Cloaked Heart (Silent Moments Series: Book 3)

Chapter 1

8 month later

In the dense forest, I had set up a crude but effective trap, my survival instincts taking over. I perched silently in a sturdy tree, my senses heightened, and my patience unwavering. Time passed slowly as I waited for my next meal, every rustle of leaves and distant sound amplifying my anticipation.

Within the hour, a sleek panther emerged from the shadows, lured by the scent of the bait. My heart pounded in my chest as I counted to five, drawing the bowstring taut, the bow trembling slightly under the pressure. With a controlled exhale, I released the arrow, watching it fly through the air with precision. Almost instantly, I reloaded and sent another arrow hurtling toward my target. The panther, now wounded, growled in pain, its powerful frame displaying signs of vulnerability. It was my chance. Without hesitation, I leaped down from the branch where I had been perched, my knife gleaming in my hand. With a swift and precise motion, I drove the blade into the creature's back. The panther's reaction was immediate; it bucked and thrashed, flinging me off its back with a violent force.

I hit the ground, my instincts kicking in as I held the knife defensively, ready for the panther's retaliation. True to form, the injured beast pounced on me, its fangs bared and its claws slashing through the air. It was a deadly dance of survival, where every moment counted, and every move could mean the difference between life and death.

"Yu gonplei ste odon (your fight is over)," I spoke.

In the weeks since I had left the camp, I had immersed myself in the ways of the Grounders, learning their language and their methods of survival. It was a necessary adaptation to the harsh and unforgiving world I now found myself in. Among the many phrases I had learned, one common in the Grounder dialect had become especially relevant to my life: "Survival above all."

With the fresh kill in tow, I made my way back to my makeshift shelter deep within the forest. There, I wasted no time in preparing the panther for consumption. I deftly removed the knife and arrows that had brought down the animal and set to work, expertly skinning and gutting it, ensuring that none of the precious meat went to waste. Methodically, I separated the edible meat from the carcass, knowing that every morsel was vital for my sustenance. The remaining organs and intestines were carefully preserved in a jar, as the Grounders had taught me the importance of using every part of the animal for various purposes.

With the meat bagged up and ready, I set out for a trading post I had discovered in my travels—a place where I could barter for supplies and interact with other survivors. However, I knew that caution was paramount in this new world. Trust was a rare commodity, and I had to be selective about whom I placed it in. As I navigated the dangerous terrain of post-apocalyptic alliances and rivalries, the words "Survival above all" echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of the harsh reality I had come to accept.

The world outside had become a perilous and unforgiving place, and I had become a figure of both fear and fascination among its inhabitants. Gone were the days when I was known as Kegan Foster; now, I bore a different name—Wanheda, the Commander of Death. My reputation had been forged by the events at Mt. Weather, and it was said that when you killed someone like me, you absorbed their power. Kill Wanheda, and you became the new Commander of Death.

My appearance had undergone a transformation as well. The once-subtle brown in my hair had given way to a fiery red, a deliberate change to mask my true identity, at least temporarily. My hair had grown long and wild, framing my face in a way that made me unrecognizable to anyone who had known me before. My facial hair had grown untamed as well, further obscuring the face that even I struggled to recognize in the mirror.

As I arrived at the trading post, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The world was full of individuals who sought to kill or capture me, driven by the legend of Wanheda and the power they believed came with it. Among the many faces at the trading post, there was one that stood out—Cass, the shopkeeper's daughter, who had become my trusted contact in this dangerous world. In a place where trust was rare and alliances were fickle, Cass had been a consistent presence, a glimmer of stability in the chaos that surrounded me.