Oath of the Hunter

9 - Charming

Rowan

Time drifts stubbornly along. Outside the small window at the end of the cramped room, unfamiliar trees sway, caught at the mercy of playful breezes that send flurries of leaves up into miniature tornadoes.

Everything's different. The scent on the air, the wolves darting through the bushes outside, the distant clattering from the kitchen, the muffled voices, the infuriating and incessant ticking of an old-fashioned clock perched on the ornate dresser on the opposite wall, the bed squeaking beneath me as I shift my weight a little. It's all new, and strange, and different. Even though we've unpacked our clothes into the dresser, it doesn't feel right just yet.

I've never left home, before. Crescent Valley has been my stomping ground since I took my first steps. I grew up learning those trails, those streets, those people. The furthest I've gone is into the heart of Duskland's stolen land— which, technically, was mine — to discuss a fragile truce. But here? I'm a day's drive away, at least, from the only home I've ever known. It's as though I've taken up the anchor and let myself drift a little too far into dangerous, uncharted, stormy waters.

A pleasant, comforting scent — all woods after dark and rain-soaked heaven — encompasses me like an embrace. The anchor is gone, but River is a blazing light breaching the storm clouds. A lighthouse guiding me home. He is a tether to peace, to sanity, and one I never intend to lose.

We're both quiet, savouring this shade of solitude we've found ourselves in. Sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders pressed together. The clock is ticking its infuriating way towards six, chipping away at my patience.

I don't want to move. I want time to lose its footing, to falter in its incessant pace for a little while.

We're in the heart of an unfamiliar pack with hunters breathing down their necks— hunters who have killed their alpha's daughter and their beta.

Here, in this strange bedroom miles from home, it is just River and me and peace. Out there is a world where people are waiting with silver knives to tear us apart— and once we deal with them, we have the true threat to face. Hunters with silver in their veins who think River is dead; hunters who will do all they can to make sure he stays that way.

I can only hope that, by answering Darius' call for aid, he will lend us what support he can to take down the rest of the Ferreus hunters. We'll need every extra hand we can get.

"That clock needs to go," River mutters, glowering at the offending object with the exact level of simmering hatred I've seen on his face when Alessandro, Duskland's alpha, ordered a knife to his throat over a month ago. His sharp silver eyes flicker with a deeper fury, his Haze stirring a little from a long slumber, but the embers cool even as I study him.

So I'm not the only one feeling wary, and I'm not the only one trying hard to keep that wariness at bay.

After growing up beneath the weight of his Ferreus legacy, River's comfort zone is suspicion and knives in easy reach and walls built higher than anyone can hope to climb. I'm grateful beyond words that he tore those bricks down one by one to let me in.

"What do you need me to do, tonight?" I ask him. Whatever support he needs from me, I intend to give it.

He catches my gaze and frowns a little, dark brows pinching above glittering eyes. I wonder what he's thinking. With a deep breath, he says, "I'm not good at this— the whole... making allies thing. I don't want to mess up and lose our chance of numbers."

A little smile tugs at my lips; his eyes flicker down for a heartbeat and warm bliss sighs through my veins at his close attention. "You and I made an alliance, and it's held up pretty well, hasn't it?"