Chapter 7: Into the Woods
Rowan woke to the faint drip of rain against the window, the sound of a steady rhythm that matched the ache in his shoulder. The scar beneath the bandage burned, a persistent itch that woke him more than the gray dawn light filtering through the mist. He sat up, rubbing his face, the villagers' tales from last night about men turning to wolves, the Silent Moon's curse still rattling in his head. He wanted to dismiss it all, to cling to the science that had carried him through years of fieldwork, but the claw marks, the footage, the healing wound they gnawed at
him. He needed to move, to see for himself, and the forest was calling, a pull he couldn't shake.
Downstairs, the inn was quiet, the fire reduced to a smolder. Elara was there, wiping down the counter with the same calm focus he'd noticed before, her dark hair tied back loosely. She glanced up as he grabbed his gear, notebook, camera, tranquilizer gun and nodded, her expression unreadable but her eyes holding that same depth that made him pause.
"Heading out again?" she asked, her voice soft with a Highland lilt.
"Yeah," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "Need to check deeper in the forest. Those claw marks, something's not right, and I'm not sitting still until I figure it out."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she stepped closer, lowering her voice. "The old parts, beyond the paths folks call them forbidden. They say the pack roams there, where the trees are thickest. Be careful, Rowan. The mist hides more than you think."
He met her gaze, feeling that pull again, though he couldn't name it. "I've tracked through worse. I'll be back before dark."
She didn't argue, just handed him a lantern, her fingers brushing his for a moment. The touch was brief, but it sent a jolt through him, not unlike the sting in his scar. He shook it off, stepping into the damp morning. The mist wrapped around him, thick and cold, the air heavy with the scent of wet pine and something metallic, like old blood. Skyevale faded behind him as he followed a narrow trail into the forest, the trees closing in, their branches twisted like skeletal hands.
The deeper he went, the quieter it got. The usual bird calls were gone, replaced by an eerie silence that pressed against his ears. He marked his path with broken twigs and scratched bark, his notebook filling with sketches of the terrain. The ground grew uneven, roots snaking across the path, and he stumbled into a clearing where the air felt different thicker, charged. The trees here were ancient, their trunks gnarled and moss-covered, and the mist swirled like it was alive.
He crouched, spotting fresh tracks… large, clawed, the prints overlapping in a chaotic pattern. His heart thudded as he photographed them, the camera's click loud in the stillness. The marks were bigger than the deer's, the claws leaving deep gouges in the mud, and he measured them against his boot, twice the size of a wolf's. His mind raced, searching for an explanation, but the itch in his shoulder flared, spreading heat down his arm. He rubbed it, wincing, and noticed the bandage was damp, not with water, but with a faint red stain.
"Damn it," he muttered, peeling it back. The wound was scabbed over, the scar jagged and warm, pulsing faintly under his touch. A flash of memory hit him…. amber eyes, a snarl and he staggered, catching himself on a tree. It passed, leaving him breathless, and he splashed water from his canteen on his face, trying to steady his nerves.
He pressed on, the forest growing denser, the light dimming as the canopy thickened. A rustle made him spin, gun raised, but it was just a branch swaying in the breeze. Still, the sensation of being watched clung to him, a shadow he couldn't shake. He found another clearing, this one ringed with stones, their surfaces etched with faded carvings, spirals and claw-like shapes. His pulse quickened; this wasn't natural, not a random ruin. He sketched them quickly, the pen trembling, and noticed a faint glow from the center…. a patch of ground where the mist avoided, revealing dark, packed earth.
Kneeling, he brushed his fingers over it, and a jolt ran through him, like static but deeper. The scar burned, and for a moment, he heard a whisper low, wild, calling his name. He yanked his hand back, heart pounding, and scanned the trees. Nothing moved, but the air felt heavier, the silence oppressive. He marked the spot, planning to return with better equipment, and turned back, the forest seeming to close in behind him.
The return trip felt longer, the mist thicker, the path twisting in ways he didn't remember. His hearing sharpened…. every snap of a twig, every drip of water rang clear and his skin prickled, like something was brushing against it. He
stumbled into the inn's yard as dusk fell, the lantern's light barely cutting through the fog. Elara was at the door, her face tight with worry.
"You're late," she said, taking the lantern from him. "I was about to go looking."
"Got caught up," he rasped, his throat dry. "Found some old stones, tracks stuff I can't explain."
She studied him, her eyes lingering on his shoulder where the bandage showed red. "You're bleeding again. Sit down."
Inside, she cleaned the wound, her touch gentle but firm. The scar was redder now, the skin around it hot, and he winced as she pressed a fresh cloth to it. "It's healing too fast," she murmured, more to herself than him. "That's not normal." He leaned back, breathing hard. "Maybe it's just my body doing its thing. I've had worse."
Her gaze met his, steady and serious. "Your body's changing, Rowan. The forest… it does that to some. You should rest, think about what you felt out there."
He wanted to argue, but the whisper lingered, the heat in his shoulder spreading. Upstairs, he reviewed his sketches the tracks, the stones, the glow, and the footage from the day. A shadow moved again, faster this time, and those amber eyes locked onto the camera. His breath caught, the image burning into his mind. The villagers' tales, Elara's warnings, the physical shifts it was piling up, cracking his certainty.
That night, sleep came in fits, the forest's pull tugging at him. He dreamed of the clearing, the stones glowing, and a figure standing there tall, furred, with eyes like his own. He woke with a start, sweat soaking his shirt, his hearing sharp enough to catch the creak of the inn, the drip outside, and a distant howl that seemed to call his name. The scar pulsed, and he knew the forest wasn't done with him. Whatever lurked there, it was waking something in him, and he wasn't sure he could stop it.