There is a silence to places that secrets have claimed—a hush that seems to press down on the bones, thick and chilling, even when the world ought to be humming with life. The village of Ashwood was just such a place, and it suited Eva Tresswell just fine. She'd learned, long ago, that the best way to survive was not to ask questions about the shadows, and certainly not to invite them to ask questions about you.

The wind off the moors was already cold this early in September, picking pockets of fog and tossing them like scraps around the edges of the woods. Eva hiked her threadbare coat tighter over her frame, lips chapped and fingers numb, as she trudged up the thin muddy trail behind the bakery, basket in tow. The bread was still warm inside, and the scent reached up comfortingly—but Eva couldn't help glancing over her shoulder as she moved.

There was no reason to be nervous. That's what she told herself, every morning. No reason to notice the way the crows kept to favorite branches, as if avoiding something that stalked the forest floor. No reason for her heart to thump when she crossed losing herself in the trees, or at the creak of unseen doors behind shuttered windows. After all, Ashwood had always been like this, hadn't it?

Except lately, there were more rumors flowing than the river after a rainstorm: livestock missing, slashed open and torn far beyond any fox or wolf's doing. Children swore they saw glowing eyes in the brush at dusk. Only last week, Old Man Harris had died of 'fright'—what the doctor called it—his mouth frozen open in a scream, black dirt ground into his palms. Nobody said it was the wolves, not out loud. But everyone looked at the woods, and no one wanted to speak first.

And then there was Eva, an orphan and an import from nowhere, living in the attic above the bakery. No family, no past, nothing but the vague memory of a silver locket pressed into her palm and blood on her tongue. She kept her head down, mostly. It was easier to go unnoticed that way.

The bell above the bakery's back door jangled as she entered. Heat and the rich smell of yeast washed over her, stealing away a little of the chill. Mrs. Maudlin fussed at the counter, her graying hair piled loosely atop her head, flour dusting her apron.

"You're late, Eva," Mrs. Maudlin chided, though her tone was soft. "You know the Ashwood boys don't like to be kept waiting."

Eva managed a rueful half-smile and deposited the basket on the table. "I thought they would prefer warm rolls to cold ones," she said quietly. She told herself she didn't care what the 'Ashwood boys' preferred, but that was a lie. In a village ruled by the Pack and its shadowy Alpha, you did what was expected, or you earned their attention. And nobody who earned their attention ever said it was worth it.

Mrs. Maudlin seemed not to notice Eva's unease. She fussed over the loaves, tying twine and humming a soft tune. "You saw anything this morning? Out by the copse?"

Eva stilled, shoulders tensing. She considered lying outright, but something in Mrs. Maudlin's eyes gave her pause. There was a hint of fear there, behind the usual bustle. "No," Eva lied anyway. "Just fog. And the crows."

Mrs. Maudlin pressed her lips together but said nothing further, only slid the basket back over to Eva. "Take it up, would you? The boys are up past the ridge, near the old manor. They pay double for fresh."

The bakery's regulars were used to Eva making runs up the shadowed paths that zigzagged the bone-white cliffs and overgrown roads, out toward what the villagers called the 'Pack Lands.' Children whispered stories of wolves that stood upright and howled in words, of men with golden eyes who healed too fast and disappeared by the light of the moon. Eva had laughed the first few times she'd heard the stories. Now they stung, just a little, in ways she couldn't explain.

She left the bakery and started toward the east, basket heavy on her arm. Ashwood's village square was built in a way that funneled all traffic away from the forest—narrow, meandering streets that all curved just so, as if refusing to point directly into the trees. But Eva took the road less used, the dirt trail no one liked after dusk.

The Manor came into view through the mists, sprawling, half-ruined, with antique iron gates flanked by stone wolves who stared sightlessly down at visitors. Eva had only ever glimpsed the Alpha—Greyback—in town, and even then he was a myth draped in expensive wool and secret smiles. They said his blood ran back to the First Moon, whatever that meant. Eva just hoped she could make her delivery and get away before anyone decided to talk to her.

She was three steps from the gate when she heard it: the snapping of twigs, too heavy to be a fox, too deliberate to be a deer. Eva's heart rocketed in her chest. She froze, eyes darting over brambles, searching.

Then, he stepped out. Not a wolf, as she'd half-feared, but a young man, tall, broad-shouldered, hair black as midnight and eyes like storm clouds. He seemed both wild and regal, bare forearms corded with muscle beneath rolled sleeves.

He regarded her like she was something wild, too.

"You're trespassing," he said, voice smooth but holding a steel thread beneath.

Eva straightened, clutching her basket like a shield. "I'm just delivering. For the bakery." She tried not to stammer.

He took a step closer, boots crunching dead leaves. Eva braced herself, but he only gave a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"They send you alone? In the morning fog?" He circled her, gaze never shifting, scenting the air in a way that seemed...animal.

"I'm faster," she lied, which was not convincing.

Something unreadable flickered across his face. He stopped a few feet away and tilted his head, considering. "You're not from here."

It wasn't a question, and Eva didn't answer. She'd learned that much, at least.

He sighed, scanning the woods behind her as though hearing something she could not. "Next time, bring someone with you."

Something about his tone was oddly gentle—for a warning.

An unspoken understanding passed between them; he was dangerous, but not her enemy. Not yet.

"I'll remember that," Eva murmured, searching his face for something human. Finding only the wolf staring back.

He took the basket from her. Their fingers brushed—his skin was far too warm.

"For your trouble." He pressed a coin into her palm, lingered a moment longer. "And stay off the main trail, tonight."

Without another word, he was gone, vanishing through the gates. Eva's breath came ragged, her thoughts a tangle. She wanted to run—to anywhere but here. But her feet were rooted, and her fingers still tingled from his touch.

When she finally found the sense to head back, the wind stirred behind her, carrying with it the howling echo of something ancient, alive, and angry. She did not look back, not even when the crows exploded from the trees in a frenzy.

That night, Eva lay awake in her attic bed, staring at the patterns the moonlight cast on the ceiling, heart pounding in her chest. She could feel it—the sense that something in Ashwood was changing, something old as the stones themselves. Something had noticed her.

And, against her will, Eva wondered if the eyes she'd met in the mist would be waiting for her in her dreams.