“Wake up. Wake up!” Alaric’s voice pierced through the haze clouding her mind. “Open your eyes, Ev.”
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her head throbbed, each pulse like a hammer against her skull. Even the thought of lifting an eyelid felt impossible.
“Damn it,” Alaric swore.
Her world spun violently, like she had been tossed onto one of the festival rides she used to love as a child. Like the carousels at Rosewyth’s summer fair, the ones that whirled endlessly in dizzying loops. But this wasn’t playful or thrilling. This was nauseating. Her stomach flipped, bile threatening to rise. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to focus.
Breathe. Open your eyes and breathe,a small, steady voice whispered from the depths of her subconscious.You are alive.
Fighting against the churning discomfort twisting in her gut, she opened one eyelid. All she could see were blurry shapes and a dull, flickering light. She blinked. Again. And again.
The world slowly steadied.
Alaric sat across from her, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood, his left cheek swollen and bruised. His composure had shattered. His blue eyes, once steady, now flickered withfear as they scanned her.
That was when she felt it. The harsh bite of rope cutting into her wrists; her shoulders stiff and strained, pressing against the rough wooden pole at her back. She was bound. And so was Alaric. To her left, Reuben sat tethered to another pillar.
The realization hit like a slap, sending adrenaline burning through her veins. She twisted her wrists, fighting against the bindings, but the knots held firm. She sucked in a sharp breath, her chest tightening as she took in their surroundings.
They were in a tent. It was dimly lit, the air filled with the scent of something musky and animalistic.
“Where are we?” Evelyne’s voice came out hoarse. “What—what were those things chasing us?” She turned to Reuben, but he sat motionless, face pale and eyes empty. He was in shock.
Alaric swallowed hard. “Very large wolves. Deadly.”
Evelyne shook her head in disbelief. “Wolves? No… no, that’s not right. They were so big—”
“Shh, they’re coming back,” Alaric whispered frantically. And he was right; she heard something nearing the tent.
But it wasn’t wolves that barged inside. It was men. Three of them.
Evelyne’s breath trembled as they stepped fully into the torchlight. They were larger than most men, making the tent feel unbearably small. Even the shortest of them, if he could even be called short, stood at least six feet, and all of them were built like warriors carved from stone.
The shortest of the three was blond, with striking green eyes that gleamed like polished emeralds. The shorter cut of his hair set him apart, adding a disciplined edge to his demeanor. And the way he tilted his head while studying her left her unsettled.
He smiled. “Well, look who’s finally awake.”
Evelyne ignored him. She was too busy taking them all in, noticing the raw, untamed energy coiled beneath their skin and the way they carried themselves like creatures barely restrained. Their clothes, though practical, were unlike anything worn in human society.
The two taller men, their black hair falling just past their shoulders, stood side by side. She wondered momentarily if they were twins, but a closer look revealed the tallest one had more defined features, a few more years etched into his face. Dressed in deep shades of charcoal and forest green, they blended easily into the shadows, perfect for tracking or disappearing into the night. Their dark, heavy tunics covered thick leather-wrapped armor that fit snugly over their muscular frames. Fur-lined mantles draped over their shoulders, keeping out the early spring chill.
The blond wore a sleeveless leather vest, its intricate stitching almost ceremonial. The exposed muscle of his arms was lined with faded scars, each one a story carved into his skin. His dark woolen trousers, reinforced with leather panels at the knees, were most likely built for speed. A bone-handled dagger rested at his hip, secured in a faded but well-kept belt.
Their boots were nothing like the fine-crafted boots of noblemen. Instead, they were hand-stitched, battle-worn leather, wrapped with thick crisscrossing straps. But what caught her eye most were the matching tattoos inked along the sides of their necks, trailing down past their collarbones: dark, intricate symbols that twisted like ancient tribal markings.
Hunters?
She looked to Reuben once more. He hadn’t moved, his stare still anchored to the ground as if stunned into stillness. Next, she glanced at Alaric. No fear remained in his expression, only a quiet intensity as hestudied their opponents and weighed his chances. Not that he had the freedom to act just yet.
The blond stepped closer, and Evelyne tensed as he crouched before her, his fingers lifting her chin. “Ah, she’s a pretty little thing.” His lips curved with amusement.
She ripped her face from his grasp, and he chuckled, standing and turning away. Now, his attention was on Reuben.
“What’s wrong with this one?” He nodded toward him, his expression shifting from teasing to something colder, but Reuben didn’t respond. The blond’s eyes narrowed. “Look at me.”
For a long moment, nothing. Then, too slowly, Reuben lifted his head and locked eyes with the stranger.
A sharp breath left the man’s lips, and he staggered back a step.
