The invasion

Raven's POV

The weight of the sword against my back serves as a firm reassurance.

“Finally,” I mutter under my breath, pulling the brown leather straps around my chest. It gives a soft whine as I keep adjusting, ensuring the sheath is tight enough.

I'm more than ready. As father likes to put it– I was born for this. These animals ripped my mother away from me and so I get to rip their specie off this earth.

With my cold fingers twitching in anticipation, I study my surroundings under the morning dew, keeping track of everyone's footstep just to know when something is off.

The snap of a branch causes all of us to halt our movement. But we continue moving when we realize it's one of us.

I inhale deeply, and the scent of pine and earth settles into my bones. I've gotten so used to living in the forest that this is calming in the strangest way.

But that feeling doesn't last for long as I'm forced to feel disgusted when I realize, the ‘cursed’ are near. I can smell them.

They carry on their disgusting skin the stench of wet fur, and something rotten under their skin— something not physically perceived but there nonetheless. Perhaps that's all the innocent lives they've taken. Innocent people they've killed, bitten, chewed.

Beasts!

They've thrived for decades but not anymore, because finally we're attacking our first pack up east. An area known for having the toughest of them. If we conquer here just like the west, then we're sure to be feared.

“I can smell those cunts,” my father spits, his voice thick with venom. “Fucking keep you head on track Raven. Don't shame your mother. Kill and don't stall.”

He squats low beside me, his chapped lips twisted, nose wrinkling as if the stench alone can kill him.

I hate werewolves alright, but my hatred is nothing compared to that of my father. Even standing six feet away from him, I can feel the scorching effect of his fury.

I wrinkle my nose, a habit I copied from him, but say nothing. Father feeds on fury, I feed on awareness– and fury blinds that so I keep my head straight, not needing my mind clouded.

I flinch as a hand boldly circles my waist. He's warm this morning…

Kissing my neck before settling his palm against my hip, Eli’s thumb grazes the edge of my belt. Then his lips find my cheek, warm and dry. He's the first right choice I've ever made. The first decision father approves of.

“We won’t spare any of them,” Eli, my boyfriend of three years murmurs, his breath stirring a loose strand near my left ear. I reach back to push it in place while nodding, allowing his words anchor me.

“We’ll teach them to run at the word hunter,” I whisper, overflowing with confidence.

Because I know we will win. We've planned this attack for three months now. And with father's leading, we're more than ready.

Our steps are in sync. There's eighteen of us but we are skilled enough to take down a pack. It's all about the mind. If you can get yourself to believe it's possible, then nothing will be impossible.

We lie waiting under the tall thick grasses, not saying a word to eachother, relying on hand signals and facial expressions that get harder to read under the thickening fog.

But we don’t need to talk. No, not when silence is our sharpest weapon.

We settle quietly watching familiar disgusting figures shift around unguarded. Some are eating while the others are talking and laughing.

They are so loud, to loud to hear us approaching. They don't look more than fifteen.

I follow Eli's eyes and frown. Shit, they are spread so wide I’d definitely missed a half of them. Yes, we're outnumbered but we planned for this. At least father did. We don't question him, we hunt. Questioning a hunt means siding the beasts, and that's as good as putting a knife to our throats.

The ones near the creek lean lazily against rocks, but farther out. It'll take a few seconds for them to get to us. Shit, I don't see this working out in our favour but I know it's best if we just get this over with.

At this point we're only waiting for our leader's signal.

Then my father raises his hand, he holds it then drops it.

We surge with a loud cry, mainly to put fear in the hearts of our prey. I unsheathe my sword in one smooth motion as I run faster. The knifes in my thighs dig into my calf, reminding me of their presence.

The first werewolf has barely swallowed his tea when I slam into his abdomen with my boot. He staggers backward with a wheeze, crashing disappointedly into the grass. That's when the booze in his breath hits me.

“Disgusting dog, can't even do duty right!” I curse at him, stabbing through his thighs and twisting. That should keep him down for a bit.

With a well calculated turn, I drive the hilt of my sword into the next one’s jaw. The crack of bone sends chills down my spine but I shake it off.

No kills…not yet. I don't need to kill them when father will do just that. I only help him take them down, until I'm bold enough to take my first kill.

I fight with everything I've got, but they’re fast. Faster than the west and stronger.

A lean wolf with sharp eyes lunges at me, her claws slicing through the air. I duck, roll, and then kick her legs out from under her. She tries to jump right back but then the slash of my blade across her ribs keeps her gasping on the ground.

On instinct, I reach out to help stop the bleeding, my heart pounding in fright. I don't want to kill her myself…

“RAVEN!” Father's sharp call reminds me not to show weakness. But my eyes widen the next second when I see her skin hurriedly knitting itself back together.

She's healing?

“Pa,” I start but there's no need to call as he already knows. Almost every werewolf that has fallen begins to rise. We look in horror our chests heaving with exhaustion.

They are different.

“Shit,” I mutter, backing off as she rises with a feral grin.