The elder's hut smelled of old wood and burning herbs, the air thick with something Rowan couldn't quite name. Shadows flickered against the walls from the fire in the small stone hearth, but the warmth did nothing to ease the cold weight settling in Rowan's chest.
He sat rigid in the wooden chair across from the elder, fists clenched against his knees. The old man had barely spoken since he let Rowan in, instead rummaging through shelves, gathering glass jars filled with unknown substances, and muttering under his breath.
Rowan's patience was thin. He was tired. Tired of the ridicule, the whispers, the way his father wouldn't even look at him. Tired of the uncertainty in his own body, like he was trapped in skin that didn't fit.
He had come here for answers. And he wasn't leaving without them.
"You told me my bloodline is asleep," Rowan said, his voice firmer than he felt. "That my wolf isn't lost but waiting. What does that mean?"
The elder finally turned, sharp amber eyes studying him. He was smaller than Rowan remembered, but there was something in the way he carried himself—something old, something that made the air in the room feel heavier.
"You are the last," the elder murmured.
Rowan's breath caught. The black wolf from his vision had said the same thing.
The last what?
Before he could ask, the elder continued. "Your bloodline isn't weak, boy. It's old. Older than this pack. Older than the Alphas who rule it now." His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of something beneath it—something weighty, something dangerous. "And it has been sleeping for a long time."
Rowan's fingers dug into his knees. "Then how do I wake it up?"
The elder sighed and moved toward a large wooden chest in the corner of the room. He knelt beside it, his hands steady despite his age, and lifted the lid.
Rowan leaned forward as the elder pulled out something wrapped in dark cloth. He carried it back to the table, placing it carefully in front of Rowan before unfolding the fabric.
A dagger lay beneath it.
Rowan inhaled sharply.
The blade was unlike anything he had ever seen—black steel etched with strange symbols, glowing faintly in the firelight. The handle was wrapped in worn leather, and at the base of the hilt sat a golden stone embedded in the metal.
Something stirred in Rowan's chest. His fingers twitched, aching to touch it.
"This belonged to your ancestors," the elder said quietly. "It is the key to your wolf."
Rowan swallowed. "My ancestors?"
The elder nodded. "You come from a line that predates this pack. A line that was nearly wiped out long ago." He met Rowan's gaze, his expression unreadable. "A line that was feared."
Rowan's heartbeat pounded in his ears. Feared?
His whole life, he had been told he was nothing. That his bloodline was worthless. But now…
"Why would they fear us?" Rowan asked.
The elder's fingers traced the symbols on the dagger. "Because your kind did not just shift into wolves." His voice was quiet but firm. "You were something more."
A chill ran through Rowan.
More than wolves?
His mind raced, searching through everything he had ever been taught. But nowhere in the history of their pack had anyone ever spoken of shifters being anything but wolves.
Unless…
Rowan's breath caught as a memory surfaced—the vision. The black wolf with golden eyes standing on a battlefield soaked in blood.
"I saw it," he whispered. "A vision of a great black wolf. It said… I was the last."
The elder's expression didn't change. "Then your wolf is beginning to remember."
Rowan's throat tightened.
It wasn't just a dream.
"What am I?" he whispered.
The elder exhaled slowly. "You are the last of the Shadowfangs."
The room seemed to shrink, the firelight casting long shadows across the floor.
Shadowfang.
The word felt foreign and familiar all at once, like something buried deep inside him had been waiting to hear it.
The elder watched him closely. "Your wolf will not wake until you accept what you are. And to do that, you must remember."
Rowan forced himself to breathe. "How?"
The elder slid the dagger toward him. "Take this. Carry it with you. Sleep with it near you. Let it speak to you."
Rowan hesitated, then reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a surge of heat shot up his arm. His breath caught as a strange pressure built in his chest—like something stirring.
The elder nodded. "Your journey begins now."
Rowan gripped the dagger tighter, heart hammering.
He was the last of something powerful. Something long forgotten.
And if he wanted to survive—if he wanted to prove he belonged—he had to find out exactly what a Shadowfang was.
No matter what it took.