The path through the storm-twisted pines felt like walking through the ribs of some long-dead giant. Dawn's pale light bled weakly through the dense canopy, painting the thick bed of needles underfoot in bruised shades of grey and violet. Every step was agony – Roan's weight sagging heavier against Marco with each lurch, Zale's labored breaths hot and damp against my neck, his feverish heat seeping through my tunic. My own legs screamed from the climb, the fight, the sheer weight of dread. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of needles, the rasp of strained breathing, and the distant, mournful cry of a hunting owl.
We emerged from the pines like shipwrecked sailors staggering onto an alien shore.
The central stone wasn't just a rock. It was a monolith. A jagged shard of obsidian-black granite thrust violently from the earth, taller than three men stacked, its surface slick with dew. It dominated a natural amphitheater carved by ancient glaciers, the ground sloping gently downward towards its base, worn smooth by centuries of feet. The air here did have weight, just as Zale had said – thick, damp, and humming with a low, almost imperceptible vibration that resonated in my molars. It smelled of ozone, damp earth, and something metallic, like old blood soaked into stone.
"Here," Marco gasped, lowering Roan carefully onto a relatively flat patch of moss near the base of the stone. Roan groaned, his head lolling back against the cool rock, his face a mask of sweat-streaked grime and pain. The bandage on his shoulder was dark, but the terrifying green tinge had receded, leaving raw, angry flesh beneath. He was alive. For now.
I eased Zale down beside him, my arms trembling with the effort. He slumped, pressing a hand to his side, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps. His eyes, though clouded with pain, scanned the clearing, taking in the sheer, intimidating presence of the stone. "Told you... couldn't miss it," he said.
We were the first. The clearing was empty save for the silent sentinel of the stone and the oppressive stillness. The indigo sky above the encircling pines was rapidly lightening to a cold, hard violet. Dawn was moments away.
Marco crouched beside Roan, checking his bandages with rough, efficient hands. "Just hold on, brother. Almost there. They'll patch you up proper once this circus starts." His voice was tight, the forced optimism brittle.
Roan's eyes fluttered open. They weren't glazed with fever anymore, but held a strange, distant focus. He didn't look at Marco. His gaze fixed on something beyond the stone, deep in the shadowed treeline on the far side of the clearing.
"Roan?" Marco's brow furrowed. "Hey. Stay with me. Don't drift off now."
But Roan shifted. Ignoring Marco's hand on his uninjured shoulder, ignoring the gasp of pain it clearly cost him, he planted his good hand on the moss and pushed himself upright. He swayed violently, legs trembling like newborn colt's.
"Whoa! Easy!" Marco surged up, grabbing his arm. "What in the seven hells are you doing? Sit down, you idiot! You're in no shape—"
Zale's hand shot out, surprisingly strong despite his own weakness, clamping onto Marco's wrist. "Don't," Zale whispered, his voice urgent, his green eyes fixed on Roan's face. "Look at him."
Marco froze. I stared.
Roan wasn't looking at us. His gaze remained locked on that distant point in the trees, his expression utterly blank, devoid of pain, fear, or even awareness of us. It was as if he was sleepwalking. He took a single, unsteady step forward, pulling against Marco's slackened grip.
Then, the first true ray of dawn pierced the eastern peaks.
It struck the upper curve of the central stone, igniting the slick black surface with a momentary, blinding flash of crimson light. As if summoned by that light, Roan took another step. And another. Dragging his wounded leg, his bandaged arm hanging useless, but moving with a terrible, single-minded determination away from the stone, towards the wilderness beyond the clearing.
"Roan!" Marco's voice cracked, laced with panic now. He made to lunge after him, but Zale's grip tightened.
"Don't stop him," Zale hissed, his own face pale but intent. "It's... it's starting."
Helpless, hearts pounding against our ribs, we could only watch as Roan stumbled across the dew-slick grass, leaving a faint, uneven trail. He reached the edge of the clearing where the pines thickened again, and vanished into the shadows beneath their boughs.
The silence that followed was absolute. The oppressive weight of the stone seemed to intensify, pressing down on us. Marco paced like a caged animal, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Zale leaned back against the stone, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. I stood rooted, my gaze fixed on the spot where Roan had disappeared, the image of his vacant, determined expression burned into my mind. Was this the bonding? Or was it death claiming him slowly, leading him away to die alone?
Minutes crawled by, each one an eternity measured in frantic heartbeats. More figures began to emerge from the pines on the opposite side – survivors, limping, bloodied, their eyes wide with exhaustion and wary hope as they took in the clearing and the imposing stone. They clustered in small groups, keeping their distance from each other and from us. I recognized faces from the chaos of the Field of Thorns – the haunted woman clutching her torn waterskin, the lanky boy who'd cried over shredded bandages. And then, my blood ran cold.
The saboteur. The young man with the narrow features, clean-cut hair, and thin lips I'd seen in the camp shadows. He moved with surprising ease, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the weary crowd. He wasn't alone. Three others flanked him – hard-faced individuals who moved with the same predatory stillness as the hunters we'd fought.
And then, striding into the clearing with chilling authority, came the leader of the first hunters – the broad-shouldered woman who had given us one look and declared us not worth the risk. Her gaze swept the gathering, lingering for a fraction of a second on our small group near the stone. Acknowledgment flickered in her eyes and she nodded before she finally looking away.
A low murmur rippled through the growing crowd as more arrived. Maybe a hundred or ten more in total. The culling had been thorough.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the murmurs – a sharp, triumphant howl, raw and primal, echoing from the direction Roan had taken. Zale's head snapped up, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "That's him!"
A massive shape materialized from the pines. A Volanema wolf. Its pelt was the color of storm clouds and granite, thick and shaggy. Its eyes glowed like molten gold in the strengthening dawn light. And seated firmly on its broad back, one hand buried in the thick fur at its scruff, sat Roan.
He looked transformed. The pallor, the sweat, the agony etched into his features – all gone. His skin had a healthy flush, his posture was straight and strong, radiating a newfound, quiet power. The bandage was still on his shoulder, but it seemed irrelevant now. His eyes, clear and sharp, scanned the clearing until they found us. He met my gaze and gave a single, solemn nod. I'mhere. I'mwhole.
A single tear, hot and unexpected, escaped the corner of my eye and traced a path through the grime on my cheek. Relief, profound and dizzying, washed over me. He'd made it. Against poison, and the mountain itself, he'd found his wolf.
"Ha!" Marco let out a bark of laughter, pure and unburdened, clapping Zale on the shoulder (earning a pained grunt). "That's my boy! Knew he had it in him!" The worry that had lined his face vanished, replaced by fierce pride.
Zale just grinned, a flash of white teeth in his weary face. "Told you. The mountain knows."
Roan guided his wolf – his wolf – towards the base of the stone, dismounting smoothly. The massive gray beast sat beside him, a silent, powerful guardian. Its golden eyes swept the crowd, intelligent and watchful.
The sight acted like a catalyst. Others began to feel it. A young woman near the edge gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She turned, eyes wide and unfocused, and stumbled towards the eastern treeline. A wiry man with a bandaged arm stiffened, then walked purposefully towards the south. The saboteur exchanged a sharp glance with his companions, then his eyes glazed over. He turned and strode confidently into the western woods, flanked by two of his hard-faced allies as well. The hunter leader merely closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and then walked alone, with deliberate, powerful strides, towards the northern pines. Her movements radiated absolute certainty.
The clearing emptied rapidly as aspirants followed the silent, internal summons only they could hear. Marco watched them go, his earlier bravado fading, replaced by a tense anticipation. He shifted his weight, flexing his hands. "Alright then," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Where's mine?"
Zale pushed himself upright from the stone, wincing but standing firm. He scanned the treeline, his green eyes narrowed, searching. "Should be soon..."
Almost as if summoned by his words, Marco froze. His head snapped towards the dense thicket bordering the clearing's southeast corner. His breath hitched. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face, wider and more genuine than any I'd seen from him in a long time. "Well, I'll be damned," he breathed. He shot Zale and me a fierce grin. "Don't wait up." Without another word, he broke into a jog, disappearing into the undergrowth.
Zale watched him go, then turned his head sharply towards the northwest. His expression shifted – a flicker of surprise, then intense focus, then... reverence? "Finally," he whispered, a tremor in his voice that wasn't just pain. He took a step, then another, moving with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his injuries, vanishing into the shadows between the pines.