Thorns & Wildflowers

Silvermoon City, the Old Town.

Rain battered the eaves, slamming into the pitted asphalt below. Puddles choked on swelling, waterlogged trash.

Cain crouched by the convenience store’s back door, his fingers scavenging through a dumpster. His pads brushed against plastic—half a box of expired rice balls. The packaging bloomed with condensation, bloated and tight. He ripped one open and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed twice, tasting nothing.

Footsteps splashed at the mouth of the alley. Pitter-patter. Heavy, frantic, and multiple.

"Over there!"

Four kids charged into the alley. The leader held up a phone, squinting as the screen’s glare washed over his face.

"Got him!" the leader squeaked, his voice piercing the gloom. "Right around here—I told you he’d be here!"

The phone lunged closer. Cain turned his head, presenting only the back of his skull to the lens.

"The ears! Did you catch the ears?"

"Got 'em, got 'em! They’re silver-gray!"

The leader barked rapidly into the microphone, "You seeing this, chat? The half-wolf from the Old Town—the one everyone’s been talking about online? This is him!"

A shorter boy chimed in, "I heard he used to belong to some mega-corporation family before they went under."

"The Greymane Group, yeah. A werewolf family."

"Then what’s he doing digging through trash?"

The kids snickered. Someone kicked the dumpster, making the sheet metal hum.

Cain didn't move. He stuffed the second rice ball into his mouth, chewing slowly.

A third strike—a stone flew through the air, striking his shoulder with a dull thud. He didn't react.

The second stone caught him on the temple. It stung. A warm trickle crept down the bridge of his nose, the copper tang of blood instantly shearing through the stench of the rain.

The third stone—

A hand snatched it out of the air.

Cain looked up.

A girl stood before him. She was thin—painfully so—her collarbone jutting sharply against the slack collar of her oversized hoodie. Her soaked, flaxen hair clung to her cheeks. The sleeves swallowed her hands, leaving only the tips of her fingers exposed. She gripped the stone, the veins on the back of her hand taut and blue.

She glared at the kids.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

The leader scanned her up and down. "None of your business."

The girl didn't answer. Instead, she knelt, her hand diving deep into her hoodie pocket. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out a plastic bag containing half a loaf of bread, its crust speckled with green mold.

She held the bag out to him.

"Here. Eat."

Cain stared at her. Right then, her stomach growled. It was a loud, hollow rumble that echoed off the alley walls.

"I’m not that hungry," she said softly. Her stomach immediately growled again.

Cain made no move to take it. His fingers merely twitched.

The leader thrust the phone forward, filming. "Oh, look at that! Someone’s actually feeding the mongrel!"

Laughter erupted again.

Then, a sound echoed from the far end of the alley.

It wasn't the chaotic scuffle of children. It was the synchronized, heavy thud of combat boots crushing the puddles—measured, unhurried, and numerous.

Cain bolted upright. His legs were numb from crouching too long.

He grabbed the girl and yanked her behind him. Her wrist was so frail that his fingers wrapped around it twice.

"Run."

"Huh?"

"Run!"

The kids heard it too. The leader glanced back, nearly dropping his phone. "Shit—"

They spun on their heels and fled, kicking up sheets of muddy water. Their frantic footsteps scrambled away and quickly vanished into the night.

But the approach from the other end didn't break cadence. It drew closer.

Thirty men flooded into the alley, packing it wall-to-wall. They wore black tactical gear, their chests embroidered with a red axe. The rain slicked their uniforms, stretching the fabric taut against the heavy contours of muscle beneath. The man out front slipped off his sunglasses. A jagged scar tore from his brow down to his jawline, the healed, pale flesh gleaming in the wet dark.

"Cain Greymane," he rumbled, baring his teeth in a grin. "It’s been five years."

Cain shielded the girl behind his back. His spine locked straight, his shoulders dropping low and forward.

"She has nothing to do with this."

"Take them both," the leader commanded, waving a dismissive hand without looking at her.

The girl peeked out from behind Cain’s shoulder, rain dripping from her bangs.

"Are you here to kidnap him?"

The leader looked down at her. Her chin barely reached his chest.

"Scram, little girl, if you want to keep breathing."

The girl didn't move. Instead, she stepped out from behind Cain's shadow, walking right up to the line of thirty men. Her soaked hoodie clung to her frame, her shoulder blades propping up the wet fabric like two sharp ridges.

"No."

The leader’s brow furrowed.

"He’s mine."

The air seemed to freeze. The roar of the storm suddenly intensified, pelting the ground in a frantic, deafening rhythm.

The leader stared at her for three seconds, then burst into a roar of laughter. The thirty men joined in, their mockery echoing off the brick walls in a deafening, vibrating din.

"Yours? You keep him? With what—that half-loaf of moldy bread?"

The girl didn't smile.

She lifted her eyes.

Cain felt it first. The ground—not a sound, not a tremor—but a sudden, violent upheaval from deep within the earth.

Thorns erupted from the underworld.

They didn't tear through the soil. They burst through the cracks in the asphalt, tore out from the mortar of the walls, and shattered the iron grates of the storm drains.

The vines were black as forged iron, each spike as long as a finger, tipped in a dull, reflective crimson.

Thirty thorns.

Thirty throats.

Three seconds.

No one fired a shot. No one screamed. There was only the wet, heavy sound of constriction—flesh yielding, bone snapping.

Blood sprayed into the air, instantly swept away by the deluge as it swirled down the storm drains.

The corpses were dragged down into the subterranean dark. The ruptured earth sealed itself shut, smooth and unbroken, as if nothing had ever happened. Only the metallic tang of iron, thick against the wet scent of the rain, lingered in the air.

Cain stood frozen, his back drenched in cold sweat.

The girl turned around.

She looked at him with pale green eyes, her whites clear and calm. Rain rolled off her chin, and as she shook her head, a few droplets sprayed across his arm.

"Um..." She scratched her cheek, her small nails framing flushed, red knuckles. "I didn't mean to do that."

Cain found no words.

"Can you run away with me?" She tilted her head. "I'm not very good with directions."

Cain looked at her, then down at the flattened, mold-spotted bread in his hand.

Without a word, he shoved it into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed.

"...Let's go."

The girl smiled, her pale lips curving upward.

He turned and headed into the depths of the alley. The girl followed, stepping exactly where he stepped, her boots disturbing the ripples in the puddles.

"What's your name?"

"..."

"Should I just call you 'Hey'?"

"..."

"Hey, where are we going?"

"..."

"Hey, are you hungry? I still have half a—"

She fumbled in her pocket, her fingers swirling through empty fabric.

"Oh. I gave you all the bread."

Cain didn't look back. But his silver-gray ears swiveled backward, locking onto the direction of her voice, their tips twitching imperceptibly.

The girl didn't notice.

She sighed, breaking into a small jog to keep pace. Her shoes were waterlogged, squelching loudly with every step she took.

Behind them, near the back door of the convenience store.

The corpses dragged into the earth began to sprout.

White wildflowers blossomed from their mouths. Their petals, thin and fragile, were pierced by the driving rain, swaying gently in the dark.

No one saw them.