The den breathed.

  Thorne wasn’t sure how he knew, but every shadowed wall, every twisted root, every inch of dark soil beneath his boots felt alive. Breathing. Slow. Measured.

  It wasn’t just wrong. It was unnatural.

  He stood near the entrance, the jagged rock in his hand heavy as iron. The air pressed thick and low, the walls leaning close though the space stretched wide. It wasn’t the darkness that unsettled him—but the sensation of being watched. Not by eyes. By the place itself.

  No. By something else.

  The wolf.

  Thorne turned, scanning the shadows. The creature wasn’t there—at least, not visibly. But its essence clung to the den like mist. Listening. Waiting.

  His fingers tightened around the rock.

  “Come out,” he said, his voice low and dry. “If you wanted me dead, you had your chance.”

  Silence.

  Only the faint brush of wind scraping the den’s edges, carrying a bite that sank beneath his skin.

  The brand on his brow pulsed—slow at first, then sharper. Like it recognized this place. Or something within it.

  Thorne swallowed. His throat felt raw, torn open by fear.

  “This is a game to you, isn’t it?” His words sounded hollow, even to himself. “You brought me here. For what?”

  Another pulse. Hotter. Hungrier.

  And then, like frost sliding through his skull, came a sensation that wasn’t sound. Not a voice. Not a thought.

  A presence.

  I hunt.

  The words weren’t heard. They pressed into his mind, heavy and primal. Ancient.

  Thorne stiffened, breath catching. He swung the rock in a sharp arc—but there was nothing. Only darkness. Only shadow.

  "You brought me here to finish it?" His voice cracked, sharp with unease.

  No answer. Just that lingering essence, circling him like smoke. Predatory. Cold. Yet it didn’t strike. Instead, it pressed deeper, sliding into his mind. Past thoughts. Past defenses. Piercing.

  And then—images.

  Not his.

  Silver fur, streaked with shadows. Tall grass beneath starless skies. Endless pursuit. Hunger—not for flesh, but for something unreachable. Something burning.

  A sun. Distant. Forever fleeing.

  And the chase. Always the chase. Until the sun was gone, and all that remained was shadow and silence.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Thorne staggered back, gasping. The images tore through his mind like shards of glass. He pressed a hand to the mark, desperate to shove it all away.

  "What is this?" he snapped. "What are you doing to me?"

  The den echoed with silence, but the presence didn’t retreat. It lingered. Closer. Circling.

  And then, a word. Not spoken, but carved into his thoughts like a blade.

  Unworthy.

  Thorne’s pulse spiked. He turned, eyes sharp. "Yeah," he muttered. "Figured that out already."

  A pause. Heavy. Watching.

  You carry it.

  The mark flared beneath his skin, searing deeper. Sharper. Thorne gritted his teeth, jaw tight against the burn.

  "What is it?" he growled. "What do you know about it?"

  Silence.

  But it wasn’t empty. It pressed against him, weighing him. Measuring.

  And finally, the whisper:

  Ancient. Not of this place.

  Thorne’s chest heaved. "And yet… here I am."

  Another pause.

  It called. I followed.

  There was no threat. No promise. Just fact.

  "It’s just a mark," Thorne said, though the words tasted like a lie. "A wound. A scar."

  No.

  The word struck like a hammer.

  It is not yours. You are not its master.

  Thorne’s grip on the rock tightened. His heart pounded against his ribs. "Then whose is it?"

  Silence.

  Deliberate. Heavy.

  And then the whisper:

  You are a beacon.

  The mark burned beneath his skin, molten and feverish.

  Thorne’s breath came in ragged bursts. "And beacons… attract."

  A pause.

  Hunters.

  The word echoed like a falling blade.

  Thorne’s fingers twitched. The rock felt heavier in his palm. His pulse hammered in his ears. "I didn’t ask for this."

  It does not matter.

  No cruelty. Yet no empathy. Just truth. Cold and inevitable.

  "What happens now?" he asked, his voice rough and ragged.

  The shadows shifted.

  Something peeled from the darkness. Massive. Silver and black. The wolf.

  It stepped into the dim light, eyes like distant stars trapped in ice. Not just a beast. Something more. Something ancient. Something inevitable.

  It watched him. Measured him.

  And then, pressed into his thoughts with the weight of inevitability:

  You draw more than me.

  Thorne swallowed. "I don’t need more company."

  The wolf’s gaze was unreadable. Her head tilted.

  Alone, you will fall.

  "And you care why?"

  A pause.

  I hunt what calls me. You walk where it leads. You do not understand it. Neither do I.

  She stepped closer, shadow trailing in her wake.

  Until I know, I follow.

  Thorne hesitated. The words felt final. Inevitable. "And if I say no?"

  The wolf stilled. Her gaze didn’t waver.

  You will still be hunted.

  No threat. No promise. Just fact.

  Thorne’s breath rattled in his chest. His grip loosened on the rock.

  "And when we figure it out?" he asked, voice small beneath the weight of the moment.

  A pause. Then:

  Then we choose.

  A promise. Or a warning.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was already being hunted.

  And now… he wouldn’t be alone.

  The wolf turned, silver and shadow, stepping toward the mouth of the den. And waited.

  Thorne hesitated. His heart thundered. His thoughts tore in every direction. He didn’t trust her—but he understood.

  She wasn’t leaving.

  He took a breath, heavy and sharp. The question clawed out of him.

  "What… what do I call you?"

  The air thickened. Heavy. Charged.

  And in that stillness, it came.

  Not spoken.

  Not heard.

  But felt.

  A word pressed into his thoughts like thunder through a storm.

  Sk?ll.

  The name tore through him, sharp and absolute.

  The mark ignited—not with pain, but with recognition. Not agony. Not fear.

  Joy.

  Dark. Primal. Rejoicing.

  The mark pulsed, feverish beneath his skin. Not resisting. Not rejecting.

  Welcoming.

  Thorne gasped, staggering beneath the force of it. His palm pressed against the heat, but it didn’t burn him.

  It claimed him.

  Or welcomed him home.

  And when the warmth eased, it didn’t leave silence behind.

  It left her name. Etched into his bones.

  He looked up, breath ragged.

  The wolf—no. Sk?ll—stood watching.

  And for a moment, they understood each other.

  Not with words. Not with trust.

  But with inevitability.

  When Sk?ll turned, vanishing into the grass, Thorne followed.

  He didn’t know why.

  But his mark did.

  Whew. That one got heavy.

  Thorne and Sk?ll are connected now, whether he understands it or not. There’s no easy way forward for them, and that’s the tension I’m chasing. No hand-holding, no clear path—just instinct and survival, and whatever ancient pact that mark is pulling them into.

  Also… Sk?ll’s name. How did it land for you? That was a moment I really wanted to hit hard. Like feeling an earthquake rumble through your chest, a name that doesn’t just sound heavy but feels like it means something deeper.

  What do you think of their dynamic so far? Is it hitting the right note of tense and dangerous? Let me know in the comments.

  And as always, thanks for reading. Your support means everything! Next chapter drops tomorrow (11/03/2025). Can’t wait for you to see what’s next.|

  Praise frog!

  (づ ? _?)づ ??

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