Summary of this Story:
After a brutal skirmish with National Guard soldiers near Reston, Oona tends to her arrow wound in the shoulder while comforting Marcus, a blacksmith shattered by his first fight. Blood soaks her robe as she extracts bone from her gauntlet and retrieves her sword. They discover the soldiers’ gear, including a helm from Marcus’s predecessor in Hearth, hinting at a conspiracy involving the mayor. Racing through the night, Oona carries Marcus to warn the town. Hearth mobilizes, barricades roads, and repels the invaders, forging stronger community bonds.
Why this story will hook you:
Dude, the way Oona bites down on that tree branch, growling through the pain as Marcus yanks the arrow from her shoulder—blood everywhere, bark crunching under her fangs—it’s raw as hell. Then Marcus totally breaks down shaking after seeing her cut a guy in half, feeling like a total failure until she hugs him and talks him through it. That mix of gritty fight aftermath and his panic hitting hard had me glued.
Check out your Story: The Moment Marcus Shattered in His First Fight
Blood was all she could smell. It had worked its way through every crevice of her armor. It had soaked into the padded jacket under her plate. She tasted it on her lips. One fist still clenched her sword, but the other hung limply at her side. A National Guard spear had pierced her side about an hour ago. As the battle dragged on, moving the limb became a struggle. She flexed the fingers on her deadened hand. They still moved, if sluggishly. One finger would not extend fully. With effort, she brought the gauntleted hand to her visor. There, locked in the segmented plate over her middle finger, sat a flat wedge of bone. She remembered the man she had seized by the head. His helmet had been knocked off moments before. She closed her eyes. She could not breathe. She cast her blade aside and struggled with the helm on her head. It was crafted especially for her, to match the form she was trapped in. Steep points cradled her ears. The long visor fit her muzzle. The artful engraving on the gorget, combined with the helm, created the impression of a massive, ravening maw. She had to be free of it all.
A Moment to Breathe
“Oona!” Marcus pleaded. “Oona, snap out of it!”
She blinked, then closed her eyes for a moment. “We need to get moving again. Can you walk?” she said, leaning back from the blacksmith.
“I can. Are you alright?” he asked her.
“Been worse.” She glanced down at herself and the mess of blood splattered on her robe and face. She frowned. “I can see why you might think otherwise.”
“What about the others up there?” Marcus asked, rising to one knee. A dizzy rush filled his vision. He had to pause.
Oona retrieved her blade and stood, backing away from the blacksmith. “They’re all dead.” She gestured over her shoulder and pointed down the hill. “He might not be.”
“Then we’re safe, aren’t we? You got all of them.” Marcus took his time climbing to his feet, not wanting to fall over. An ache throbbed in his head and back, but his vision no longer swam.
“This was only part of the group, I suspect. I bet they separated after the attack on Reston, likely to rendezvous somewhere near Hearth later.” Oona bent down, found the spear Marcus had lost, and handed it to him. “We need to get moving or we risk encountering another group.”
As Oona turned to walk down the hill, Marcus was surprised to see an arrow shaft sticking out of her right shoulder. Blood had spread around the wound, soaking into her robe. If she was aware of it, she gave no sign.
“Oona, you’ve been shot!” was all the blacksmith could think to say.
Though her neck was longer than a normal human’s, she couldn’t get a good look at the wound when she craned her head around. “Yeah, fucker with the bow got me pretty good. I should be fine.”
“Fine? You have an arrow sticking out of you!”
“Ain’t the first time either. I got the better of the exchange in the end.”
She walked down to the still form of the soldier who had fallen down the hill, face down against the tree he had hit. Everything had happened so quickly. The shock of seeing Reston burning, coupled with an immediate life-or-death struggle, was a lot to take in. Marcus had never been in a serious fight before. He was certain it showed now. Maintaining a casual attitude like Oona did was beyond him. He swallowed hard at the memory of the man she had cut in half.
A picture of what had unfolded grew clearer in the blacksmith’s mind. Oona had fought and defeated the other three soldiers quickly. She noticed Marcus was in danger and thrown whatever was near at hand at his assailant. The nearest projectile had been the body of one of her recent victims. Up until this moment, it had escaped Marcus’s notice that the thrown man was rent from shoulder to hipbone. Pale bone glinted from the wound. Marcus turned away quickly lest he grow sick.
Down the hill, Oona turned the soldier who had attacked Marcus over. Whatever she saw, she didn’t deliberate long. She turned to return to her companion.
“Dead?” he asked.
“Oh yeah.” She nodded. “Never seen someone go like that, but there are no lack of ways to die in this world.”
“Shouldn’t we do something about that arrow?”
“Gimme a second.” She moved the damaged shoulder gingerly and winced. “Not too deep. Better leave it in for a while until we can sit and treat it right.”
“How can you do this?!” Marcus said, far too loudly. His entire body started shaking uncontrollably. It was a battle to draw breath. The more his mind circled the situation, the tighter fear gripped him. An unknown number of soldiers or bandits lurked in the woods to murder and pillage. He was trapped here with them. He should have never left the city, where he belonged, where he knew what was expected and had a place. He would die here in these woods and deserve it. Never in his life had he known this sensation. His legs felt sluggish even as he stood. Tears welled in his eyes. The shame made him whimper. He was no hero, no warrior, not even a bold frontiersman. He didn’t belong here. This was a mistake. Then her hands gripped his shoulders from behind. A careful embrace.
“It’s alright,” she said in his ear.
“It isn’t,” he muttered. Shame flared in his face. In front of this woman, he was wretched and pathetic. How could she care now? Yet he did not wrench himself free.
“This happens sometimes. It could be worse.”
“Worse?” he croaked.
“You didn’t shit yourself, for one. And yes, that does happen. Just try to breathe and count. Slowly.”
He did as instructed, focusing on the slow ticking of numbers in his head. “Everyone deals with their first battle a little differently. There are a few for whom it seems no big thing, but many lose control in one form or another. Some panic and run, of course. You did well to hold your ground.”
If Marcus had done well, it didn’t feel like it. At first, he thought he would be fine. When he fought the soldier, the sensation had lessened. In the tension, he forgot the deep well of fear and panic. But when it returned, he couldn’t climb out alone. He found it easier to breathe as time passed. With slow steps, she drew him back to something resembling normal. At some point, he lost track of time. It felt like an age, but it must have been only a couple of minutes.
Back on the Move
“What now?” he asked. “How are you?”
Oona released him and stepped away. “How am I? You have an arrow in your back. I am just having a fit.”
“I was getting to that.” She glanced up the hill. “I left the rest of them in a mess up there, but I need things from my backpack to address this arrow.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Oona nodded and proceeded up the slope. He followed, noting the arrow protruding from her shoulder as they climbed. It was unpleasant to see her hurt. They located the backpack without difficulty. It sat where they had left it. Had the bandits gone farther, they might have found it first. Taking the soldiers by surprise had been fortunate. If the bandits had discovered the pack and lain in wait, things could have turned out differently.
Marcus tried to see as little of the melee’s aftermath as he could. Even looking up at nearby trees, he saw blood splattered on branches. The brutality in such a short time was dizzying. He hoped never to be so close to a fight again, but suspected he might not be lucky.
Kneeling to search the pack, Oona grunted. Her posture tensed before she continued. It was the first sign Marcus saw that she felt the injury. In the fight, she may have ignored it. Now, in the long minutes after, it had effect. Wolf-Pact folk were all but immune to disease. He had seen her resilience to poison firsthand. But did that extend to untreated wounds? Nothing hammered home his ignorance like a trip out of his element. A narrow focus had benefits, but Marcus was displeased at his lack of knowledge beyond his field. He would need to branch out to live in a place like Hearth.
Oona gave him a length of clean cloth with a portion of earthy substance on it. It moved like putty. When he prodded it, some stuck to his finger. The smell burned his nose slightly.
“What do I do with this?” he asked.
Oona held a tree branch and turned her back, giving better access. “I need you to pull the arrow out. I’ll get this robe off. Then slap that mess on the wound and hold it tight until the bleeding lets up.”
“I thought it was best to shove it out the rest of the way with a stick,” the blacksmith said. He recalled stories about soldiers treating wounds, but wasn’t sure of the facts.
“It barely got through the muscle. Driving it forward would do more damage than going back out the way it came.”
“What are you going to do?”
Oona held up the branch and took it in her mouth. She said something like “Try not to scream,” but it was hard to be sure. Her long fangs sank into the bark as she readied herself. This wouldn’t be pleasant for either of them.
Some time later, Marcus held the poultice in place while she growled and rocked back and forth. The branch creaked when she bit down through the worst parts. As expected, the arrow hadn’t penetrated deeply. From his brief glance at the wound before bandaging, it had glanced her shoulder bone. That she suffered no impediment to mobility showed no bone had shattered. Eventually, when she stopped growling and stomping, Oona took the stick from her mouth and threw it into the woods. She winced but flexed and lifted the wounded arm.
They scavenged clean cloth from the bodies to wrap the bandage in place. “It might be worth looking through their belongings,” Marcus said, gesturing but not turning to look.
“We need to get going. The faster we go, the more warning Hearth will get if it’s attacked.” After a short pause, she added, “But you aren’t wrong. I’m still not certain who this lot are.”
They searched the men’s belongings. Whoever they were, they traveled lightly. Oona piled the packs and bags some distance from the remains to spare Marcus fits as he helped. If anything was written, the literate blacksmith had to check it. Oona took a mostly intact coat of mail from one body. The previous owner was large enough that she could don it, though it wouldn’t hang as intended. Her legs stayed unprotected. Someone shot in the back that day sought whatever protection she could. She retrieved the white tunic from her backpack—the one from the day they demolished the old workshop—and wore it under the mail, covered by her robe again. “Chain mail is a bitch to wear with fur,” she announced.
Nothing told much about the men. Their investigation was hasty. They stayed aware another group could stumble upon them. It struck Marcus as suspicious how little information the bandits carried. No book, letter, or lewd drawing. No spoils from Reston—no money or jewelry. No tattoos or brands on their flesh. The group was cleaner than any lawless band Marcus imagined. What was the point of abandoning society if you couldn’t let your hair grow out?
“This must be some sort of military unit,” Marcus noted. He wasn’t sure he knew enough about these men or soldiers in general.
“That obvious, is it?” Oona agreed, clawed hand on her chin as she loomed beside him.
“You agree?”
“Do you recall what they shouted when they realized I was in their midst?”
“They called you a beast.”
“Not the first time, but it’s uncommon for Eastern folk to say that of someone with a Pact.”
“Are these men from the Theocracy?”
“Possibly. They hid it well if so. Not a religious text or icon among them. That would be unusual for Westerners going to fight. The spoils I could dismiss as carried by others, but someone ensured nothing marked who they are.”
Marcus noted the men were regularly outfitted for bandits. Their gear was similar make. Each had a mail coat or shirt. Most had gauntlets and sabatons. Only four had steel caps.
“Oona, can you retrieve one of their helms for me?” Marcus asked, not wanting to do it himself.
“I’ll get you one of the less soupy ones.” She strode off and returned with a mostly pristine helm.
There was no mistaking it. The cap was made by Marcus’s predecessor. He would recognize that shoddy craftsmanship anywhere.
Oona noticed his startle. “From the man you replaced, is it?”
“Almost certainly. But that means the Mayor is in on it too. All this time, people in Hearth have been arming a group sent to destroy the town.” He fought excitement to keep his voice down.
“Let’s not hold the sentencing yet. They might be doing so under duress.” Oona’s tone was even, but a deep furrow creased her brow. Wrinkles tightened her muzzle. She seemed temperate, but furious.
“We have a lot to sort out when we get to town.”
“Who can we trust? I think Finn helping you means he is.”
“Darla, perhaps the innkeep and barman.” Their list was short. “I doubt the foresters or miners are party to this. Most conspirators will be well-to-do—guild members or council seats. Enough talk. We have to go.”
“Let’s go then.” Marcus nodded and looked around for direction.
“That will be too slow.” Oona approached the blacksmith.
“What do you mean?” It wasn’t that Marcus minded not walking the rest of the way. But this made him feel like his assistant wasn’t taking him seriously. This was the first time since childhood he’d been carried like this. The novelty did little to make it enjoyable.
Oona covered ground more quickly than he thought possible while carrying another. She cradled him like a small pet or child—one arm under his knees, the other grasping his shoulders. They left her backpack hidden more thoroughly, taking only a small portion of food, a waterskin, and her sword bound in rope and tattered cloth.
Most of the time, she ran along ridges, following traversable paths. In hollows between winding hills, Marcus grew concerned for his safety. Depending on the span, she approached differently. For wide distances, she slid down like skiing, feet digging furrows in dirt and leaves, then bounded up the next hill. For shorter gaps, she leaped between hillsides. The first time, Marcus thought she had given up on life. Only when they landed, showering debris, did he grasp the distances she could propel them.
Marcus wondered how much he slowed her. No wonder she covered so much ground alone to Hearth. The sun had set behind the mountains. They would reach town well before morning. Oona meant to run the entire night without camp. The force from Reston couldn’t match that speed. They would arrive hours ahead of any attack. If the other soldiers matched this group’s pace, Hearth had hours—perhaps most of a day—to prepare. Smaller groups to elude notice might slow regrouping further.
Much remained uncertain. A Theocracy connection was assumed, but no hard evidence existed. No certainty an attack on Hearth was even intended. Yet the party’s direction pointed there. Reston’s destruction alone demanded Hearth’s alarm.
Oona bounded up the final hillside. Her shoulder flexed under the wrapped poultice. The white tunic peeked from her robe. They crested the ridge. Hearth’s lights flickered below in the dark. She set Marcus down on solid ground. He gripped his spear. She drew her sword. The town waited.
As dawn broke over the ridge, Oona and Marcus slipped into Hearth’s outskirts, the familiar glow of streetlamps and early-morning diners cutting through the chill. They headed straight for Finn’s place, pounding on the door until the old timer answered, bleary-eyed but quick to grasp the stakes. Word spread fast—Finn rallied Darla, the innkeep, and a handful of trusted locals. By mid-morning, the mayor’s involvement was out in the open, confirmed by the helm’s mark and hushed confessions from shaky conspirators. Hearth’s defenders barricaded the roads, armed with whatever they could muster. The invading force never made it close; scouts turned them back miles out. Tension eased into weary relief, the town standing whole, bonds forged tighter in the fire of survival. Marcus knew he’d found his place here after all.
