The lodge smelled of old cedar, leather, and wolves.

Neriah sat motionless on the fur-lined bench as Thalia dropped a bundle of folded clothes at her feet. A towel. A pale tunic. Soft, worn leggings. Nothing extravagant—Stormfang wasn’t a pack of wealth—but clean. Dry.

“Bath’s through there,” Thalia said without looking at her. “Don’t take long. And don’t steal anything.”

Neriah didn’t bother responding. She watched the other woman leave with sharp, narrowed eyes. The door shut behind her like a threat.

Only once she was gone did Neriah move.

She stripped off the tattered shift and stepped into the adjoining room. Steam wafted from the shallow bathing pool carved into stone. Hot water sloshed gently, lit by shafts of sunlight pushing through slatted windows. The air was still and close, thick with heat.

She slid in.

The heat struck her first—then melted into her. She released a slow breath as the filth of her journey lifted from her skin. Mud. Blood. Ash. She let her head fall back, wet hair clinging to her neck. The water turned cloudy around her.

When she lifted her arm, the skin gleamed.

Unmarked.

She turned her wrist over, searching.

The brand. The Omega mark—her cursed place in the world—was still faint, just a bruised swirl of ink. Not yet fully developed. In this timeline, she hadn’t been fully Marked yet.

But when her fingers brushed it, it glowed.

A pulse of soft red, like an ember beneath the skin.

She snatched her hand back, heart pounding.

“What—?”

The glow faded instantly. Gone. Like it had never been there.

She stared at the mark.

Not a scar.

A spark.

She didn’t understand it.

But something inside her did.

And it was stirring.

***

After the bath, Neriah dressed and stepped out into the hallway. She moved barefoot, silent on the stone floor. The walls were decorated sparsely—animal pelts, bone charms, symbols carved into the wood. Stormfang culture was harsh, practical, old. She recognized some of the runes. Others were older than any she’d studied.

A shadow passed overhead.

She looked up sharply.

The loft above was empty.

Or… it looked empty.

But she felt it again—that prickling on her skin. The presence. Like someone watching from the edge of the room. A gaze she couldn’t see but couldn’t escape.

She turned a slow circle, every nerve on alert.

Nothing.

The lodge was silent.

Still, she couldn’t shake it.

Someone was watching her.

***

The dining hall was low-lit and warm. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. Wolves—human-form—sat in clusters, eating in silence or murmuring low conversations. No one laughed. Stormfang didn’t seem like the laughing kind.

She crossed the room toward the hearth, drawn by the heat.

Then stopped.

Kalen.

He sat alone at a long table, a half-empty bowl in front of him. His eyes were already on her. As if he’d known she would come this way.

“Hungry?”

She hesitated, then nodded once.

He gestured.

She sat across from him. A second bowl was pushed toward her, still steaming—root stew with strips of smoked meat. Her stomach tightened painfully.

She didn’t wait. She ate in silence, aware of his gaze.

“You’re healing fast,” he said after a long moment.

She didn’t answer.

“Too fast.”

Still, she said nothing.

He leaned forward slightly. “Your blood smells like smoke.”

Neriah froze, spoon halfway to her mouth.

“What does that mean?” she asked, keeping her tone flat.

“I don’t know,” he said, gaze narrowing. “But I’d like to.”

She set the spoon down, slow and deliberate.

“Why did you really bring me here?”

Kalen’s expression didn’t shift. He didn’t blink.

“I collect useful things. Dangerous things. Things no one else sees coming.”

“I’m not a thing.”

“No,” he said, and something like approval flickered across his face. “You’re a flame. You don’t even know what you’re burning yet.”

She looked away.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The pendant around her neck, tucked beneath the tunic, pulsed once. A slow, warning thrum.

Thalia entered a moment later, holding a roll of parchment. She paused when she saw Neriah.

“You let her eat in here?”

Kalen didn’t look at her. “She’s earned it.”

Thalia scoffed. “How? By falling out of the woods and smelling like smoke?”

“I like smoke.”

Thalia turned on her heel and left.

Neriah watched her go.

“She doesn’t like me.”

Kalen smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

Neriah pushed the empty bowl away and stood.

“If I’m not a prisoner, I want to see your territory.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know where I am.”

Kalen considered her.

Then nodded.

“You’ll have an escort.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll sneak out anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Then take a coat. It gets cold in the north woods.”

***

The sky was the color of steel.

Snow hadn’t yet fallen, but the bite in the air promised it wouldn’t be long. Neriah walked the edge of the Stormfang camp, eyes scanning everything—how the guards patrolled, how the warriors trained, where the weapon caches were hidden.

The way someone might if they were planning an escape. Or a war. But Neriah wasn’t planning either. She was waiting. For the fire to return. For the power to rise again. For something.

She crouched by the edge of a half-frozen stream and touched the water. Her reflection looked back at her. But it wasn’t alone. Behind her, in the water’s mirrored surface—a figure in the trees. She spun around, heart in her throat.

Nothing. Just pine trunks. Mist.

But she knew what she’d seen. Someone had been there. Watching. Again.

She stayed still.

“I can feel you,” she whispered. No answer. No movement. She turned back to the stream. The reflection was empty now. But the sense of being followed lingered—like smoke that clung to the back of her teeth.

***

That night, in the cot they gave her, Neriah didn’t sleep.

The fire in her blood had grown. She stared up at the wooden ceiling, her breath slow, steady.

The Omega mark on her wrist glowed faintly again.

And this time, it stayed.