The Wildling

~ the story of the Huntress unfolds, though in an unfamiliar way

Part One

"Mother of the end. Huntress." The words struck like steel on stone, their sparks searing themselves into the dark corners of her mind.

Claira’s laugh came harsh, too sharp. “You talk like I’m a myth. But I’m no one’s end. No one’s saviour.”

Yet the denial rang hollow, even to her. Something inside her was stirring—something she had spent years locking away. She felt it rise against the bars of her mind, rattling them loose. The cottage walls seemed to shrink around her, the sea’s roar pulling her outward, calling.

Kael’s gaze did not waver. “You can chain it, Claira. But you cannot kill it. The wild will always find its way back.”

She turned from him, heart hammering, her breath jagged as the air thickened. Her skin burned like fever, her blood alive with memories that were not hers. Anchor. Lighthouse. Huntress.

But beneath them all, one truth beat louder.
Wildling.

Part Two

Her hands trembled as she shoved the cottage door wide. The night swallowed her, salt wind lashing at her face. The cliffs loomed, the sea thundering far below, and for the first time in years she didn’t feel small before it—she felt vast, as if her heartbeat were echoed in the waves.

The wildness clawed higher. Her vision fractured: gulls flaring white against the dark, threads of memory glinting like fireflies, Kael’s voice lost in the storm. The earth itself seemed to lean toward her, waiting.

She felt both hunted and hunter.

Her lips parted, and a sound tore free—not a scream, not words, but something older, primal. The forest stirred in answer, branches swaying though no wind touched them. For a heartbeat, the world bent toward her, as if she were the storm’s eye.

Kael’s hands caught her shoulders, fierce, desperate.

“Claira, listen to me. Anchors burn bright, yes—but Wildlings* burn out. You must choose which you are. If you cannot master this…” His breath faltered. “Then you will consume us all.”

Claira met his gaze, eyes glowing with a strange, fierce light.

“Maybe that is what I was born to do,” she whispered.

…The earth itself seemed to lean toward her, waiting.

• And in the storm’s roar, she thought she heard words — not in Kael’s voice, but older, heavier: When the White Alpha claims the night, the Hollowed will falter. Her gaze flicked to him, his pale hair plastered to his brow, his stance unyielding against the wind. For a heartbeat, she wondered if the prophecy had been about him all along.

Part Three

The cliff wind howled in her ears—yet beneath it, another sound threaded through. Low, mournful at first, then rising, clear and certain.

A howl.

Claira froze.

It came again, echoing through the pines beyond the headland. Then another answered it, and another, until the night itself seemed woven with their voices. The wolves. They had found her.

One by one, the wolves emerged—pale shapes, silvered by moonlight, eyes burning like lanterns in the dark.

Among them, one stood apart — taller, broader, her coat catching the moon like frost on steel. The others gave her space without bowing. Claira’s gaze snagged on her, recognition dawning.

Her heart clenched with something fierce and tender, older than fear. She had always heard whispers in the wild—the scrape of roots shifting in the earth, the crackle of fire remembering old feasts—but the wolves were different. They did not whisper. They spoke.

Daughter of dusk, their voices threaded into her mind, not with words, but with a rhythm her blood knew. Why do you hide from your own name?

Kael stiffened beside her, hand tightening on her arm. “They shouldn’t be here,” he hissed. “Not this close to men.”

Claira’s lips curled, almost a smile. “They come when I call.”

She stepped forward, away from his grasp, her eyes sweeping the tree line where shadows shifted and glimmered. One by one, the wolves emerged—pale shapes, silvered by moonlight, eyes burning like lanterns in the dark.

They did not lower their heads. They did not bare their teeth. They simply looked at her, as though waiting.

And she knew—she was not their mistress, not their tamer. She was their kin.

The wild surged within her, and for the first time, she did not resist.

She lifted her chin, the storm at her back, the wolves at her side. “If the Hollowed** come for me,” she said, her voice raw but steady, “then they’ll find I’m not alone.”

One of the wolves padded closer, brushing its flank against her leg, warm, solid, and real. The others lifted their heads to the night sky and howled again, a chorus that sent the dark scuttling.

Kael’s face was pale in the moonlight, awe and dread tangled in his eyes.

“You’re not just an Anchor,” he whispered. “You’re the Wildling.”

The wolves’ eyes caught the moonlight, but it was Kael’s pale gaze that held her. The words from the storm whispered again in her mind, and she felt the strange certainty that if anyone could stand against the Hollowed, it was him. The White Alpha. Who else could it be?

Claira’s hand sank into the wolf’s fur, her gaze hardening as the sea roared below. For the first time in her life, the name felt like hers.

And the sea answered with a crash of waves, as if in agreement.

The wolves did not linger long at the edge of the trees. One by one, they padded down the slope toward her, silent but for the thrum of paws on damp earth. They circled her with the ease of long knowing, brushing her cloak, brushing her skin, as if re-claiming something they had lost.

Claira lowered her hand to the closest of them, a silver-pelted she-wolf with eyes the colour of storm clouds. The beast pressed its skull against her palm, a gesture both intimate and commanding. The contact shivered through her bones, and in the marrow of that silence she felt it—welcome home.

Behind her, Kael’s breath hitched. “They shouldn’t…” He faltered, searching for the words. “They shouldn’t bow to anyone.”

“They don’t,” Claira said softly. “They walk beside me. That’s the difference.”

The pack settled around her like shifting smoke, some lying at the cliff’s edge, others fading half-back into the shadows. They did not cling; they did not beg. They were presence and absence both, constant and fleeting. Always near yet, never caged.

As time passed, Claira would learn their ways: how they drifted at the edges of villages unseen, how their eyes glowed from the ridges when she felt most alone, how a single low growl in the dark was enough to scatter even the boldest of men. They came when she needed them, not when she called. That was their law, and she honoured it.

Still, the bond was undeniable. Where Claira walked, wolves walked too—silent guardians in the periphery, shadows stitched to her fate.

Kael never spoke of it aloud, but Claira caught him watching sometimes, unease etched into his features. Not fear of the wolves themselves—fear of what they meant.

She was no longer just an Anchor. No longer just the Huntress.

She was the Wildling—and she did not walk alone.

Part Five

Snow's howl

The wind tore across the cliff, carrying the salt of the sea and the scent of the forest. Claira stood with her hand buried in Snow’s thick, battle-marked fur, feeling the steady thrum of muscle and heartbeat beneath.

The bond between them — once a whisper — now roared in her blood. Snow lifted her head to the moon, jaws parting in a long, unbroken howl. It rolled over the land like a tide, fierce and unyielding, a sound that claimed the night as hers.

The forest answered in rustling leaves, the sea in crashing waves, and somewhere in the shadows, other wolves joined in — not as subjects, but as kin.

Claira’s chest rose with the same rhythm, her pulse synching to the call. This was no mere animal’s cry. It was a vow. A warning. A promise that neither mistress nor wolf would ever bow.

And beneath the vow, something older stirred — a thread of prophecy she had only half-believed until now. When the White Alpha claims the night, the Hollowed will falter. The words, once a fireside whisper, now rang like iron in her mind.

And in that moment, she knew — it had never been Kael. It had always been Snow.

¶ To be continued

- As written by Resigner Luth, August 22, 2025. Chapter Two of my new fantasy blog: The Huntress©

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As always, the words and the art is mine, I extend my deepest gratitude to other creators for sharing their content🖤

Author's Note: As for the words I marked with an asterisk (*) - their meaning shall still be revealed.