Selene bristled at the nickname. "I don't trust you," she said bluntly. "And I don't play games."
Damien chuckled. "That's why I like you, Selene." He stepped over a fallen branch, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "But this isn't a game. This is about survival. Yours. Mine. And our entire pack."
Selene exhaled sharply. She had spent years training for the day she could lead the Nightshades into battle against the Silverfangs. She had honed her skills, sharpened her mind, and buried her heart beneath layers of ice. But now, she was being forced into patience.
She hated patience.
"Tell me," she demanded, crossing her arms. "What does the Blood Moon prophecy have to do with this war?"
Damien's smirk faded. "Everything."
He stopped walking, his boots sinking into the snow as he turned to face her fully. "The prophecy isn't just about the Blood Moon. It's about **us.** The Nightshades and the Silverfangs. This war is nothing compared to what's coming."
Selene frowned. "And what's coming?"
Damien leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Something ancient. Something hungry."
A shiver ran down Selene's spine, but she masked it with a hardened expression. She didn't believe in old legends. She believed in steel, in blood, in vengeance.
Damien studied her before sighing. "You don't believe me."
"No," she said. "I believe in taking action, not fearing bedtime stories."
Damien's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Then let's take action."
Before she could react, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward, guiding her through the trees. "There's something you need to see."
Selene yanked free of his grip, but she followed. She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was something darker
i. "This wasn't us," he murmured.
Selene's fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger. "Then who?"
Damien slowly looked up, his golden eyes gleaming with something unsettling.
"Not who," he said. "**What.**"
A chill crept down Selene's spine as the wind howled through the trees, carrying a sound that didn't belong to any wolf she had ever heard.
Something was out there.
And it was hunting them all.
---
# **
The bodies lay in eerie silence, their blood painting the snow in dark crimson streaks. The scent of death hung heavy in the air, but what disturbed Selene the most was the sheer brutality of the kills.
This wasn't the work of Nightshades.
And it wasn't the Silverfangs, either.
"Whatever did this," Selene murmured, scanning the bodies, "it didn't kill for war. It killed for something else."
Damien rose from his crouch, brushing snow off his fingers. "Raven needs to see this."
Selene's stomach tightened at the name. **Raven Hawthorne.** The witch who lived deep in the cursed woods, far beyond the reach of any pack. She was a legend, a seer who whispered riddles of fate and death.
Selene had never trusted witches.
But as she gazed at the mangled remains before her, she knew they had no choice.
"Fine," she said, sheathing her dagger. "But if she tries anything, I'll put a blade through her throat."
Damien smirked. "I'd pay to see you try."
They traveled through the frozen forest, moving swiftly, their senses alert for whatever horror had left those bodies behind. The deeper they went, the darker the woods became. The moon barely touched this part of Black Hollow, as if even its light feared to tread here.
When they reached Raven's dwelling—a crooked wooden cabin draped in vines and strange symbols—Selene's instincts screamed at her to leave.
Damien knocked once. Twice. Then the door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and something older—magic. Candles flickered, casting long shadows over the walls. And in the center of the room, hunched over a wooden table covered in bones and bloodied runes, sat **Raven Hawthorne.**
Her black eyes flicked up to meet theirs.
"I was expecting you," she said in a voice that sent chills through Selene's bones.
Selene crossed her arms. "Then you know why we're here."
Raven tilted her head. "The bodies."
Damien nodded. "What did that?"
Raven didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached for a small bowl filled with a dark, thick liquid. Dipping her fingers inside, she traced a symbol onto the wooden table—a symbol Selene had never seen before.
"The Blood Moon is waking the old ones," Raven murmured. "The war between the Silverfangs and Nightshades is meaningless. Your hatred, your revenge—it is all a distraction from the real danger."
Selene frowned. "Speak clearly, witch."
Raven's black eyes locked onto hers, filled with something between sorrow and warning.
"The prophecy is already in motion. The Blood Moon does not bring war."
She dipped her fingers into the dark liquid again and smeared another symbol onto the table.
"It brings the **Hungry Ones.**"
A sharp gust of wind howled through the open door, blowing out the candles. The room plunged into darkness, and a whisper, cold and ancient, slithered through the air.
Selene's heartbeat thundered.
Something was watching them.
Something that didn't belong in this world.
---
The wind shrieked through the trees, carrying with it a whisper—low, guttural, and in a language Selene didn't understand. The moment Raven spoke of the **Hungry Ones**, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The air grew thick, pressing against Selene's skin like unseen hands.
Damien tensed beside her, his golden eyes scanning the darkened cabin. "Raven," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "What are the Hungry Ones?"
The witch's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. "Creatures born of the first Blood Moon. Older than werewolves. Older than this war. They have been asleep for centuries."