18. Draven
DRAVEN
The wolf's tracks cut deep into the muddy earth between two ancient oaks, each pawprint the size of my fist. I crouch lower, fingertips tracing the ridged edges where claws gouged furrows in the soft ground. Fresh. Maybe two hours old, if that.
My knees protest the position—I've been moving through these woods for thirty-six hours straight, following a trail that keeps doubling back on itself like the beast knows it's being hunted.
Dirt cakes under my fingernails, and my leather vest sticks to my back with dried sweat and forest grime.
The taste of stale water and jerky coats my tongue, but I push the discomfort aside.
Sarah's wing was bent at an impossible angle when I found her yesterday. The memory of her small body crumpled against the cobblestones drives me forward when my muscles scream for rest.
The tracks veer north toward the deeper forest, away from Harvest Hollow's borders. Good. The farther this thing runs, the less chance it has of circling back toward populated areas. But moore wolves are cunning predators—they don't flee in straight lines unless they're leading hunters into traps.
I straighten slowly, scanning the canopy overhead for movement. Nothing but autumn leaves rustling in the wind and the distant call of a hawk. The forest feels wrong, though. Too quiet. Even the insects have gone silent.
My hand finds the hilt of my hunting knife as I step over a fallen log, following the wolf's path deeper into the undergrowth.
Broken branches mark its passage—snapped twigs hanging at odd angles, bark scraped raw where it brushed against tree trunks.
This isn't the careful movement of a creature trying to hide.
It's the reckless flight of something wounded.
The realization stops me cold. I examine the tracks again, noting details I missed in my exhaustion. The left rear paw drags slightly, leaving a smeared impression in the mud. Dark spots stain the leaves—not much blood, but enough to confirm my suspicion.
"Wounded and desperate," I mutter to the empty forest. "Perfect."
A moore wolf with nothing to lose is twice as dangerous as a healthy one. They'll turn and fight when cornered, using their last reserves of strength to take down whatever's pursuing them. I've seen them take on entire hunting parties and leave half the hunters dead before finally falling.
But this one made a mistake when it attacked Sarah. It brought the hunt to my doorstep, and I don't stop until threats to Harvest Hollow are eliminated. Period.
The trail leads down a steep embankment toward a creek that cuts through the forest like a silver scar. Water would mask the wolf's scent and wash away blood—a smart move if it's thinking clearly. But the dragging paw print tells me pain is clouding its judgment.
I slide down the muddy slope, boots finding purchase on exposed roots and stones. The creek bubbles over smooth rocks, maybe three feet wide and shallow enough to cross without getting my gear soaked. On the far bank, crushed reeds show where something large crashed through the vegetation.
My reflection stares back from the water's surface—hollow-eyed, stubble-covered, streaked with dirt and determination.
I look like exactly what I am: a predator tracking prey through its natural element.
The forest has always been my domain, even when the town pretends civilization ends at the tree line.
A raven's harsh cry echoes from somewhere behind me, but I don't turn around. Whatever message it carries can wait until this hunt is finished. Nothing matters except finding that wolf and making sure it never threatens another innocent person.
The tracks continue on the other side of the creek, heading toward a rocky outcropping that would provide good cover for a wounded animal. My pace quickens despite my exhaustion. Close now. Very close.
The familiar granite outcropping looms ahead, weathered stone jutting from the forest floor like broken teeth. I've been here before. Recently.
My boots stop moving as the realization crashes through my exhaustion-fogged mind. The moss-covered boulder to my left, the twisted oak with its lightning-scarred trunk, the cluster of ferns growing in the shadow of fallen logs—I passed this exact spot three hours ago.
"Impossible." The word escapes as a growl, but even as I say it, I'm dropping to examine the tracks again. Fresh prints overlay older ones in the soft earth. My own boot marks from earlier are there, partially obscured by newer wolf sign.
The beast led me in a perfect circle.
My pulse quickens as the pieces come together. The dragging paw print I'd been following—too obvious, too easy to track. The broken branches marking its path like breadcrumbs for a fool hunter. The blood spots that appeared just frequently enough to keep me moving forward.
Moore wolves are intelligent, but this level of tactical thinking suggests something more. Something desperate and cunning enough to turn the hunt back on the hunter.
I straighten slowly, hand moving to my knife hilt as I scan the surrounding forest. Every shadow could hide death. Every rustling leaf could mask the sound of approaching claws. The silence that felt wrong earlier now screams danger.
The attack comes from my blind spot, a gray-brown blur launching from behind a cluster of saplings I'd already cleared as safe. Two hundred pounds of muscle and fury slams into my back, sending us both crashing to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs and snapping teeth.
Pain explodes across my shoulder blades where claws rake through leather and flesh. The wolf's weight pins me face-down against the dirt, and I taste blood and earth as my chin scrapes against exposed roots.
"You clever bastard," I grunt, rolling hard to the right and throwing my elbow back into what I hope is the creature's ribs.
The wolf yelps but doesn't release its grip. Its jaws snap inches from my neck, close enough that I feel the heat of its breath and smell the rank odor of rotting meat between its teeth. My knife is pinned beneath my body, useless.
Exhaustion makes my movements sluggish. Two days without real sleep, surviving on jerky and creek water, and now this beast has every advantage. It knows these woods. It chose the battlefield. It's been resting while I've been stumbling through the forest like an amateur.
The wolf shifts its weight, going for a killing bite at my throat. I get my forearm up just in time, crying out as its fangs sink deep into muscle and scrape against bone. Blood flows hot down my arm, but the thick leather of my bracer keeps the teeth from severing anything vital.
"Not today," I snarl through gritted teeth, using the wolf's grip on my arm as leverage to roll us both toward a fallen log.
The impact drives the breath from both our lungs, but I recover faster. My free hand finds a jagged piece of broken branch, sharp as any blade. Without hesitation, I drive it deep into the wolf's exposed flank.
The beast releases my arm with a howl of pain and fury, blood frothing at its muzzle. But instead of retreating, it lunges again—desperation making it reckless.
This time I'm ready. My knife clears its sheath in one smooth motion, finding the space between the wolf's ribs as it commits to its final attack. The blade slides home with a wet sound, piercing heart and lung in a single thrust.
Its massive body goes limp.
It's done. But I feel no satisfaction.
My stomach clenches with a hunger that has nothing to do with the two days of jerky and creek water. The wolf's blood cools on my knife blade as memory crashes through my exhaustion like a physical blow.
The raven. Yesterday morning, perched on a low branch near my cabin, one leg extended with a small roll of parchment tied with lavender-colored thread. Isolde's careful handwriting inviting me to dinner. Just the two of us. Tonight.
"Shit." The word explodes from my lips as I stagger to my feet, leaving the wolf's carcass where it fell.
My wounded arm throbs, but I ignore the pain as I crash through the underbrush toward town.
Branches tear at my already-shredded vest. My boots slip on wet leaves as I push my exhausted body beyond its limits.
The forest blurs past in streaks of brown and gold. I vault over fallen logs, dodge between trees, take shortcuts through brambles that leave new cuts across my arms. The scent of woodsmoke and baking bread grows stronger as I near the town's edge.
Harvest Hollow's lanterns glow like scattered stars in the darkness. Most windows are dark—the sensible people already tucked into their beds while I stumble through the night like some wild thing. Which, considering my appearance, isn't far from the truth.
I round the corner of Maddie's orchard, my breath coming in harsh gasps that fog in the cool night air. The cottage windows are dark except for a single candle flickering in what I know is the kitchen. My boots pound up the wooden steps, and I raise my fist to knock on the door.
The sound echoes louder than intended in the quiet night. Footsteps approach from inside, and the door swings open to reveal Maddie in a pale nightgown, auburn hair braided for sleep.
She takes in my appearance—blood-stained, dirt-covered, with leaves tangled in my hair.
"Draven? What in the—"
"Isolde. Is she..." I stop, suddenly aware of how I must look. How I must smell. "I was supposed to..."
"Oh, honey." Maddie's expression shifts from alarm to something that looks suspiciously like pity. "She waited. Made roasted chicken with those little potatoes. Kept checking the window until well past nine."
The words hit harder than the wolf's claws. I lean against the doorframe, suddenly feeling every hour of the past two days.
"She's asleep now," Maddie continues, her voice gentle but firm.
"I had to track the beast that hurt Sarah. The moore wolf—"
"I know." She holds up a hand. "I'll tell her you came by. That you explained." Her gaze travels over my injuries, the exhaustion written in every line of my body. "Get home, Ruk. Clean yourself up and get some rest."
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone on the porch with the weight of what I'd missed. The absence hits like a physical ache—sharper than my wounded arm, deeper than my bone-deep exhaustion.