Astra
Having my basket stolen while gathering medicinal herbs in one of the most dangerous parts of the Wyvern Woods is not my idea of a good time.
Darn juveniles!
Huffing, I chase after the three young wolves, one of whom has my basket in his jaws.
“Marcus Darstan!” I shout after the wolf running off with my basket. “You stop right there! You can’t go that far into the woods! The territorial boundaries—”
But they’re already hurdling deeper into the trees, their excited yips echoing through the forest.
Damn it!
“This isn’t a game!” I groan, but they’re gone. I have no choice but to follow.
My legs carry me as fast as they can. Twenty minutes later, I’m gasping for breath when I finally catch up to them—or rather, to their aftermath. The boys have disappeared, but my basket lies overturned in a small clearing, its contents scattered everywhere. All the precious herbs I spent three hours picking have been trampled by young feet.
I kick at a crushed moonbell petal, frustrated. Looking around, I wonder if the juveniles are watching me from a distance, laughing among themselves.
I’m older than them by a couple of years. In our pack, the rules of the hierarchy dictate that they should respect me. However, I have never been part of that hierarchy. As I gather the few herbs that are still salvageable, I try not to let my anger get the best of me. After all, it’s not their fault. How can they respect someone their own parents look down on?
I check my watch and realize I have about an hour before the sun sets. That should be enough time to gather more of the herbs I need. I hoped to return long before dusk, but it’s not as if I have a choice now.
In the daytime, these woods seem harmless, but in the darkness, they are a death trap for those who venture in alone, even adult shifters. The creatures that prowl these depths—shadow bears, spine wolves, and worse—emerge with the fading light, their hunger driving them to hunt anything that moves. Even during daylight hours, juveniles aren’t supposed to venture past the territorial markers carved into the ancient oaks. The problem is, the rare herbs that Healer Morrigan needs grow only in the deepest parts of the forest, well beyond the safety of our pack’s borders. And I have to deliver these herbs today; three pack members are fighting infections that aren’t responding to more common remedies. I can’t return empty-handed.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself through gritted teeth, hefting my basket with more force than necessary. “But let’s be quick about it.”
As I venture past the territorial markers again, their wolf-claw etchings seem to glare at me in warning. The deeper I go, the more the forest changes. The canopy grows thicker, blocking out most of the sunlight. The usual bird songs fade to an unsettling quiet.
Twenty minutes in, I find what I’m looking for: a cluster of silver-root growing at the base of a massive pine. The plants glow faintly, almost ethereal in the dimming light. I work quickly, carefully extracting them without damaging the delicate tendrils.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, my hands trembling slightly as I glance toward the sky. The light is fading faster than I hoped.
By the time I’ve gathered enough herbs to replace what those idiots destroyed, the forest has taken on an ominous quality. Shadows stretch longer, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the first howl of something that is definitely not a wolf.
I’m halfway back to the territorial boundary when I hear it: a low, rumbling growl that makes my blood freeze. Behind me, red eyes gleam in the growing darkness. A shadow bear steps out from behind a tree. Its fur seems to absorb the remaining light, making it look like a living void.
“Shit.” My voice comes out as barely a whisper. I slowly reach for the knife at my belt, my hand shaking. “Easy there, big guy.”
The creature snarls, revealing teeth like black daggers. It’s young, smaller than adults of the species, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
It lunges. I dive left, rolling behind a fallen log as claws rake the air where I was standing a split second ago. The bear crashes into the tree behind me, bark exploding in all directions.
“Come on!” I shout, my voice cracking with a mixture of fear and desperation, more to pump myself up than anything else.
The shadow bear wheels around, faster than anything that size should be able to move. I feint right, then dart left, slashing with my knife. The blade catches its shoulder, drawing a line of dark blood. The beast roars, and the sound reverberates through the trees.
Suddenly, it swipes at me with a massive paw. Pain explodes through my left leg as the bear’s claws tear through my pants and skin, leaving a deep gash from knee to ankle. I stumble, nearly dropping my knife.
“Not today,” I spit out through clenched teeth, tears springing to my eyes from the pain.
I slash again at the bear as it presses its advantage. This time, I catch it across the snout. It rears back, shaking its head, and I see my chance. I turn and run, ignoring the fire shooting up my leg with every step.
Behind me, the shadow bear roars again, but it doesn’t follow me. Maybe it has decided I’m not worth the effort, or maybe it’s nursing its wounds. Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out.
I hobble toward the settlement, leaving a trail of blood behind me, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I push through the heavy, oak doors of the healing center, my injured leg throbbing with each movement. The scent of medicinal herbs and antiseptic fills my nostrils as I enter the main hall. The building is impressive: two stories of treatment rooms, recovery wards, and storage areas for the pack’s extensive collection of remedies. Hospital beds line the walls, some occupied by pack members recovering from illnesses or training injuries.
Multiple healers move between the beds, their green robes marking their status within the pack hierarchy. At the center of it all stands Healer Morrigan’s office, a glass-walled space that allows her to oversee everything and establishes her authority.
Leaving small drops of blood on the pristine, white floors, I limp toward her door, my basket of hard-won herbs clutched tightly in my arms. Several healers glance my way, but no one offers assistance. They’re too busy with “proper” pack members.
Healer Morrigan looks up from her desk as I approach, her plump figure draped in the finest green robes to mark her position. Her warm, brown eyes—the kind that crinkle at the corners when she smiles at other pack members—regard me with obvious displeasure. Her graying hair is pulled back in a neat bun. Normally, her round face would be welcoming, but when she looks at me now, all the compassion drains from her expression.
“You’re late,” she says, her usually melodious voice turning cold. I’ve heard her comfort injured pack members with that same voice, but it never holds any warmth for me. “I expected these herbs two hours ago.”
“I’m sorry, Healer Morrigan.” I set the basket down carefully on her desk, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain shooting through my leg. “There were complications—”
“Complications?” She straightens in her chair, her eyes turning calculating. “What kind of complications could possibly excuse your tardiness? The pack members waiting for these remedies don’t have time for your excuses.”
I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders despite the pain. “Your nephew Marcus and his friends stole my first basket of herbs. They destroyed everything I’d spent three hours collecting, deep in the Wyvern Woods.”
Her expression shifts slightly—not with concern, but with protective defensiveness. “And?”
“And I had to go back past the territorial markers to gather everything again before sunset.” My voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through. “I barely escaped with my life from a shadow bear. That’s why I’m late.”
Healer Morrigan’s plump hands fold together on her desk, and she gives me the kind of patient look she usually reserves for difficult children. But there’s no kindness in it, only condescension.