They called him Rael.
He had no last name. No clan. No bloodline worth naming. The only legacy he carried was the one he carved out of the rot of a dying pack, years ago.
Back when he still had a wolf inside him.
Before they locked him in that cell for the things he'd done. The things he'd enjoyed doing.
Rael had escaped before the executions began. Crossed the Veil in desperation. The pain nearly killed him—but it was what came after that broke him for good. The crossing didn't just damage the bond between his human mind and his wolf.
It killed the wolf.
He remembered screaming as it was ripped from him. That soul-deep tearing. That silence that came after—the emptiness. No more instincts. No more rage. Just… him.
Half-thing. Broken.
But still stronger than most men.
He had no interest in jobs or rules. He built something else—a gang of outcasts and thrill-chasers, just like him. And they knew how to find cracks in places like this. Places with rules but no teeth. Hit targets that wouldn't be missed.
And now, here he was, hired to kill a girl.
It should have been a very simple job.
Except… it wasn't.
They'd been trailing her for an hour. Every trick—branch snaps, false steps, even shadows cast the wrong way—she caught them. She didn't panic, but she noticed. Her pace changed. Her eyes scanned. She guided the boy forward without saying much.
Too aware.
Too sharp.
He smirked.
Not easy prey. He liked that.
⸻
{Music Recommendation: War Of Hearts By Ruelle}
Sylva and Nathan walked in silence, the kind that came from shared fatigue. They'd packed up the last sample gear, and their boots crunched lightly over pine needles and damp soil.
It had been a good day. Mostly quiet. Mostly clean.
But now?
Something felt off.
Sylva didn't say anything at first. She just shifted her eyes toward the left, scanning the trees and shrubs. She could've sworn—
Crunch.
Not a twig. Not a falling branch.
A step.
She glanced back.
Nothing.
But then came the rustle. A soft brushing through the undergrowth—too steady to be an animal and too far off-pattern for wind.
Sylva stopped.
Her frown deepened.
Nathan noticed and paused beside her. "What?"
"Let's move faster," she muttered. "Now."
"Why?"
She didn't answer at first. Her body had gone alert, that still kind of alert that comes from instinct more than thought. She picked up her pace.
Then it came again.
A whisper. Garbled. Low.
Then a short laugh.
Male.
Sylva stopped dead.
She turned sharply toward Nathan, her voice low. "Did you hear that?"
Nathan blinked, confused. "Hear what?"
"That. The whisper. And someone laughed."
He shook his head. "No, I didn't. Are you sure?"
She didn't respond as she started walking again. Her focus was on the trees again, scanning the underbrush. Her steps were faster now. Her pulse had started to climb. First a step, then the rustling, now voices.
She started walking again, faster this time, her jaw tight. It didn't make sense. How could she hear it and Nathan couldn't?
But she knew what she heard.
She looked down the trail. The way out was still far, too far.
Then the sound came again—more than one set of footsteps this time. Closer.
They weren't running.
They were following.
That same heavy pressure settled in her spine. Not fear. Not quite. But the wrongness of it raised every hair on her arms.
"Nathan, hurry."
He looked at her like she'd snapped. "What?"
"I said walk faster."
"Sylva, what—?"
"Just walk faster. I think we're being followed—and I'm not talking about our coursemates or rangers or hikers. Just fucking move."
Nathan looked around now, unsettled. "Who the hell would follow us out here?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have time.
Because the footsteps behind them were getting closer.
Just as they took a few more steps, Sylva stopped cold.
That pressure crawling along her spine wasn't just behind them anymore—it was ahead.
Nathan slowed beside her, his face creasing. "What now—?"
Three men stepped out from between the trees before he could finish the sentence. Jackets, utilitarian cargo pants, steel-toe boots. All muscle.
Sylva didn't move. Her eyes swept across their faces—one by one, tense. Then she raised her voice, calm but firm.
"Why are you still hiding?" she said, looking past them into the shadows. "Get out here. I want to know who you are—and why you're after us."
A chuckle answered her first. Then came the thud of boots hitting the forest floor as a figure dropped from a low branch.
Rael.
He stood tall, brawny, and broad-shouldered, wearing an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked her over with open curiosity, like a butcher picking the best cut of meat.
Sylva faced him without fear. Her eyes showed anger, and beneath it, caution—like she was already calculating her next move.
Rael smiled wider.
This is going to be fun.
He tilted his head slightly. "I'm Rael. Nice to meet you, Sylva. But you've got it wrong—we're not after both of you. Just you, sweetheart."
Nathan's eyes widened. "What the hell do you want with her?" he demanded, stepping forward. "Did someone send you?"
Rael barely glanced at him. "Boy, I'd suggest you shut your mouth. The only reason your skull's still attached is because the contract said no casualties outside the target."
He turned his gaze back to Sylva, voice dropping an octave. "They were very specific. Hurt no one else. Just you. So—"
He flicked a hand at the man nearest him.
"Put him down."
The man moved toward Nathan, fast.
Nathan ducked the first blow. He wasn't helpless—his stance shifted, and he got a hit in, a sharp jab to the guy's ribs—but the man was trained. And mean.
Sylva stepped in to help, but another thug caught her fist mid-swing. She twisted out, bringing her elbow hard into his side. He grunted, and stumbled—but a third man lunged behind her, reaching to grab her arms.
She dropped low, ducking his grasp, and drove her heel into his knee. He cursed, falling back. She spun, blocking a punch from the first man and landing one of her own.
Nathan wasn't as lucky.
The thug recovered quickly. A hard punch to Nathan's stomach knocked the wind out of him—then a vicious backhand to the face. Nathan staggered, dazed. One final blow to the jaw and he collapsed, unconscious.
"Nathan!" Sylva shouted, twisting to go to him—but the circle was closing in.
Rael watched, amused, arms crossed, unmoved. "Still standing," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I like that."
The man she'd kicked wiped blood from his mouth. "She's quicker than expected."
"She's worth a lot," Rael replied casually. "Don't break her too much."
Sylva backed up a step, breathing hard, her gaze darting to Nathan, then the forest. Her fingers brushed her necklace again—it pulsed, warm and steady against her palm.
Something about the way it beat against her skin… like it was waiting.
Rael took a step forward now, slow and deliberate.
"No more warm-up," he said. "Grab her."
Two men lunged.
Sylva didn't run.
The first man lunged, and Sylva sidestepped, driving her boot into his knee with a sickening crack. He screamed, going down. Before he could fall fully, she grabbed his arm and twisted hard—another snap. Bone broken, cleanly. His howl choked into a wheeze as he collapsed, writhing.
Pain shot through her side where he'd landed a hit before going down, but she ignored it.
The second thug charged. He was bigger and stronger—but she was faster. She ducked his first swing, feinted left, then pivoted and slammed her elbow into the side of his neck. He choked. She spun, fist catching his temple. Again. Again and again.
He hit the ground with a dull thud, groaning.
The third didn't wait. He pulled a blade from his belt—long, curved, and serrated. He slashed fast, carving a deep line across her forearm. The pain hit instantly, hot and blinding.
Sylva hissed through clenched teeth.
Another cut, this time across her ribs. Shallow but stinging.
She twisted her body, caught his wrist, yanked—hard—and knocked the blade from his hand. Blood poured down her arm. Her grip slipped but held just long enough.
She seized the weapon, spun it in her palm, and plunged it into his side.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
He dropped, twitching, eyes wide.
She backed up, chest heaving, blood dripping from her fingers.
Rael stood exactly where he'd been—arms crossed, watching.
First, a grin.
Which turned into a smile.
Finally, a smirk.
"She said you'd be a hard one to take care of," he said, voice rough with amusement. "But I didn't think it'd be this hard."
He gestured to the bodies. "I only planned to bring one man. But when she told me there'd be a guy with you, I figured I'd bring a few more… Just in case."
He laughed—a deep, delighted sound.
"But who would've guessed it wouldn't be the guy taking them out—it'd be you. You broke my men, sweetheart."
Sylva's eyes narrowed. Her chest rose and fell, steadying.
"She? Who the hell sent you?"
Rael raised a brow and slid his hands into his pockets. "Is that important now? You're already standing at death's door."
"Just fucking tell me who it is."
"Feisty," he said, rolling his eyes. "Did you really think you'd beat me and leave here alive? Hah, how clueless. If only you knew."
He sighed, mockingly. "But you know what? Because I like you, I'll grant you that one dying wish."
He stepped forward, voice dropping low.
"The one who paid me is your little enemy. Your coursemate. The one with the pretty face and the nasty mouth."
Sylva's blood turned to fire. Her fists curled. "It's that bitch, Acacia, right? That disgusting piece of shit."
Rael's grin widened. "I like how smart you are. And that flame in you?" He licked his teeth. "I'm going to enjoy snuffing it out."
"Fuck you," she snarled. "You want my life? Come fucking take it."
He chuckled darkly, pulling a dagger from his belt. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
He moved—and fast.
Sylva barely saw him before he was there, swinging low.