Chapter 27 The Temple in the Woods
Lyra
The wind snakes through the hollow shell of what used to be a cabin, rattling loose shingles like old bones. I pull my cloak tighter and step over a collapsed beam, the wood soft under my boots. Bram moves ahead of me, silent, scanning every shadow the way he always does.
It’s been four days since we crossed into Song Pack’s abandoned territory. At first, the quiet felt like a gift. Here there are no rival scouts, no border patrols, no one to contest our presence. Today, though, I catch faint traces of an unfamiliar scent on the wind, and every so often, movement at the tree line makes me certain we are not alone.
I tell myself it’s just the strangeness of living day to day in a place that feels half-wild, half-forgotten. But the truth is, I’ve started listening differently.
Bram warned me. Last night sitting by the fire, he said, “We’re not alone here.”
I laughed it off then, told him he was imagining things. Now, I’m not so sure.
We gather what we can from the wreckage. An old axe, a few planks for the fire, a tattered blanket too moth-eaten to use but good for kindling.
Stepping out of the cabin and heading down the overgrown path, I begin to feel uneasy again.
“Tracks,” Bram murmurs.
I glance down. Sure enough, a set of boot prints cuts across our path. They’re fresh enough that the edges are still crisp.
“Could’ve been us,” I say, though I know neither of us are wearing boots with those soles.
Bram doesn’t even answer. He just crouches, studying the impressions, then looks toward the trees.
The air smells faintly of woodsmoke, but it shouldn’t here, not this far from our fire. I blink hard and inhale again, but the smell is gone.
We move on, and by midday, we’re in the deeper forest. Tall pines close overhead, blocking out most of the light. I keep catching flickers of movement in my periphery. Bram’s hand keeps straying to the hilt of his knife.
“Maybe you were right,” I say quietly as we step over a fallen log. “Maybe there really is someone out here.”
His eyes shoot to mine. “There’s no maybe about it.”
I want to ask him what he thinks we’re up against. Whether he thinks it’s rogues, another pack, or worse: Alpha Kaelen’s reinforcements looking for me. The thought knots my stomach, but I don’t want Bram to confirm it yet, so I keep silent.
We stop by a narrow stream to drink, and I kneel to refill our canteen. The water’s so cold it hurts my teeth. When I look up, Bram is staring across the water, every muscle in his frame tight.
“What is it?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then, very slowly, he tilts his head toward the trees opposite us.
I see nothing but tangled undergrowth and the curve of a deer path. Still, my pulse quickens, and I feel a strong presence nearby. We move on again, faster this time.
At dusk, the forest thins into a low valley. Here, the earth dips into a shallow basin, and in the center lies an old abandoned meeting hall. It’s interesting to be exploring the forest in places Jorin never dared to venture.
“This was Song Pack’s,” Bram says quietly.
“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, stepping closer so my shoulder brushes his. “It looks like it was a sacred place to them.”
We study the meeting hall from a distance. The sturdy wooden beams and smooth stone foundation are still standing strong. Moon symbols carved into the archways catch the fading light. This place was more than shelter; it was a sanctuary, a tribute to the Moon Goddess who watches over us all.
We move away from the ruins, slipping deeper into the shelter of the trees, where shadows grow long and the forest closes in around us.
Bram’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a heat there, beckoning me. Maybe it’s the danger, or maybe it’s the way his handsome features look in the dying light, but I feel the pull between us.
He steps closer, his body brushing mine. “We should make camp here,” he says, his voice low, though we both know he’s thinking about more than a fire and a meal.
I smirk as his fingers graze my jaw, and I lean into his touch, sliding my hands up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath layers of worn fabric.
He dips his head, and his mouth finds mine. The kiss starts slow, teasing, but deepens quickly, heat rolling through me in waves. His hands settle on my hips, tugging me closer until there’s no space between us.
A sudden sharp snap shatters the quiet, like someone stepping on a brittle branch.
We break apart, breathless. We’re definitely not alone.
Without a word, we strip. My fingers fumble at the ties of my cloak, then the layers beneath, and I shove everything into the pack. Bram is already doing the same, his movements quick and deliberate.
I knot the pack closed and drop it by a half-fallen log. Through the link, I share one thought with Bram, just long enough to send the unspoken agreement: Follow the sound, find the truth.
Then I let the shift take me, my body cracking and reforming. Stretching into something leaner, stronger; my senses sharpen until the forest hums with scent and sound. Bram’s wolf stands beside me, dark as the spaces between the trees, his breath fogging in the chill.
We hear the snapping again, ahead and to the east. We move as one, silent over the undergrowth, our paws sinking into the earth. The smell of shifter sweat–worn leather and smoke–reaches me before I see them. So many layers of scent, tangled together.
We crest the ridge above the meeting hall, and I freeze.
Below us, in the fading light, a group of about twenty walk toward the ruins, all in human form, all moving with purpose. Some carry bundles; others have packs strapped across their backs. They don't look afraid, and they know exactly where they’re going.
Bram’s shoulder presses to mine, and I know he’s thinking what I am. The hall isn’t abandoned after all.