The darkness wrapped around her. The blindfold over her eyes didn't just steal her sight—it stripped her of control. Aisha could hear the murmur of voices in a guttural, ancient language. Her human instincts screamed for her to run. But the firm hands of Salomon at her waist kept her standing.
"Bolje se upreti," whispered someone behind them.
Aisha didn't understand the words, but the tension in her muscles told her it wasn't a suggestion.
"Idiots…" she muttered under her breath.
She felt the ropes binding her wrists loosen, followed by Salomon's strong arms catching her around the waist as the ground vanished beneath her feet.
"I understand your language too, Aisha," he whispered against her ear, a tone that hovered between threat and fascination.
There was no time to answer. In a fluid movement, Salomon carried her out of the underground tunnel.
The Nevri surrounded them—imposing bodies, gleaming fur, wild eyes. They transformed without shame, as though the night itself belonged to them. One of them carried Aisha on its broad back, like an offering.
When the blindfold was finally removed, she found herself in an old stone estate, heavy with the scent of damp earth. The Nevri females circled her, baring their fangs.
"Ona je nova Nevri," one of them whispered.
The contempt in their eyes was unmistakable. They didn't want her there. They didn't believe in her.
Dressed in a simple white velvet gown, Aisha was escorted to a room prepared with unsettling care—the bed made, flowers placed, the stillness forced.
She understood the insinuation. She knew she wasn't welcome.But this time, she wasn't a victim.
A small blade was hidden in her sleeve. She waited. She listened to the approaching footsteps.
Salomon entered. He sat at the edge of the bed, studying her with a gaze that burned with nostalgia—and something else.
"The huntress…" he whispered, tracing his claws along her exposed arm.
Aisha didn't flinch.
"At last, I have your attention."
His hand closed around her neck, examining her as if searching for something hidden beneath her skin.
"Tell me your name."
"Aisha," she answered, steady and defiant.
With her free hand, she slid the blade discreetly toward his chest.
"Why do you care what my name is?" she challenged.
"Because you're not Zaira… but you are what the witch foretold. If you survive, I'll see you as I saw her."
Aisha didn't hesitate. She drove the blade into his chest. Salomon didn't even blink. His eyes, now glowing amber, lowered to her neck—not to hurt her—but to mark her, to warn her.
He stood, pulled the small blade from his chest, and smirked arrogantly.
"I accept your declaration of war, Aisha. Or of love. In my language… sometimes, they're the same."
She didn't respond. She knew this battle wouldn't be won with brute force—but with a cold, calculating mind.
"That won't happen, Ebony Wolf," she whispered, as Salomon locked the door behind him.
In the days that followed, Salomon didn't touch her. He pushed her to her limits—physically, mentally. He made her train, challenged her relentlessly.
And then it happened.
The starless night. The fire within. The awakening.
Her first trial under pressure, in the field, left Aisha convinced she was dying. Alone among beast-men, with nothing but her own strength.
She wiped the blood from her nose with her sleeve. Her body trembled—not from cold—but from a foreign rage rising from deep within her blood.
There was no full moon. No invocation. Only the silence of a night without stars—and Salomon, watching from the shadows.
"What did you do to me?" she spat, her body curled over the damp ground.
Salomon didn't answer at first. He watched her with arms crossed—without compassion, without comfort.
"Nothing that wasn't already inside you," he finally said.
Aisha screamed. Her veins burned. It wasn't magic. It wasn't poison. It was something raw, ancestral—like her soul was being torn apart… replaced by something else.
But she didn't transform. No claws. No fangs. Only agony.
And then, when she thought the pain would devour her, it stopped.
The silence hit harder than the pain.
"Is… is it over?" she whispered, gasping for air.
"No. It hasn't even begun."
Salomon knelt beside her, tracing two fingers along her neck. Aisha shuddered. There, just below her collarbone, a symbol had appeared—a triskel—marked as though fire itself had carved it into her skin. Ancient. Circular. Pulsating.
"The Mark of the Beast," whispered one of the elder wolves, watching from the shadows. "But not like ours… She is not flesh. She is judgment."
Aisha didn't understand. The symbol didn't burn—but its mere existence hurt.
"What does this mean?" she demanded, struggling to stand.
Salomon's expression shifted—no desire, no pride. Something deeper. Perhaps… fear.
"It means you're not transforming… You're awakening.And that, Aisha, is far more dangerous."
The tension between them grew with each passing day. It wasn't just training anymore. There were words left unsaid. Glances that hovered between battle and surrender.
One night, as the wind howled and the fire crackled, Aisha confronted him.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
"Because you resist," Salomon replied bluntly. "Because when everyone else bends… you remain. I was the wolf… and you, without shifting, are already in my head."
She had no answer. But her heart pounded as if trying to shatter her ribs.
That night, she dreamt of blood. Of a Nevri army surrounding her. She didn't attack. She walked among them. And they all bowed.
Not from fear.From something older.From respect.
When she awoke, the mark on her skin pulsed with light.
And in Salomon's eyes, there was no longer doubt:Aisha wasn't his enemy.Nor his equal.She was his limit.