432- The Wrong Enemy
POV Thalyndra Moonclaw:
None of that mattered. I didn't care what he was. I wanted blood, and I would have it.
The shadow grew larger. I caught a glimpse of the black shirt he was wearing.
I drew my arm back, holding the dagger raised. I let a thin breath slip through my parted lips, teeth locked. I counted silently, measuring the racing beats of my heart as I prepared for my first real fight.
I could do this. I had been forged for it.
The moment the man turned and stepped out from behind the shelf, moving in my direction, I didn't blink. I didn't hesitate.
The dagger cut through the air with a whistle, driven by the full force of my arm. Its hum rang out like a beautiful song in my ears.
I watched it sink deep into his chest — all the way in. Slicing through fabric, skin, and muscle. He grunted and staggered backward, as though caught off guard by the attack.
The scent of his blood rose into the air. And it was... strangely good.
I shook my head, pushing away just how intoxicating it was to my senses.
"Son of a bitch!" he snarled, his voice deep and rough, reverberating through the air.
I didn't wait another second. I ran straight at him, seizing the moment of confusion he was still caught in.
I sprinted across the study, teeth still locked, pouring every ounce of rage and pain I carried into the movement. The man blinked and his eyes went wide. I launched myself at him, bringing us both crashing to the floor. He landed on his back, his body and head slamming against the boards.
I straddled him, throwing my legs around his torso, and seized the hilt of the dagger, driving it deeper into his skin.
"You little bitch!" he snapped, his eyes blazing as his beast stirred beneath the surface.
I stared down at him, studying his features.
He was damnably handsome. And young. Far too young to be a Mercante.
His glowing eyes met mine and I faltered, thrown off balance. They were a deep blue, almost hypnotic — but what caught my attention most was the grey ring encircling his pupils, as though a storm sky were merging with the ocean.
They stirred something in me — memories from the past, the dreams that had never left me.
His face was a masterpiece of sculpted detail, as though every feature had been shaped for perfection. His nose, slightly angular, complemented the strong line of his jaw, where a shadow of stubble traced a subtle frame. His skin was bronzed, likely from constant exposure to the sun, yet with a softness that contrasted sharply with his fierce expression.
His disheveled hair was a dark brown with faint golden undertones, curling in loose waves that fell lightly across his forehead.
I should have been on guard. I should have been cautious. But as I knelt over him, holding the dagger buried in his chest, I couldn't shake the strange feeling that I knew him — a sense of... belonging.
The scent coming off him was intoxicating — an unmistakable blend of fresh pine and wild jasmine. It was an aroma that seemed to rise from the earth itself, from the depths of an ancient forest, yet carried a floral note so pure it made my heart quicken.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice dropping to a low growl.
I leaned over him, trying to ignore the pull his scent triggered in me. My body was responding instinctively, almost as though it were recognizing something deeply rooted within me.
He seemed just as confused as I was — motionless, staring back at me with his dark brows arched.
"Did you just stab me?" he snapped, seeming to come back to himself, sounding almost offended.
I dropped my gaze to where the blade pierced his chest. It wasn't exactly through the heart, but right beside it. And it was silver — it should have been melting into his skin, causing searing pain, weakening him. But there was nothing. Nothing beyond the blood flowing freely from the open wound.
I drew a sharp breath, bewildered.
I twisted the dagger, feeling the blade sink deeper. I narrowed my eyes, jaw grinding.
"What the hell are you?"
He had to be a wolf — but he wasn't acting like one. What kind of lupine was immune to silver? Good God. Had the Mercantes discovered some kind of cure for that weakness?
"You threw a damn dagger at me?" he asked, ignoring my question entirely, too stunned by the fact to focus on anything else.
The muscle in my jaw cracked.
"The next one goes straight through your heart if you don't answer me, you Mercante bastard!" I leaned a little closer, hissing through clenched teeth.
His blood ran hot through the torn skin, staining my fingers, warming my hand.
"Mercante? Are you out of your mind?"
The nerve of him.
I yanked the dagger out. He shuddered beneath me and a vein pulsed along the side of his neck. I moved to stab him again. The bastard was faster — he caught my wrist and held my arm locked in the air, far from his body.
"I warned you the next one would go through your heart," I snarled, forcing my arm downward. He didn't budge.
He was far stronger than I had expected. Even wounded, he could hold me without effort.
My father had told me that wolves were weakened by contact with silver. The man had taken a blade to the chest, right beside the heart — how was he not the least bit shaken by it?
"I'm not a Mercante," he said, twisting my wrist to the side, forcing me to release the dagger. I resisted, fighting to stay armed.
"Then what the hell are you?"
The pain made me stiffen, but I kept my grip locked around the metal hilt.
"I'm Anton."
I scoffed, fury rising.
"How lovely, Anton — now get ready to die!" I drove more force into my arm. Nothing. It didn't move an inch.
In one sharp motion, he made me release the dagger. It hit the floor beside me with a sharp ring. A blink later, he was on top of me, pinning my hands beside my face. I bent my knees, ready to kick him off — but he anticipated the move, trapping my legs against the floor.
"I'm an Eldoria. I came here to save you..." He paused, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his lips, his voice laced with dry amusement. "But it seems I'm the one who needs saving."