Oath of the Hunter

1 - Misguided Fury

Knives hiss through the air. Breaths come hot and sharp as I slash and swipe and force my offence onto the werewolf. He's darting and weaving between my attacks, trying fervently to grapple back some semblance of an advantage, but I am a storm at sea. I am merciless.

He should've known better than to challenge a hunter.

In a blur of strikes and kicks, the werewolf sprawls in the dirt, sending up a cloud of dust in his wake.

I follow like death itself.

"Stray!" Beau yelps, cutting me a heartbroken look akin to a kicked puppy. "Ow!"

I roll my shoulders and offer the beta a hand to help him up. "Nothing's broken," I dismiss. I didn't hit him hard enough to break bones— and besides, he's got the benefit of fast healing even if I did. "You'll live."

"My pride's pretty bruised," he grumbles in return, accepting my help and dusting himself off to no avail. "Show me how you did that."

I do but, in my demonstration, I must go a little too quick for him to defend himself, because this time it's a blur of twists and slashes and he's on the ground once more.

"Rowan!" he calls sharply, adamantly refusing my offered hand and wince of apology. He crosses his arms and glares up at the cerulean sky. "Tell your fated to be nice to me."

I roll my eyes and set about plucking my throwing blades from where they're landed on the ground. They have avoided Beau only due to an excess of control on my part, and not a lack of one. These ones aren't as good as my silver collection, but given silver doesn't agree with my new family, I've had to adapt. Werewolves — at least these ones — are not my enemies anymore.

"He hasn't broken any of your bones— he is being nice to you," Rowan returns distractedly. He's sat on the porch steps of the pack house nearby, reading through the latest draft of a contract between the pack and the police, checking for loopholes.

Lance — the officer who fancied himself an ally to hunters — has been surprisingly helpful in his attempts to win back favour after aligning with my relatives to take down Rowan's pack a month earlier. The fallout from the pack rivalry — all those deaths — has been swept under the rug. With any luck, it will be the last brush with death this pack will see for the foreseeable future. In any case, Lance's worries have been assuaged and he's offered us support.

I don't trust him. I've made it clear that, if he dares to cross us again, my knives will get very well acquainted with his neck.

Since then, he's taken to sending correspondence by mail to avoid my harsh, suspicious glare.

Beau says I need to work on my resting face.

I've come out to train this morning with the intention of clearing my head after another sleepless night. It has been a week since Rowan told me of his suspicions that a werewolf bite would have no effect on someone like me— a Ferreus hunter with silver in my veins and lichtenberg figures and symbols marring my skin and a Haze lurking just beyond reach. A week since the subsequent realisation that my uncle Orion shot my sister for nothing after a bite that most likely would have healed itself. A week since I decided I need to bring the fight to the rest of my relatives before they catch up to me. Before they rip the rug of peace from beneath my feet.

A shiver of unease scuttles down my spine. I'm on edge and restless and, given Beau is still protesting on the ground, I turn my focus to one of the nearby trees. First, I ensure there's no wolves lurking — they have a habit of watching me train from the shrubs and bushes — and when I'm certain the coast is clear, I send two blades hissing through the air. They burrow into the trunk with dull thuds. Overhead, branches whine and leaves hiss in return.