a darkness moving unseen through the wilds.
It gnawed at her. She knew what darkness looked like. It wore a familiar face in her memories — one of the Blackridge guards who had sworn loyalty to her father, then betrayed them to the rogues. She could still hear the laughter of the wolves who had ended her parents’ lives.
Some nights, she woke to the echo of that sound.
The Hollowfang initiation for newcomers was called the Trial of the Branch. It wasn’t meant to break you, just to test you. At least, that’s what Kael had told her before leading her into the deep forest.
The trial was a mock hunt — a single “prey” chosen from among the warriors, marked with a strip of scented cloth, and released into the trees. The rest hunted in teams. The prey would be armed, unpredictable, and skilled at evasion.
Anya was paired with Talia, a lean, amber-eyed huntress who didn’t bother hiding her dislike.
“You keep up,” Talia had said, shouldering her spear. “Or don’t. I don’t slow down for strays.”
Anya had only smiled faintly. “I’m faster than I look.”
They didn’t talk after that.
When the signal came — a low, distant howl — the forest exploded with motion. The prey darted ahead, quick and silent, the scent marker leading them deeper into Hollowfang territory. Talia was fast, but Anya was faster. Her body remembered the Blackridge way — swift, aggressive, unrelenting. She didn’t pace herself; she surged forward, cutting through brush and shadow, weaving around trunks like she’d been born to these woods.
She caught sight of the prey within minutes — a dark-haired male vaulting over a fallen log. Anya didn’t hesitate. She lunged, tackled him, and pinned him in the dirt before he’d even realized she was there.
Talia arrived seconds later, panting, a glare in her eyes. “You could have coordinated.”
“I could have,” Anya agreed, her voice cool. “But he was right there.”
The Hollowfang wolves watching from the perimeter murmured among themselves. Some looked impressed. Others wary. Kael, standing with his arms folded, was unreadable.
Later, as they walked back to the village, Talia muttered, “You fight like you’re expecting someone to stab you in the back.”
Anya didn’t answer. The truth was, she was.
The days passed with a strange mix of peace and unease. She trained with Hollowfang warriors, learning their hunting formations and their approach to patrols. She helped repair a section of the outer wall after a storm. She even laughed once or twice — though the sound felt rusty in her throat.
Still, she was never fully at ease. Every rustle in the trees made her glance over her shoulder. Every shadow seemed to carry the shape of a rogue wolf.
It was during a patrol with Kael and two others that it happened. They had taken a route that skirted the edge of Hollowfang’s territory, where the forest thinned and the road cut through open grassland. Human territory was visible beyond — a stretch of cracked asphalt winding toward the horizon.
The others were checking a downed fence post when Anya heard it — the high, whining roar of a human vehicle engine pushed too far. A silver car shot around a bend in the road, swerving dangerously close to the tree line.
Her gaze sharpened.
She saw the Hollowfang pup first — a small boy chasing a leather ball, just a few feet from the road. He froze, eyes wide, as the car hurtled toward him.
Anya’s body moved before thought. She darted forward, crossing the ditch in a single leap, grabbing the pup by the scruff and yanking him back into the grass. The car tore past, the driver’s face a blur, the smell of burnt rubber hanging in the air.
Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. Her claws were out. Her breathing was harsh.
Kael’s hand was suddenly on her shoulder. “Anya.” His voice was steady, grounding. “He’s gone. It’s over.”
But she kept staring down the road, a growl caught in her throat. In her mind, she could already imagine catching the car, ripping the door off, dragging the driver into the dirt—
She blinked, forcing the thought away. The pup whimpered, clinging to her leg.
Kael’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, as if he’d seen the thing she’d almost let loose.
When they returned to the village, no one spoke of it. But Anya knew she would remember that moment. The sound of the engine. The helpless look in the pup’s eyes. The blur of a face she couldn’t quite make out.
A seed had been planted, though she didn’t yet know what it would grow into.
That night, she stood alone at the edge of the Hollowfang border, the moon rising pale and watchful over the trees. Her place in this pack was still fragile, her path uncertain. But somewhere out there — in the tangle of roads and shadows — a reckless stranger had crossed her line.
And Anya Raventhorn never forgot a line once crossed.