The Alpha In The Pines

The storm came with a growl, angry and unannounced, the sky splitting like a promise being punished in real time. Lightning rippled through the dense clouds, casting Pine Hollow into a staccato, violent light. The trees groaned in protest. The wind wailed across the roofs.

But behind the crooked front porch of the two-story house on Ashmoor Lane, Aven Rhoen barely flinched.

She was sitting with her knees pulled up under her chin on the windowsill of her attic, out of reach of her housemates, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and the sheer sights and sounds of the world gone mad outside were lulling her, somehow. Most people hide from storms. Aven found comfort in them.

They were noisy, surprising and never tried to pass as anything other than what they were. Kind of like her.

The old window frame shook with a peal of thunder. Still, she didn't move.

It bothered her that it wasn't storming.

It was the fire in her skin.

She moved, her fingers animating behind her back, pulling her shirt arms-length upward. There was a birthmark there, at the curve of her lower back, just above her hip. Or at least that's what she used to call it. Pale silver, crescent-shaped and always cool to the touch, cold, always cold. But tonight?

Tonight, it burned.

She gasped, snatched her hand back as if she had burned it on a stovetop.

Nope.

Not normal.

Aven launched himself from the ledge, heartbeat thudding. It was a mark she had her entire life. It had never flamed, never throbbed. Just... existed. A secret her aunt never spoke about, something Aven had never had the balls to look into.

Until now.

She pulled her hoodie over her head, took with her the flashlight and switchblade she had under her mattress, and descended the stairs. Her aunt worked the night shift at the Pine Hollow clinic. Right on time, no questions asked, no interruptions.

"Creek"

Only the house creaked as she moved, the old wooden floorboards beneath her boots giving their usual protests.

At the front door, she paused.

It was nearly midnight. Wind howled like wolves, and the trees outside bent under the weight of the storm. But something stronger than fear clawed at her insides.

The burn wasn't going away.

It was calling her.

Aven stepped out into the storm.

---

Pine Hollow wasn't on any real map. Nestled between mist-coated valleys and surrounded by a suffocating forest, it was the kind of town that existed on the edge of the world and it's liked that way. People here didn't ask questions. They didn't invite strangers. And they sure as hell didn't talk about the Hollowveil.

But Aven had grown up breaking the rules.

She darted through the soaked streets, her breath clouding in the cold, flashlight beam cutting through the downpour. She took the path behind the old church, where the grass grew too thick and the air always smelled like moss and metal. The forest loomed up ahead, dark and uninviting.

Most people stayed away from it.

Aven didn't.

Because the Hollowveil called to her.

Always had.

And tonight, it wasn't whispering. It was screaming.

---

The iron gate that separated the town from the woods was half-swallowed in vines. A crooked wooden sign hung on rusted chains, the paint long faded. Only one word remained legible:

TRESPASS.

Lightning flickered again, and she climbed the gate without hesitation, landing with a grunt on the muddy other side.

Immediately, everything changed.

The air inside the forest was still. Not quite but still. Like it was holding its breath. Like the trees were watching.

Aven took a deep breath.

She wasn't afraid.

That's what she told herself.

She walked.

Branches clawed at her sleeves. The wind didn't reach this deep, and neither did the rain. Everything was wrong here. Sound didn't travel right. Light bent strangely. And under it all, that burn, that cursed burn, kept pulling her forward.

She passed a carved tree she recognized as a jagged "R" in the bark, older than her. Then another, with red thread tied around a low branch.

She wasn't the first to walk this path.

But she might be the last.

And then she saw him.

At first, he was only a silhouette. A tall, still figure at the edge of a clearing, bathed in silver moonlight that hadn't existed seconds ago.

He stepped forward.

The forest bent with him.

Literally.

Branches curved slightly, the ground seemed to ease, and the air shifted like it welcomed him.

Aven froze.

He was tall, well over six feet and lean, but not fragile. Strong, in that unassuming way a blade was strong. His hair was raven-black and tousled like he'd just walked through a storm and hadn't cared. His eyes...

They glowed.

It was silver, not pale blue, not gray, just silver.

Bright enough to be seen even in the dimness.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

His voice was deep. Calm. Like the storm had to quiet down just to hear him.