Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 1: The Inheritance
The lawyer’s office smells like old paper and lies.
Astrid Blackwood sits in a leather chair that squeaks every time she moves. The sound grates on her nerves.
She shouldn’t be here.
She should be in London. At work. At her perfectly normal job as an archivist at the British Museum.
Not in Edinburgh. Listening to a stranger explain an inheritance she didn’t ask for.
Mr. Callum MacLeish adjusts his glasses. Ancient. Stern. Very Scottish.
“As I explained on the phone, Miss Blackwood, your great-aunt Moira passed three months ago. You’re her sole living heir.”
“I never met her.”
“She was… reclusive. Hadn’t left Ashenmoor Estate in forty years.”
Ashenmoor. Even the name sounds ominous.
“What exactly did she leave me?”
MacLeish slides a folder across his mahogany desk.
Thick. Official. Stamped with wax seals like something from a period drama.
“The estate. All of it. Three hundred acres in the Scottish Highlands. The manor house. Surrounding forests. Everything.”
Astrid flips through documents.
Deeds. Surveys. Maps.
The property is massive.
Isolated.
Miles from the nearest town.
“This is worth—”
“Approximately four million pounds. If properly restored.”
Astrid’s breath catches.
Four million.
That’s… life-changing money.
She could quit her job. Travel. Do anything.
“There are conditions,” MacLeish continues.
Of course there are.
“You must take possession of the property. Spend at least one month there before selling. Moira’s stipulation.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t explain. Simply stated the heir must ‘understand what Ashenmoor is’ before making decisions.”
Cryptic bullshit.
Typical rich eccentric nonsense.
“Fine. One month. Then I sell.”
MacLeish’s expression shifts.
Concern? Warning?
Hard to tell.
“Miss Blackwood. I must advise… Ashenmoor is remote. Isolated. The locals avoid it. There are… superstitions.”
“About what?”
“The woods. The land. Stories passed down for generations.”
“Ghost stories?”
“Something like that.”
Astrid doesn’t believe in ghosts.
Or superstitions.
Or anything that can’t be proven with empirical evidence.
“I’ll manage.”
“The estate manager can show you the property. But he won’t stay after dark. None of the locals will.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Superstition or not, Miss Blackwood, people here take it seriously. Respect that.”
Fine.
She’ll respect their medieval nonsense while she sells their haunted castle for millions.
Easy.
MacLeish hands her keys.
Heavy. Iron. Old.
“The estate manager’s name is Rowan. He’ll meet you at Ashenmoor tomorrow at noon. Don’t go wandering the grounds alone. Especially not after sunset.”
“Why not?”
“Because the locals will tell you stories. And you’ll dismiss them. Then something will happen that makes you wonder.”
Astrid laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Are you seriously trying to scare me?”
“I’m seriously trying to warn you. My family has handled Ashenmoor’s legal affairs for six generations. Every lawyer before me gave the same warning: respect the forest. Respect the land. Respect the things you don’t understand.”
“Duly noted.”
She’s already planning the sale.
Four million pounds.
One month of rustic living.
She can survive anything for four million pounds.
The drive to Ashenmoor takes three hours.
North into the Highlands.
Roads getting narrower. More isolated.
Cell service dies an hour in.
Astrid’s GPS still works. Barely.
She follows winding roads through dense forest.
Trees older than civilizations. Thick. Imposing.
The kind of forest where fairy tales happen.
Not in a good way.
The estate appears suddenly.
Massive stone manor.
Gothic. Crumbling. Beautiful in a haunted sort of way.
Three stories. Dozens of windows. Turrets and towers.
Looks like something from a Victorian horror novel.
Astrid parks in the overgrown circular drive.
Ivy covers half the building.
Some windows are boarded. Others just… missing glass.
This is going to need serious work before selling.
But four million pounds.
Worth it.
She gets out.
Silence hits her first.
Complete silence.
No birds. No insects. No wind.
Just… nothing.
Eerie.
The forest surrounds the estate on three sides.
Dark. Dense. Endless.
She can’t see more than twenty feet into the trees.
Something about it makes her skin prickle.
Ancestral fear, maybe.
Humans aren’t meant for places this isolated.
The front door is unlocked.
She pushes it open.
Hinges scream.
Inside is worse than outside.
Dust everywhere. Furniture covered in sheets. Cobwebs in corners.
Grand staircase leading up.
Portraits lining the walls.
All women.
All with the same silver-grey eyes.
Like hers.
Astrid pauses.
Looks closer at one portrait.
Dated 1724.
Woman in a midnight-blue gown. Silver eyes. Dark hair.
Could be Astrid’s twin.
Weird.
Really weird.
She explores.
Ballroom. Library. Drawing rooms. Kitchen.
Everything frozen in time.
Moira clearly didn’t update anything in decades.
Maybe longer.
The furniture is antique. Valuable.
That’ll help with the sale price.
She takes photos for the real estate agent.
Already mentally spending that four million.
Upstairs.
Bedrooms. Dozens of them.
She picks the master suite.
Massive four-poster bed. Fireplace. Bay windows overlooking the forest.
The view is stunning.
And terrifying.
The forest stretches forever.
Dark. Impenetrable.
She can see why locals are superstitious.
This place feels… alive.
Not haunted.
Alive.
Watching.
Sunset comes fast.
She hasn’t eaten.
Brought supplies from Edinburgh. Trail mix. Bottled water. Bread.
She eats in the kitchen.
Listening to the silence.
It’s oppressive.
She’s used to London. Traffic. People. Noise.
This silence is unnatural.
Then it breaks.
Howling.
Distant. Multiple sources.
Wolves?
Scotland has wolves. She thinks.
Maybe.
The howling continues.
Getting closer.
Louder.
More… coordinated.
Like they’re circling.
Astrid goes to the window.
Looks out at the darkening forest.
Nothing visible.
But the howling intensifies.
Directly outside now.
Movement at the tree line.
Shapes.
Large shapes.
Too large for normal wolves.
Bigger than dogs.
Bigger than anything should be.
She counts five.
No, seven.
No, more.
They’re circling the estate.
Patrolling?
Hunting?
One steps into moonlight.
Massive.
Black fur. Golden eyes.
Staring directly at her window.
Like it knows she’s there.
Like it’s been waiting.
Astrid’s breath catches.
That’s not a wolf.
Too big. Too intelligent.
The way it moves…
Almost human.
She backs away from the window.
Heart racing.
This is fine.
Just wildlife.
Scotland has large predators.
Probably.
The howling stops.
Suddenly.
All at once.
Silence again.
Worse than before.
Because now she knows what’s in that silence.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hunting.
Her phone’s useless without service.
She checks the doors.
All locked.
Windows latched.
She’s safe inside.
Probably.
The lawyer’s warning echoes.
“Don’t go wandering the grounds alone. Especially not after sunset.”
She thought it was superstition.
Now she’s not so sure.
Sleep doesn’t come.
She lies in the massive bed.
Listening.
Every creak. Every whisper of wind.
Sounds like footsteps.
Like breathing.
Like something circling.
This is ridiculous.
She’s a rational person.
There’s no such thing as monsters.
Just large wolves.
In Scotland.
Circling her house.
Staring at her with golden eyes.
Totally normal.
Dawn finally comes.
Astrid hasn’t slept.
She goes downstairs.
Front door is still locked.
No signs of entry.
Nothing disturbed.
Outside looks normal.
Daylight makes everything less sinister.
The forest is just a forest.
No shapes. No eyes.
Just trees.
She makes coffee with bottled water.
Waits for Rowan, the estate manager.
He’s supposed to arrive at noon.
Give her a tour. Explain the property.
Help her understand what she’s selling.
One month.
That’s all.
Then she’s gone.
Back to London. Back to normal.
This place can be someone else’s problem.
Noon arrives.
So does Rowan.
Old. Grizzled. Looks like he’s lived a thousand years in these woods.
“Miss Blackwood.”
“Mr. Rowan?”
“Just Rowan. Everyone calls me Rowan.”
He won’t meet her eyes.
Nervous? Afraid?
“Thank you for coming. I’d like a full tour—”
“I’ll show you the house. The gardens. The immediate grounds. But I’m leaving before sunset. Non-negotiable.”
“Why?”
He finally looks at her.
Eyes hard. Serious.
“Because I want to live to see tomorrow. And anyone who stays at Ashenmoor after dark is gambling with fate.”
“That’s superstition—”
“Call it what you like. I call it survival.”
The tour is perfunctory.
Rowan shows her everything.
Explains the property. The history. The repairs needed.
Avoids the forest entirely.
“What about the woods?”
“What about them?”
“Three hundred acres of forest came with the estate. Shouldn’t I see it?”
“No.”
Flat. Final.
“Why not?”
“Because the woods aren’t yours. Never have been. Never will be.”
“The deed says—”
“The deed is paper. The forest is older than paper. Older than law. It belongs to itself. And to those who’ve lived there for centuries.”
“That doesn’t make sense—”
“Doesn’t have to make sense. Just has to be true.”
He leaves at four PM.
Two hours before sunset.
Refuses to stay longer.
“Lock every door. Every window. Don’t go outside after dark. Don’t respond to sounds. Don’t investigate noises. Stay inside. Stay alive.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly serious. Your great-aunt Moira understood. That’s why she survived forty years here. Respect the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Don’t go into the forest. Don’t invite anyone inside. Don’t acknowledge the howling. Don’t open doors after dark. Simple rules. Survival rules.”
He hands her a card.
Emergency contact.
“If something happens. If you need help. Call this number. They’ll come.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“People who understand what Ashenmoor really is.”
Then he’s gone.
Driving away like the devil’s chasing him.
Astrid’s alone again.
That night, the howling returns.
Louder.
Closer.
More aggressive.
She follows Rowan’s rules.
Stays inside. Locks everything. Ignores the sounds.
But it’s hard.
Because the howling sounds… coordinated.
Like language.
Like communication.
Like they’re talking about her.
At midnight, something scratches at the front door.
Slow. Deliberate. Testing.
Astrid’s in the library.
Frozen.
Heart hammering.
The scratching continues.
Then a voice.
Deep. Male. Commanding.
“I know you’re in there, Duchess.”
Duchess?
Who the hell—
“Open the door. We need to talk.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
“Your great-aunt would have opened it by now. She understood protocol.”
Protocol?
“I’m Magnus. Alpha of the Rogue Pack. And you’re on my territory. That makes you my business.”
Alpha. Pack. Territory.
He’s insane.
Or she is.
“I’ll return tomorrow night. Be ready to receive me properly. Or I’ll come in anyway.”
Footsteps retreating.
Then silence.
Worse than howling.
Because now she knows.
This isn’t superstition.
This is real.
And whatever Magnus is.
Whatever he wants.
She’s in his territory now.
And he’s not asking permission.
He’s giving warning.
Tomorrow, he’s coming in.
Whether she likes it or not.
Astrid’s hands shake.
Four million pounds suddenly doesn’t seem worth it.
Not even close.
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