CHAPTER THREE: A WHISPER IN THE DARK

The forest was silent, save for the gentle rustling of leaves beneath Ayla’s careful, measured steps. The cool night air carried the distant cries of nocturnal creatures, but none of them fazed her. She had wandered these lands before, once as an outcast, now as something else entirely. Though she had been cast out once again, she did not leave Shadowfang’s borders entirely. Instead, she remained in the shadows, watching, waiting—just as a predator did before striking.

She knew Kael too well. The Shadowfang Pack was strong, feared across the Obsidian Highlands. But strength invited conflict. Power made enemies, and sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself. And when it did, she would be ready.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Hidden among the dense undergrowth of the forest, her keen ears caught the hurried footsteps of warriors returning from patrol. Their steps were heavy, their breathing uneven, and the scent of blood clung to the air, sharp and metallic. They were carrying someone injured.

“They got him bad,” one of them muttered, voice tight with worry.

“The idiot rushed in alone,” another grunted. “We tried to stop him, but once the rogues had him surrounded, there was no getting him out unscathed.”

A third voice, grimmer than the others, spoke next. “His wounds are deep. If we don’t stop the bleeding soon…”

“Where the hell is the medic?”

“Still away. We need the Alpha.”

Ayla’s pulse quickened. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

Silently, she followed them through the trees, keeping her distance as she trailed them toward the packhouse. Moving with practiced ease, she remained unseen, nothing more than a shadow among the towering trees. When they neared the gates, she climbed onto the low-hanging branches of an ancient oak, perching just high enough to see inside the pack’s courtyard.

The warriors stumbled inside, dragging the wounded man between them. The warrior’s blood left a dark trail on the ground, a stark contrast against the pale moonlight. Around them, other pack members gathered, whispering anxiously. Their expressions wavered between concern and helplessness.

Then, Kael emerged.

Even from her concealed vantage point, Ayla could see the frustration etched into his face. His silver eyes swept over the injured warrior, narrowing at the deep, open wounds. His mouth pressed into a firm line as he barked an order.

“Bring him inside. Stop the bleeding however you can.”

One of the warriors hesitated. “But, Alpha… we don’t have a healer.”

Kael’s jaw clenched.

“Then do your best,” he said coldly. “If he dies, we burn the rogues’ lands to the ground in his name.”

A ripple of tension passed through the crowd. It was a declaration of vengeance, a promise of war. But Ayla knew the truth.

Kael wasn’t a fool. He knew that slaughtering rogues would not bring back a dead soldier. He could order bloodshed, but deep down, he understood the futility of it. He needed a healer.

And she was the only one available.

Ayla didn’t need to hear any more. She slid down from the tree, landing softly on the damp earth. Her mind was already forming a plan. If she walked in now, they might turn her away again, their desperation not yet outweighing their distrust. But if she waited until the moment of absolute panic—when the warrior’s breathing grew too shallow, when the hope in their eyes began to flicker and fade—then they would have no choice.

So she waited.

From her hidden position, she listened to the frantic chaos unfolding inside. The pack’s attempts to stop the bleeding were futile. The warrior’s heartbeat grew weaker, his labored breaths ragged and uneven. The scent of blood thickened, spreading through the courtyard like a slow-moving poison.

Then, at last, she heard the moment she had been waiting for.

“He’s slipping away!” someone shouted, their voice laced with fear.

That was her cue.

Ayla stepped forward, emerging from the darkness like a ghost.

“I can save him.”

Her voice was calm, steady, but her words sent a ripple of shock through the gathered wolves. All eyes turned to her at once. The same woman they had cast out hours ago now stood before them, her posture unwavering, her gaze unflinching.

Kael’s silver eyes locked onto hers, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, there was only silence between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, he stepped toward her.

“You again,” he murmured, his voice dangerously low. “Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

Ayla met his gaze, unafraid. “You did,” she admitted. “But I also told you I was a healer. And right now, your warrior is dying.”

Kael’s stare was like ice—sharp, cutting. His gaze flickered toward the injured man, whose breaths were coming in weak, ragged gasps. The warriors surrounding him had already started to lose hope, their shoulders sagging with unspoken defeat.

A tense silence stretched between them. Then, finally, Kael’s expression hardened.

“Try,” he growled, “and if he dies, you follow him.”

Ayla didn’t flinch. She stepped forward without hesitation, kneeling beside the dying warrior. His skin was pale, clammy with sweat. His pulse was faint, erratic, but he was not beyond saving—not yet.

She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling the warmth of his blood against her palms. He was fading fast.

Her mind raced. She needed herbs, bandages, proper supplies—things she didn’t have. The wolves around her weren’t healers; they wouldn’t know what to do beyond applying pressure to the wound.

Failure was not an option.

Then, just as she reached for the warrior’s wound, a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.

A sharp voice hissed in her ear, filled with suspicion.

“What game are you playing, rogue?”

Before she could react, rough hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her away from the dying man.

She barely had time to struggle before another voice growled—low and commanding.

“Let her go.”

Kael.

His order was firm, absolute. The hands restraining her loosened, and she stumbled forward. She turned to look at him, meeting his cold gaze.

His expression was unreadable, but there was something new in his eyes now.

Something like reluctant consideration.

She had his attention now.

And she wouldn’t waste it.