The Wolf King's Echo Soul

Willa

The air is sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. My breath plumes in a white cloud, a ghost in the twilight. Ahead, barely visible through the tangled branches, the stag scrapes its antlers against a birch tree. It’s the biggest one we’ve seen in three seasons. Big enough to feed the pack for a week, if we’re careful.

My brother, Finn, shifts beside me, the leather of his tunic creaking. “Ready?” he whispers, his voice a low rumble.

I nod, my grip tightening on my bow. The wood is worn smooth under my palm, a familiar comfort. “On my mark. You take the left flank. Go for the leg. Just slow it down.”

“I know the plan, Willa. I’m not a pup.”

“You still run into fights with more courage than sense,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving our prey. “Just stick to the plan.”

I can feel his annoyance without looking. It radiates off him like heat. We need this. The blight has pushed the herds further south, leaving behind only the sick or the desperate. Our traps have been empty for weeks. The elders are getting thin, their faces etched with a hunger that has nothing to do with pride. The children’s laughter is quieter.

This stag is our hope.

I raise my bow, drawing the string back until it kisses my cheek. The muscles in my back and shoulders strain, a familiar burn. I exhale slowly, emptying my mind of everything but the target. The space between the stag’s ribs. The heart. A clean, quick death.

Just as I am about to release, the wind shifts. It carries our scent straight to the stag. Its head snaps up, great dark eyes locking directly onto our position. Its nostrils flare. It’s not fear I see in its gaze. It’s rage.

A low growl rumbles in its chest, unnatural and guttural. Its eyes seem to glow with a faint, sick green light. The blight.

“It’s tainted,” Finn hisses. “Willa, we should go.”

“No,” I say, my voice flat. “We don’t have a choice.” Tainted meat is better than no meat. We can cut away the worst of it. We have to.

Before Finn can argue, the stag charges. It’s not fleeing. It’s attacking.

“Scatter!” I yell, loosing my arrow. It flies true, but the beast swivels with impossible speed. The arrow glances off its thick shoulder instead of sinking into its heart.

The stag bellows, a sound of pure fury, and barrels past my position, straight for Finn.

My heart seizes. I drop my bow and pull the two hunting knives from my belt. The world narrows to the space between my brother and a ton of blighted muscle and bone. Finn is fast, but he stumbles on a root, his face a mask of shock as he falls.

I don’t think. I run. My feet pound the forest floor, each step a prayer. The stag lowers its head, the points of its antlers aimed at my brother’s throat. I launch myself into the air, landing hard on the creature’s back. My knees slam into its spine, and I wrap my arm around its neck, holding on as it thrashes wildly.

It smells wrong. Like rot and old blood. I drive my right knife down, deep into the thick muscle of its neck. It screams, a terrible, high pitched sound, and bucks like a wild horse. My teeth rattle in my skull. My grip slips. One of its antlers swings back and catches my side, tearing through leather and skin. A hot, sharp pain explodes along my ribs.

I gasp, but I don’t let go. I can hear Finn shouting my name. I pull the knife free and stab again. And again. Warm blood, thick and dark, spills over my hands. The beast staggers, its powerful legs trembling. It takes two more steps and then crashes to its knees, finally collapsing onto its side with a shuddering sigh.

Silence descends on the forest, broken only by my own ragged breathing. I slide off the carcass, my legs shaking. Finn rushes to my side, his eyes wide with terror.

“You’re hurt. Gods, Willa…”

“I’m fine,” I say, pressing a hand to my side. It comes away bloody, but the cut isn’t deep. It will need stitches. Another scar to add to the collection. “Help me with this. We have to get it back before the scavengers arrive.”

“We shouldn’t have taken the risk. A blighted animal…”

“We had no choice, Finn.” I cut him off, my voice harder than I intend. I look down at the massive stag, its green-tinged eyes now glassy and dull. “Now we have a choice. We can eat tonight.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nods, his young face looking old in the fading light. We work together, tying the stag’s legs and hoisting it onto a heavy branch to carry between us. The journey back to the caves is long and grueling. The weight of the stag is immense, and every step sends a jolt of fire through my side. My mind starts to drift, the pain and exhaustion pulling me under.

And the dream comes back. Not in sleep, but in flashes behind my eyes. A woman with hair like spun silver, her face beautiful and kind. She lies bleeding on a stone floor, her life fading. A man kneels over her, his face lost in shadow, but I can feel his agony. It’s a vast, empty ocean of despair. He is a king. I know it somehow. I can see the weight of a crown on his shadowed head. His voice echoes in my head, a single word of rejection that sealed her fate.

“Willa? Are you with me?” Finn’s voice pulls me back. “You’re swaying.”

“Just tired,” I lie, shaking my head to clear the images. I’ve been having the dream for almost a year. It’s always the same. The silver woman, the shadowed king, the suffocating grief. It feels more real than my own memories.

When we finally reach the edge of our camp, a cheer goes up. Our people emerge from the caves, their faces thin and pale in the torchlight. Seeing the kill, seeing the hope, it’s worth the pain. It’s worth everything.

My father, Lycus, the Alpha of our exiled Crescent Fang pack, meets us. His face is a roadmap of worry, but his eyes shine with pride when he sees me. He looks from the stag to the blood on my tunic.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Brave, but reckless.”

“We needed the meat, Father,” I say, leaning into his touch.

“I know.” He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of all our pack’s suffering. “Take her to Mara. Get that wound cleaned. The rest of you, let’s get this dressed. Tonight, we feast.”

Later, after Mara has stitched my side with a neat, practiced hand, I sit by the fire. The smell of roasting meat fills the air, a scent we haven’t enjoyed in what feels like an eternity. Finn sits beside me, cleaning my bloodied knives.

“You saw it again, didn’t you?” he asks quietly, not looking at me. “The dream.”

I don’t answer. I just stare into the flames.

“It’s getting worse,” he presses. “You cry out in your sleep. You barely rest. What is it you see?”

“It’s nothing, Finn. Just a nightmare.”

“It’s not nothing if it’s killing you from the inside out.”

Before I can respond, my father’s voice silences the camp. “Gather around,” he calls out, his tone serious. The quiet celebration fades. Everyone turns to face him.

“I have news,” he says, his gaze sweeping over all of us. “News that will be difficult to hear. We are to have a visitor.”

An uneasy murmur ripples through the pack. We are exiles. We don’t get visitors. Not here, in the forgotten lands.

“Who is it?” someone calls out.

My father’s jaw tightens. “Alpha King Theron.”

The name lands like a stone, sending shock and fear through our small gathering. King Theron. The Alpha of Alphas. The man who cast our pack out generations ago for refusing to bend to his family’s rule. The cursed king.

“Why?” I ask, my voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Why would he come here?”

“The blight,” my father answers, his eyes finding mine. “It is not just our lands that are affected. It spreads through all the territories. He believes the source is somewhere in these eastern mountains. He is coming to seek our guidance.”

“Our guidance?” Finn scoffs. “He exiled us, and now he needs our help?”

“Yes.” My father’s voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “He arrives in three days. We will treat him with the respect his station demands. This could be our chance. A chance to end our exile. To reclaim our honor.”

The next three days are a blur of frantic activity and simmering tension. The caves are cleaned. Our meager supplies are organized. We act like we are preparing for an honored guest, but the fear is palpable. Everyone knows the stories of King Theron. The Sleepless King, they call him. Cursed by the Moon Goddess herself for rejecting his fated mate decades ago. They say he never sleeps, that his wolf is a raging beast just beneath his skin, that his cruelty is matched only by his sorrow.

On the third day, they arrive. They don’t come to our caves. They make their camp in a clearing a mile away. A formal summons is delivered, requesting our Alpha’s presence.

My father goes, taking me and Finn and two of our other best warriors with him. We walk in silence, the weight of our pack’s future on our shoulders.

We emerge from the trees into the clearing. It’s filled with a dozen Royal Guards in shining silver armor, their banners bearing the crest of the Onyx Moon pack. They are so clean, so well fed. They look at us like we are wild animals.

And then I see him.

He stands in the center of the clearing, a map spread on a makeshift table before him. He is taller than I expected, with broad shoulders and a presence that commands the very air around him. His hair is as black as a moonless night, and his face is harsh, carved from stone. But it’s his eyes that capture me. They are the color of a stormy sky, and in their depths, I see an exhaustion so profound it feels like a physical wound. It’s the same hollow grief from my dream. A grief that has been festering for half a century.

As if he feels my gaze, he looks up. His stormy eyes lock with mine across the clearing.

Something happens. A jolt, like lightning, arcs between us. The air crackles, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. It’s not a challenge, not a threat. It’s… a recognition. My wolf, usually a calm and steady presence within me, stirs restlessly, pacing the confines of my soul.

He inhales sharply, his entire body going rigid. The deep lines of torment etched on his face seem to soften, just for a fraction of a second. The ever present storm in his eyes quiets to a low hum. For a fleeting moment, I see a flicker of something I cannot name. Not peace, but the possibility of it. A deep, instinctual part of me feels an inexplicable pull toward this cursed, broken king.

He doesn’t understand what is happening. I can see the confusion warring with shock on his face. But I can also see the undeniable change in him. The gnawing curse that I can almost feel radiating from him lessens its grip in my presence.

I am a warrior of an exiled pack. He is the king who holds our fate in his hands. And in this moment, I know, with a terrifying certainty, that our meeting is not by chance. He doesn’t know it yet, but he has been searching for me just as surely as my dreams have been searching for him.