Chapter 122 Ancient Ground
Rowan's POV
After an hour and a half driving through the progressively wild country, the gates emerge.
Massive. Ancient. Iron fashioned into intricate designs of wolves and moons and symbols I don’t know but feel in my soul are important. They’re at least twenty feet tall, with stone pillars on either side that are covered in runes that appear to shimmer faintly in the late morning light.
The buses slow as the gates swing open—presumably released by some unseen mechanism. No guards. No visible controls. Old magic only, responding to our approach.
Students are pressing against the windows, phones out, some already snapping photos.
“Whoa,” someone exclaims behind me.
“This is incredible,” adds another voice.
I lean forward a little, curious at Malia's response. She’s against her window too, but what she feels is not excitement. It’s something more complicated. Uncertain.
The buses come through the gates and onto a dirt road that snakes through the thickest forest I’ve ever laid eyes on. Ancient trees: oak, pine, maple—whoso could have circled these trunks with three arms? The branches interlace to form a canopy that filters the sunlight in a series of green-gold patterns on the ground.
“The Silverwood Preserve,” Professor Helthkins’ voice comes through the bus speakers. "Established in 1673 by the werewolf founding clans of this territory. One of Earth’s oldest protected areas. Today we’ll visit a park that has been holy to our kind for more than three hundred years.”
More excited whispers. More photos being taken.
The road spirals downward. We pass stone slabs — tall, weathered slabs covered with more of those ancient runes. They show up every hundred yards or so, demarcating ranges or land splits I really don't get.
Then the houses appear.
Giant stone buildings that look as if they had been hewn out of the ground. Not quite castles, not quite temples—sort of halfway there. Designs that go beyond today’s building codes and aesthetic styles. Simple utility. Purely powerful.
Statues go stand-in sentinel outside the holding building—wolves, frozen in time. Some rearing. Some howling. Some caught in mid-shape-shift, half human/half animal creatures with unsettling anatomical precision.
"Holy shit," Freddy mutters from across the aisle.
“Language, Freddy,” Heltkins’s voice comes from the front.
“Sorry, Professor. But really, this is incredible.”
He makes a good point. Even I’m impressed and I grew up with a lot of Moonfall family history and old wolf tradition. But this—this is different. Older. More primal.
More real.
The buses arrive in a large opening, enclosed by these enormous edifices. A parking lot cobbled with stones instead of asphalt. Respectful of the earth.
We stop. Engines off. For a moment there is silence – a hush of students too awestruck to immediately talk, the gravity of this place settling upon us like something solid.
Then the doors hiss open.
“Everybody out,” Helthkins orders. “Keep the bags on the bus. Taking a walking tour is our first activity of the day before we break for lunch. Stay with the group. Don't wander off. This is protected land at this preserve—there are sections that are off limits to visitors. Respect the line."
The students spill out and squint in the sunlight, stretching after the long ride. I sling my camera bag and follow.
The moment my feet hit the ground, I know it.
Power. Old, deep, territorial power that hums in the spaces between heartbeats. The one that makes your wolf sit up and take notice even if you’re not shifted.
I’m not the only one who can sense it. They may also feel like this: some students freeze, turning their heads slightly, their eyes a little wider. The one with the stronger bloodlines, maybe.
The ones whose wolves lie closer to the surface.
Malia gets off the bus, and I watch her closely.
She’s half way up the steps. Her entire body tenses, arms folded across herself protectively. She’s looking at the ground as if she can see something we can’t.
Not good.
I don’t even get a chance to step toward her before three figures come out of the biggest building. Two men, one woman—who all look as if they’ve stepped out of the mountains in practicality, but walk with a confident ease that screams alphas. Our guides, presumably.
"Welcome to Silverwood," the woman says. She’s maybe in her fifties, with gray-streaked dark hair tied back into a braid and a weather-beaten face that makes me think she spends all of her time outside. "I’m Ranger Michaels. This is Ranger Torres and Ranger Kim. We’ll be your guides.”
Torres is younger, possibly in their thirties, with a bright smile that appears sincere. Kim is roughly in between, quiet and alert in a way I know—I’m another observer.
"Before we start the tour," Michaels says, "there are a few rules. Stay with the group. Never wander off, no matter how fascinating something looks. Certain parts of this preserve are off-limits to protect the environment and for religious reasons. If you notice any markers red painted—” she points to a stone pillar close by that I hadn't noticed before crowned in crimson, “—stay away from that line of demarcation. Got it?”
Drained grumbles from the students.
“Good. Plus—” her face hardens, “—the terroir of this land is very sensitive to emotions. Particularly fear, anger, or stress. You get too scared, tell one of us right away. The magic here can make you feel even more scared,”
Several students shift uneasily at that.
I look at Malia again. She's still rigid standing, arms wrapped tightly around herself, looking at the ground. July notices, too, as she steps in closer, saying something softly I can't make out.
“Well,” Michaels motions to the closest house, “let’s start with the Council Hall. Constructed in 1698, it functioned as the primary meeting place for the local wolf clans...”
She begins walking. The students followed, fishing out notebooks, phones, still cameras. The educational portion of the expedition starts.
I raise my camera, start filming. Wide shots of the buildings. Close-ups of the intercepted details.
The statues with their unsettlingly lifelike forms. Students gathered around Michaels, jotting notes as she lectures.
My camera almost unconsciously goes to Malia.
She's at the back of the group, July at her side, and yes, she's not taking notes. Not at the building.— Well, no. Just looking down at the ground under her feet, her arms still wrapped around herself in that defensive pose.
Something's wrong.
I am getting closer, forgetting about the camera momentarily.
"—and if you look at the foundation stones," says Michaels, "you can see the original territorial markers. Each clan had their own symbol, and—Mr. Moonfall? Perfect. Could you snap a photo of this detail right here?”
She is indicating a portion of stone-carving near the front of the building. I obediently raise my camera, I frame the shot, I take the shot.
But I'm divided between two distractions. Part of me was paying attention to documentation. Part of me is watching Malia with growing concern.
She looks like she’s going to take off. Or collapse. Or —
“You’re already feeling what the territorial magic can enhance.”
Michaels’ warning reverberates in my mind.
Malia's already on edge. Already barely/a fighting for her life from herself. And now she’s standing on ground that answers to distress by deepening it?
This is bad.
"—began construction in the spring of 1698," Michaels continues, wielding the group toward another building. “The wood was taken from the preserve, hewn under the full moon in order to empower the wood's connection to—”
I'm not listening anymore. Malia's moving slower and slower, rapt gaze on her impending doom, getting tighter and tighter.
July's talking to her in low, urgent tones. Malia shakes her head when July says something.
"Rowan." Professor Heltkins's voice pulls my attention. “We need to get some shots of the east wall. The carvings there show the original clan alliances.”
"Yes, ma'am." I go where she tells me, lifting my camera and taking shots of things I’m not actually looking at.
The tour continues. Building to building. Statue to statue. Michaels narrates history while Torres and Kim show their favorite details. Students furiously taking notes, asking questions, truly interested in what we’re saying.
Everything normal. All according to plan.
Except for Malia, who's going paler by the minute. Who keeps looking around like she’s trapped. Who flinches just a little any time someone gets too close. Except for the feeling I’m getting in my gut—that lump growing heavier in my stomach, the certainty that something’s terribly off about this place, this day, this whole damn setup.
I’m taking photos on autopilot now. Building exteriors. Architectural details. Students standing around information placards.
But what I am truly chronicling is Malia.
The way her hands shake at the start. The way she keeps on touching her temples as if she’s got a headache. The visibility of her breathing—too fast, too shallow.
Even July. I watch as she attempts to pull Malia away, get her to sit down, but Professor Helthkins tells us to stay together.
"We’re going to the ritual grounds next," Michaels declares. “This is the most sacred part of the preserve. Be respectful. Speak softly. No touching the standing stones. And under no circumstances cross the inner circle.”
She takes us on a trail that goes further into the woods. The trees are older here too, and their branches are so dense that they cut out most of the sun. We feel the temperature fall.
And Malia stumbles.
July catches her before she falls, but I see the panic flash across Malia's face. See her grab July's arm for support she's too proud to usually accept.
"I have to—" I hear Malia's voice, but she is whispering too loud. "I have to go back. Back to the bus. I can’t—”
"Just little longer, mal" July reassures. "We're going to get through the tour and —"
"No.” Malia pulls away, more forcefully this time. “I have to go.There’s something wrong—”
“Miss Reed." Helthin's voice cuts across. “Is there a problem?”
All eyes are on them. To Malia, who is pale, shaking, clearly trying. To July, with all his peacemaking efforts. To the disruption to what they had mapped out as the perfect academic experience.
"She’s not feeling well," July says quickly. "Maybe she should—"
"We’re nearly finished with this section," Helthkins says, not unkindly but firmly. "Then we’ll break for lunch and she can rest. Just a few more minutes."
Malia opens her mouth—to argue, to insist, to do something.
But then her eyes meet mine across the group.
And what I see there makes my blood run cold.
It is not merely distress. Not merely bodily pain.
Fear.
It’s pure, primal, bone-deep fear, and it has nothing to do with academic pressure or social dynamics.
Something about this place is scaring her wolf and I have no idea why.