Chapter 1 — Scars Unseen

Alana Mercer

The wind howled through the skeletal trees of the Wailing Forest, carrying with it the bitter bite of autumn’s death rattle. It clawed at the warped walls of Alana Mercer’s cabin, a modest structure leaning precariously against the elements as though it too were determined to survive. Within its shadowed, cramped interior, Alana crouched by the hearth, her amber eyes catching the flicker of the low flames like shards of molten gold. She fed another piece of splintered wood into the fire and sat back on her heels, her mangled left arm resting awkwardly against her side.

The cabin was quiet but for the crackle of burning wood and the occasional groan of the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls. Her breath fogged in the frigid air. She preferred it this way—silent, solitary, detached. The isolation was both armor and wound, protecting her from the world even as it deepened her scars. In this silence, no one could remind her of what she’d lost. But then again, no one could see how far she’d fallen.

Her gaze drifted to the rough-hewn table on the far side of the room. Her knife lay there, gleaming faintly in a shard of moonlight that had slipped through the warped shutters. Practical, sharp, unyielding—everything Alana aspired to be, yet so often fell short of. Rising stiffly, her boots scuffing against the packed dirt floor, she crossed the room to retrieve it. The blade felt right in her hand, a cold and precise extension of herself. She ran her thumb across its edge, testing its sharpness, the faint sting grounding her. This knife had kept her alive when everything else had failed. She slid it back into the sheath at her belt.

She hadn’t yet returned to the fire when a sound interrupted her routine—a faint, deliberate crunch of snow just outside the cabin. Every muscle in her body went taut, her heightened senses sharpening. The cabin was remote, far enough into the wilderness that even the desperate rarely ventured this deep. Amber eyes narrowing, she edged toward the shuttered window, her movements soundless despite her worn boots. Another crunch, closer this time. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they weren’t trying to hide their approach.

Her hand hovered over the knife at her belt, her pulse quickening. She pressed herself against the wall beside the door and waited, each breath slow and measured. The silence outside pressed in, broken only by the whine of the wind. Then, three sharp, uneven raps echoed through the cabin, their deliberate rhythm setting her teeth on edge. She didn’t flinch, though her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade.

"Who’s there?" she called, her voice low, sharp-edged.

"Just a weary traveler," came the reply, muffled but calm. Male. "I mean no harm. Seeking shelter from the storm."

Storm? Her eyes darted to the roof, where the wind howled like a living thing. No one sane would be out here in this weather without a damn good reason—or a death wish.

"Go back the way you came," she said curtly. "There’s nothing here for you."

"I’ve been walking for hours," the voice persisted, tinged with weariness. "Please. I’ve food to share and tales that might interest you. Let me in, and I’ll be gone by first light."

Her jaw tightened. Curiosity gnawed at her resolve, but her mistrust was a hard-earned reflex. Tales? She doubted he had anything to say that mattered. And yet, the faintest ember of something—hope, desperation, she couldn’t say—flickered in her chest. What if he did?

The knife was in her hand when she opened the door, its tip lowered but angled just enough to make her intentions clear. The man who stood in the doorway was cloaked in furs, his face shadowed by a hood rimmed with frost. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold, and his gloved hands clutched a pack slung over one shoulder. He was unarmed, or at least appeared to be, though Alana trusted appearances about as much as she trusted her own reflection.

"Thank you," he said, stepping inside before she could change her mind. His gaze flicked to the knife in her hand, but if he felt any unease, he didn’t show it. "I’m Rurik," he offered as he shrugged off his pack.

"Alana," she replied, shutting the door behind him. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. "Try anything, and I’ll gut you before you can blink."

Rurik smiled faintly, a wry twist of his lips. "Fair enough." He lowered himself onto the bench by the hearth, holding his hands out to the flames. "You’re kind to share your fire. I’ve met werewolves who’d sooner rip out my throat than give me the time of day."

Her knife twitched slightly, but she said nothing. Let him guess. If he knew what she was, he didn’t seem particularly concerned, which unsettled her more than outright hostility.

"You said you had food," she prompted.

Rurik chuckled and reached into his pack, pulling out two small bundles wrapped in wax paper. He placed one on the table and unwrapped the other, revealing cured meat and hard bread. "Help yourself," he said, taking a bite of his own share. "Consider it payment for the roof over my head."

Alana hesitated, her instincts warring with her hunger, then took a piece of the meat. She chewed in silence, watching him as the firelight danced across his face. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, despite his earlier promise. Instead, he leaned back, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the flames.

"There are stories about this forest, you know," he said after a moment, his tone conversational. "Haunted trees, cursed wolves, and ancient relics buried in ruins that only the mad—or the desperate—would seek."

Relics. The word coiled tight around her thoughts, though her face betrayed nothing. "Stories are just stories," she said flatly.

"Sometimes," Rurik agreed. "But sometimes, there’s truth tangled in the roots. Take the Skulls of the Lycanth, for instance. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?"

Her grip on the knife tightened. Silence was safer than denial.

Rurik leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say the Skulls grant power beyond imagining. Strength, speed, the ability to heal even the deepest wounds. But," he added, his tone turning somber, "it always comes at a cost."

"What cost?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Depends who you ask. Some say it takes your soul. Others claim it twists you into something monstrous. Either way, no one touches a Skull and walks away unchanged."

Her left arm throbbed faintly, as though in answer to his words. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you seem like someone who might have use for such a thing." His gaze was steady, calculating. "You’ve got the look of someone who’s lost something."

Her thoughts churned, her scars a phantom weight. "Where are they?" she demanded, the knife trembling in her grip.

"There’s a ruined temple deep in this forest," he said. "If the stories are true, one of the Skulls lies entombed there. But be warned—there’s a reason no one comes back from those ruins."

"I’ll take my chances."

Rurik shrugged, finishing his meal. "Suit yourself. Just remember, power always comes with a price."

When dawn broke, he was gone, his footprints fading into the snow beyond the cabin. Alana stood in the doorway, her pack slung over one shoulder, the knife at her side. The forest stretched before her, vast and unyielding. And somewhere within it, the temple waited.

Her scars throbbed, but this time, they didn’t feel like a burden. They felt like a challenge.