Loving Young

Chapter XII

The morning light barely penetrated the dense canopy, casting faint, uneven patches of gold across the forest floor. Adjusting the blade at my hip, I scanned the dense expanse ahead, the weight of last night's attack settling like lead in my bones. My steps were sluggish, every muscle protesting as if resisting the demands of the day.

Around me, the warriors moved in grim silence. Their faces were hard, their movements purposeful. The faint scent of blood clung to the air, sharp and metallic, mingling with the damp, earthy smell of the forest. No birdsong, no rustling leaves—just the crunch of boots against the undergrowth and the occasional creak of leather as weapons shifted in their grips.

"Tracks here."

I turned toward the sound, spotting a warrior crouched by a patch of disturbed leaves. His broad shoulders were taut with focus as he gestured to faint impressions in the dirt. His name escaped me, lost in the chaos of this morning's rushed assembly, but it didn't matter now.

Kneeling beside him, I studied the ground. Deep gouges raked the earth, claw marks dragging uneven lines through the soil. My pulse quickened, but I forced my voice to remain calm, "How fresh?" 

"Few hours. Maybe less. They're heading west."

Following his gesture, I let my gaze trail toward the thicker woods. The trees ahead were denser, their gnarled branches intertwining like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The air seemed heavier in that direction, carrying a faint trace of something I couldn't name. Instinctively, my fingers curled around the hilt of my knife.

"Stay sharp," I said, rising to my feet. The warriors nodded, their faces betraying nothing, though I caught the subtle tension in their shoulders.

We moved as one, a practiced rhythm born from years of training, each step deliberate as my senses stretched taut for any sound or scent out of place. The trail led us to a rocky incline where the forest thinned, allowing pale streaks of light to cut through the gloom. Loose stones crunched underfoot as we slowed, the jagged mouth of a cave coming into view. It jutted out of the hillside like an open wound, its edges rough and blackened as though scarred by fire.

The air changed, sharper and colder now, with every breath dragging the weight of ash and iron through my lungs. I motioned for the group to halt, crouching to examine the clawed earth near the entrance. The marks were deeper here, angling toward the cave's shadowy interior.

The warriors fanned out behind me, forming a loose defensive arc. I could feel their tension, a silent thread pulling taut with every passing second. My wolf growled softly, a vibration that hummed through my chest. Nyx wasn't afraid, but her wariness mirrored my own.

Stepping forward, I let the shadows of the cave swallow me. The air inside clung to my skin, thick with moisture and the scent of decay. Faint light caught on the walls, revealing crude symbols etched into the stone. Some were smeared with ash, others with dried blood. They twisted in jagged patterns, unsettlingly chaotic, like something from a half-remembered nightmare.

"Beta."

The voice of a worrior nearby drew me deeper, to the center of the cave, where a crude altar rose from the stone floor. Bones, unmistakably wolf, were piled in grotesque arrangements, blackened with soot and streaked with crimson. The stench hit me—metallic, sour, and cloying. I forced my breathing to steady, even as my stomach churned.

At the heart of the altar, a symbol had been carved into the stone floor. Thick lines of blood and ash intersected in sharp, chaotic angles, forming a jagged circle. The design was wrong, unsettling, as though it was meant to confine or destroy.

My stomach twisted, and my wolf stirred uneasily, her growl humming through my chest. This wasn't just a rogue's hideout...

"Fan out," I ordered, my voice tight. "Search the cave. Don't touch the altar."