Chapter 9: Survival
Rowan drifted in and out of a restless haze, the cot's rough fabric scraping against his back as the inn's dim light flickered above him. His side throbbed where the creature's claws had torn into him, but the pain was dulling, replaced by a strange heat that pulsed through his veins. The bitter taste of the herb-laced water Elara had given him lingered on his tongue, grounding him just enough to keep the panic at bay. His body felt wrong, too warm, too alive and the howl from the night before echoed in his skull, a call he couldn't silence. He opened his eyes, the room tilting slightly, and found Elara sitting nearby, her face etched with worry as she watched him.
"You're awake," she said, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the fog in his mind. She moved closer, a damp cloth in hand, and knelt beside the cot. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," he rasped, trying to sit up. Pain flared in his side, but he gritted his teeth, propping himself on an elbow. "What happened out there?"
Elara's hands were gentle as she lifted his torn shirt, inspecting the wound. The gash was scabbed over, the edges pink and healing faster than they should, the blood already drying into a dark smear. She pressed the cloth to it, her touch cool against his fevered skin, and shook her head. "You were attacked again. I found you collapsed, barely breathing. That thing—it marked you deeper this time."
He winced, the memory of amber eyes and claws flashing back. "I hit it with a dart. Thought I scared it off. But this…" He gestured to the wound, his voice cracking. "This isn't normal. It should be worse."
Her gaze met his, steady but shadowed with something unspoken. "It's the curse," she said quietly. "The Silent Moon's waking it in you. The attacks…. they're pulling it out, faster now. Your body's fighting to change."
Rowan stared at her, his breath shallow. "Change? Into what? A wolf? That's insane." He wanted to laugh, to cling to the logic that had defined him, but the heat in his limbs, the sharpness of his hearing the drip of the faucet upstairs, the creak of the floorboards told a different story. His nails dug into the cot, and a low growl rumbled in his throat, unbidden. He clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified, his eyes wide.
Elara's expression softened, but her hands didn't falter as she cleaned the wound. "It's not insane here," she murmured. "I've seen it men who went into the forest, came back with that look in their eyes. The pack claims its own, and your blood… it's tied to it somehow."
He shook his head, sweat beading on his forehead. "My blood? I'm not from here. I'm just a researcher, not some cursed heir." But the words felt hollow, the scar on his shoulder burning as if to contradict him. He peeled back the bandage, revealing the jagged mark, now glowing faintly under the lantern light. His breath
hitched, and he pressed a finger to it, a jolt running through him… flashes of fur, a howl, a pull toward the trees.
Elara watched, her face paling. "That mark, it's the pack's claim. The more it hurts, the closer you are. We need to slow it, give you time to understand."
"Understand what?" he snapped, his voice rough. "That I'm turning into a monster? I don't believe that."
She sighed, setting the cloth aside and handing him a cup of the bitter water. "Drink. It'll dull the heat, at least for now. And believe it or not, your body's already shifting. The senses, the growls… it's starting."
He took the cup, the liquid burning down his throat, and leaned back, his mind racing. The room felt too small, the air too thick, and his skin prickled as if something was crawling beneath it. He heard the wind outside, the rustle of leaves, a distant howl that seemed to call his name. His vision sharpened, cutting through the dimness to catch the worry lines on Elara's face, the faint tremble in her hands. "How do you know all this?" he asked, his voice low. "You're not just the innkeeper's daughter, are you?"
Her eyes darkened, a secret flickering there, but she didn't answer directly. "I've lived with this my whole life," she said instead. "My gran taught me what to watch for. The pack's been here longer than the village, and some of us… we learn to live with it."
He studied her, the calm in her posture at odds with the storm in his chest. "And me? What do I do?"
"Rest," she said firmly. "Let your body settle. I'll stay close, make sure it doesn't take you tonight. But you can't go back into the forest not yet."
He wanted to argue, to demand more answers, but exhaustion dragged at him. He lay back, the cot creaking, and closed his eyes, the howl still ringing in his ears. Elara's presence was a steady anchor, her breathing soft beside him, and he clung to it, fighting the pull that threatened to drag him under. Sleep came in fits, broken by dreams of the forest trees bending toward him, the stones glowing, and a figure with amber eyes that looked like his own.
When he woke, the room was darker, the lantern burning low. His side ached less, the wound nearly closed, and his senses were sharper still the scent of woodsmoke, the rustle of Elara's apron as she moved. She sat by the cot, a book in her lap, its pages yellowed and filled with cramped handwriting. She glanced up, catching him watching, and closed it quickly.
"What's that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Nothing you need yet," she said, her tone guarded. "Just old stories. Rest more, you're not out of danger."
He nodded, too tired to press, but the book's secrecy gnawed at him. His body felt different, stronger, restless and the scar pulsed, a reminder of the curse she spoke of. Outside, the mist swirled, and a growl echoed, closer than before. His heart raced, a hunger stirring deep inside, and he gripped the cot, fighting it. Elara's hand rested on his arm, her touch cool and grounding, and he held onto it, unsure if it was salvation or a deeper trap.
"You're stronger than you think," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "But the moon's rising again. We don't have much time."
He met her eyes, seeing the weight of her knowledge, and for the first time, he wondered if she was protecting him or preparing him for something worse. The howl came again, and his scar burned, the line between man and beast blurring in the shadows.