Chapter 3The Oracle's Scar

Dawn bled through the cracks in the safehouse walls, painting Thorne's face in strips of pale gold. He sat motionless against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Soren with the flat patience of a man who had already said too much.

"You met her," Soren said. "The Oracle. What did she take?"

Thorne's hand drifted to his chest—a gesture so quick it might have been a twitch. But Soren caught it. He'd spent years reading people in pack negotiations, watching for the tells that gave away hidden cards.

"Nothing that concerns you."

"It concerns me if I'm about to offer her pieces of myself."

Calla stepped between them, her posture rigid. "Maybe we should slow down. We don't even know if this Oracle actually helps people, or if she's just another predator."

"She helps." Thorne's voice flattened. "She just doesn't do it for free."

Soren moved closer, close enough to see the faint shimmer at Thorne's collarbone—a scar that caught the light wrong, like silver thread stitched under skin. "What did she take from you, Thorne?"

The silence stretched until the rescued shifter groaned in the corner, rolling over in his drug-heavy sleep. Thorne's jaw worked. When he finally spoke, the words came out ground to dust.

"My bonding essence. The part of a soul-scent that lets you trust. That lets a pack accept you." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I can still shift. Still fight. But I'll never belong anywhere again. The moment I summoned her, I sold that piece of myself."

Calla's breath caught. "You can't bond with a pack? Ever?"

"I can pretend. I can stay for a season, maybe two. But eventually, the pack feels it—something missing. I become a stranger in their midst." Thorne's eyes met Soren's. "That's her price. She takes what makes you whole and leaves you functional. Walking. Breathing. But hollow."

Soren considered this. A man who could never truly trust or be trusted. A weapon without a sheath. Thorne had been using him as much as helping him—that much had always been clear. But now the shape of it made sense.

"You summoned her to save your pack," Soren said. "And she saved them."

"She did." Thorne's scar pulsed once, faintly silver. "They lived. I became this."

Calla turned away, running her hand through her hair. "So we find another way. There has to be another way."

"There isn't." Soren kept his voice level. "The Iron Council has Vesper's family in a facility that doesn't exist on any manifest. The only person who might know where it is—who might know anything useful—is a woman who demands a piece of someone's soul. We either pay her price or we stop here."

"Or you let her take from you what she took from him." Calla gestured at Thorne. "You'd lose yourself."

"I'm already lost." Soren said it simply, without self-pity. "Vesper made sure of that. The pack I built is gone. My reputation is ash. The only thing I have left is the truth, and I can't reach it without help."

Thorne studied him with new eyes. "You're willing to let her carve out part of you."

"I'm willing to do whatever it takes." Soren held his gaze. "You want your revenge on the Council. I want to burn the whole conspiracy to the ground. We can't do either without information. And the Oracle is the only lead we have."

Thorne's lips curved, barely. "You're a bastard, Soren. You know that?"

"I've been called worse."

For a long moment, Thorne said nothing. Then he pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window, staring out at the grey morning. "The half-moon rises in three nights. That's the only time the ritual works. But when I summon her, the magic will flare like a beacon. The Council's hunters will feel it from miles away."

"How far?"

"Far enough that we'll have maybe an hour before they find us. Less if they're already hunting in this territory."

Calla's hands clenched at her sides. "So we perform the ritual, talk to the Oracle, and run. All in one night."

"Assuming she doesn't kill us on sight." Thorne turned from the window. "She doesn't like being summoned. And she doesn't like me."

"Then it's a good thing I'll be doing the talking." Soren picked up the manifest, running his thumb over the empty space where Vesper's family should have been. "Three nights."

---

The grove lay hidden in a fold of the hills, ringed by ancient oaks whose roots had cracked the bedrock. Moonlight filtered through the branches, painting everything in silver and shadow. The half-moon hung overhead, sharp as a scythe.

Thorne knelt at the center of the clearing, a flat stone before him. His knife caught the light as he drew it across his palm. Blood welled, dark and thick, and dripped onto the stone.

"Don't interrupt," he said. "Don't speak until she addresses you directly. And whatever she offers, don't take it until you hear the full price."

He began to chant.

The words were old—older than the packs, older than the Hinterlands. They scraped against Soren's ears like stones grinding together. The air grew cold. Frost spiderwebbed across the grass, climbing the tree trunks, creeping toward the stone.

The blood on the stone began to steam.

Thorne's voice rose, cracking with strain. The scar on his chest blazed silver, visible even through his shirt. Calla took a step back, her breath fogging.

Then the air *split.*

A figure formed above the stone—shimmering, translucent, her shape barely human. Silver eyes fixed on Thorne with ancient displeasure.

"You dare summon me again, wolf-killer?"

Thorne bowed his head. "I bring a supplicant."

The Oracle's gaze shifted to Soren. And something in her expression changed. Recognition. Interest. Hunger.

"You," she said, her voice like wind through dead leaves. "You carry the blood of the creators, Soren. I have waited long for you."

Soren's mouth went dry. "I need information. About the Council's secret facility. About Vesper's family."

"Of course you do." The Oracle smiled, and it was not a kind expression. "Come alone to the Weeping Stones at dawn. Bring nothing but your name and your nerve. If you bring anyone else, your mate's family dies before you reach the first stone."

She began to fade.

"Wait—" Soren stepped forward.

But the Oracle was already gone. The frost retreated. The air warmed. And Thorne collapsed forward, catching himself on shaking hands, blood still dripping from his palm.

Calla's sharp intake of breath cut through the silence.

"Soren."

He turned. At the edge of the grove, torches flickered. A dozen of them. Maybe more. Moving fast through the trees.

Council hunters.

And Thorne couldn't even stand.