Chapter 4: Smoke and Scent
The morning mist clung to the forest floor as Rowan jogged along the perimeter trail, his breath forming clouds in the crisp air. The forest was unusually silent, sending unease through Rowan’s body.
The usual morning rustle of leaves and the soft padding of his warriors’ patrol had faded into an eerie stillness that prickled Rowan’s senses. Every instinct in his body screamed that something wasn’t right.
A faint rustle to his left made him pause. That’s when the first howl shattered the silence.
It was a cry of pain. Sharp. Sudden.
It was a cry for help that called out to Rowan’s wolf, begging to be rescued.
Rowan shifted instantly, his bones cracking and muscles twisting as he leapt forward on four legs. His black wolf form bolted down the worn patrol trail, dodging low-hanging branches and bounding over exposed roots. His paws pounded the earth with urgency as the sounds of snarls, yelps, and snapping jaws grew louder.
As he approached a clearing, the scene before him was chaos. His warriors were locked in battle with a pack of rogues, their snarls and growls echoing through the quiet trees. The ground was torn and muddy, stained with crimson.
Four of his warriors were surrounded—two limping, one bleeding heavily from a gash along his ribs. The fourth was holding off three rogues alone, fur matted with blood and dirt. The air was thick with growls, the scent of blood, and the telltale stench of rogues—feral, untamed, and savage.
Rowan didn't hesitate.
He sprang at the closest rogue, his teeth sinking into the exposed flank. The wolf screeched in surprise, and Rowan used the momentum to slam him into a tree with a sickening crunch. The rogue yelped and fled into the forest.
A second rogue lunged for his side, but Rowan twisted, teeth bared, and snapped his jaw shut around the wolf’s neck. Bones shattered. The body went limp. But he didn’t stop long enough to watch it fall.
He immediately turned to see another rogue pinning a young warrior to the ground in the distance. Rowan charged, ramming into the rogue's side and sending him sprawling. The young warrior scrambled to his feet, nodding in gratitude before rejoining the fight.
He scanned the battle ground, hackles raised, just as another rogue came charging in. The fighting was pure instinct. Bite. Dodge. Tear. Defend.
Suddenly, a rogue lunged at him from behind, sinking its teeth into his hind leg. Rowan howled in pain, twisting around to shake the attacker off. He retaliated with a powerful bite to the rogue's neck, ending the threat.
His warriors rallied beside him, drawing strength from their Alpha’s presence. Together, they pushed back the attackers, snarling as they forced them into retreat.
One by one, the rogues fell or turned tail and disappeared into the forest.
When the last of the rogues scattered, Rowan stood panting in the center of the clearing, his fur soaked with sweat and blood that wasn’t entirely his own. His warriors formed a rough circle around him, injuries obvious, expressions grim.
He shifted back into his human form, still breathing heavily, and stalked to where his Second-in-Command, Garen, knelt beside a fallen wolf.
“Report,” Rowan demanded, voice tight.
Garen stood, his own arm slick with blood. “They came out of nowhere, Alpha. There were at least eight of them. They must’ve been watching the patrol patterns.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Are they testing our borders?”
Garen nodded grimly. “I think so. And they’re getting bold. This was organized—nothing like the chaotic raids we’ve seen before.”
Rowan paced in tight circles. His wolf still simmered beneath his skin, itching to chase down the rogues and rip their throats out.
“How many injured?”
“Five. Two are serious. We lost Kerrin.” Garen’s eyes dropped. “They caught him before we had time to react.”
He surveyed the aftermath, his heart heavy with the loss of his fallen warrior. The scent of blood and death hung thick in the air, a grim reminder of the cost they paid for their isolation.
Rowan swore, fists clenched. Kerrin had been one of his youngest warriors—barely out of training. His death would weigh on them all.
“Gather the wounded. Get them back to the healer’s den. Double the border patrols and rotate the schedules. I want every inch of our territory watched until further notice,” Rowan barked.
Garen nodded and jogged off to carry out the orders.
Rowan lingered, staring at the pool of blood where Kerrin had fallen. The edges of his vision blurred with rage. The safety of their secluded home had always been sacred. Untouched. Hidden.
But now?
Something had changed. Someone had found them.
Then, amidst the carnage, a new scent caught his attention—sweet, intoxicating, and utterly foreign. It cut through the stench of blood like a beacon, stirring something deep within him.
Rowan's eyes widened as he inhaled deeply, the scent awakening a primal longing he had never felt before. His pulse quickened, and his gaze darted around the clearing, searching for the source.
His head whipped up. He sniffed again.
That scent.
It cut through the iron of blood and the damp earth like sunlight through storm clouds. Every nerve in his body went still—tense. Alert.
It was unlike anything he’d ever smelled. A mixture of wild jasmine, warm embers, and the barest trace of honey.
But the scent was elusive, carried on the breeze and fading as quickly as it had appeared. The surviving warriors began to regroup, tending to the wounded and preparing to return to the packhouse.
Rowan stood frozen, his senses straining to recapture the scent. It was gone, but the memory of it lingered, haunting and tantalizing.
His wolf stirred. Then growled.
Mate.
Rowan turned toward the wind, eyes scanning the woods.
The scent was faint… but it was there.
He took a step forward, then another, following it slowly. His warriors’ voices faded behind him as he left the clearing, instincts taking over.
Who was out there?
And why did his heart feel like it was about to tear out of his chest?
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