The trees blurred past in streaks of silver and black as Dane Hollow tore through the forest like something feral. His breath came hard and fast, each exhale fogging in the freezing air. Mud sprayed up from his boots. Branches sliced across his arms and face, but he didn't stop.
The forest groaned—not with wind, but with weight. With presence. The deeper Dane ran, the less the woods felt like woods. They bent too far. Whispered too much. The ground pulsed under his feet like a heartbeat.
And then—footsteps.
Wrong footsteps. They didn't crunch or crack. They clicked.
Then came the voice. Casual. Friendly. Cruel.
"I don't get it, why run, Hollow?" Mason called. "There's nowhere to hide! Not after you killed the rest of them."
Dane vaulted over a fallen tree, landed hard, and didn't break stride. His instincts screamed. His blood sang.
He dropped into a ditch, rolled, and scrambled up the opposite side like his legs had stopped remembering gravity. The world narrowed to instinct, speed, and the stench of something old chasing him.
He cleared a ridge and spun around mid-run, chest heaving. "Mason!" he shouted. "Don't make me harm you."
Silence.
Then, like it had grown from the dark, Mason stepped forward—slow, steady. His face was half-shadowed by moonlight, half-swallowed by something older than night.
Dane stared. "What the hell happened to you?"
Mason smiled. But it was stretched wrong. All teeth. No warmth.
"You left," he said softly. "And he woke up."
Dane's jaw clenched. "I did what I had to do. The Alpha is dead."
"No, Dane," Mason said, eyes gleaming. "He slept. You just weren't listening."
Something moved behind Mason. Not a figure. Not yet. But a distortion. The shape of absence. A pressure in the trees, like the woods themselves were leaning forward to hear the conversation.
Dane took a step back. "This isn't you. We buried him. Burned the body. We ended it."
Mason's head tilted. Bones in his neck popped.
"You thought you did. But you can't kill a story, Dane. You can only stop believing in it. And you stopped believing."
"Don't do this."
"I'm not doing anything," Mason said. "He's calling the old blood. I'm just answering."
Dane turned and ran.
He didn't hesitate.
The forest tried to stop him—branches lashed, roots rose, thorns clawed—but he moved like he belonged here. Vaulted over rusted metal. Kicked off the side of an abandoned tree blind. Launched himself off a rock like the air owed him a favor.
Then—he stopped.
Dead end.
The earth dropped away into a ravine. Too far. Too steep. No time.
He turned.
Mason stood at the clearing's edge. Not winded. Not even breathing hard.
"Nowhere left to run." His smile widened. "Show me your claws, Hollow."
Then his voice changed.
It dropped into something deeper.
The air shifted.
Mason's eyes lit green, wild and alive. His teeth sharpened, splitting his grin. Fingers stretched. Claws cracked through flesh like bone breaking backward.
"Let's see if you still bleed, Dane."
Dane didn't answer.
He stepped forward—slow. Measured.
His spine straightened. Shoulders cracked. Breath pulled in—deep and low, like drawing from a well no one else could reach.
His own eyes snapped open, now glowing with a light deeper than color. Not just green—feral. Primal. Blood-bound.
And then—he roared.
The sound shattered the silence. It wasn't human.
It wasn't even animal.
"You don't deserve those green eyes," Dane said, voice low and steady, his breath curling in the cold. "You don't draw power from the earth anymore. Nature doesn't call your name. Whatever fuels you now—it's unnatural."
His stare didn't waver.
"You're a stranger wearing the skin of something you forgot how to be."
Mason's smile sharpened.
"I smell fear from you, Hollow," he said, stepping forward.
"I killed the Alpha. You think I'm scared of his bitch? I put the fear of God in devil's heart."