Chapter 10: Dusty Tome in Shadowvale

Dusk casts long shadows across Shadowvale as Giroud leads Aya toward the derelict farmstead. Ancient apple trees, their branches twisted and bare, stand like sentinels around the property. The sweet-sour scent of rotting fruit mingles with something darker - a metallic tang that sets Giroud’s teeth on edge.

“Look at this.” Aya’s fingers trace deep gouges in one of the fence posts. The wood has splintered under whatever had left those marks, fresh enough that pale splinters still cling to the edges. Giroud’s fingers trace the marks without touching them - too deep for ordinary wolves.

Giroud crouches near the muddy path, examining distinct paw prints pressed into the soft earth. Wolf tracks, and recent ones - the edges still sharp where water hasn’t yet pooled in the depressions. His hand instinctively moves to his sword hilt.

“Stay close,” he murmurs. “Those are fresh. Pack’s been through here within the hour.”

A distant howl cuts through the evening air, carrying notes too human to be natural. Giroud signals for silence, wary of drawing attention.

Aya nods, her own hand finding the dagger at her belt. She’s learned to read his tone - knows when his words carry real weight.

The weathered farmhouse looms before them, its windows dark holes in the fading light. Broken shutters hang at odd angles, creaking softly in the evening breeze. The barn beyond lists to one side, its roof partially collapsed.

Between the buildings, ancient apple trees form crooked rows, their branches twisted and bare against the darkening sky. Perfect cover for predators. Giroud scans the shadows beneath them, tracking movement, searching for the telltale flash of eyes.

Giroud watches Aya’s movements with quiet pride as she creeps through the waist-high grass. Her steps are measured, precise - placing each foot with the care he’d drilled into her during their training. The last rays of sunlight catch her dark ponytail, creating a copper sheen that reminds him of autumn leaves.

She pauses near a cluster of rocks, dropping into a crouch. Her nose wrinkles as she studies the ground.

“Three different marks here.” Her whisper barely carries to him. “Three different heights too? Multiple alphas marking territory.”

Giroud’s chest tightens at her proximity to the werewolf sign, but he forces himself to stay still. He’s impressed by her observation, and she’s shown good instincts so far. The scratches are exactly as she’d described - three distinct sets at varying heights, topped with unmistakable scent markings.

The wind shifts, bringing with it the musty smell of wet fur and something darker, more feral. Giroud raises his hand in their practiced signal for silence. Aya freezes, her body going still as stone.

A long, mournful howl echoes through the air, followed by another from a different direction. The sound raises the hair on Giroud’s neck - not just wolves, but werewolves.

He motions Aya back with two fingers. She complies instantly, sliding through the grass like a shadow until she stands at his side. Her breathing remains steady, controlled, but he can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers hover near her blade.

The howls come again, closer this time. Giroud counts at least three distinct voices, confirming Aya’s earlier assessment of the territorial markers. His hand finds her shoulder, squeezing once - their silent signal to hold position and stay alert.

Giroud places one boot carefully on the farmhouse’s verandah. The weathered boards groan beneath his weight, decades of rain and sun having turned the wood grey and brittle. He shifts, testing each step before committing his full weight, mindful of the rotting timber that could give way at any moment.

Behind him, Aya maintains her vigil. Her small frame casts a long shadow in the dying light, her head turning in precise movements as she scans their surroundings. The confidence in her stance brings an unbidden smile to his lips, quickly replaced by his usual stern expression.

The sweet decay of fallen fruit hangs thick in the air, but underneath it Giroud catches something else - a coppery tang that makes his stomach clench. Blood. Old blood, but unmistakable to someone who’d spent years dealing in death.

The verandah creaks again as he inches forward. Aya’s fingers tighten on her dagger hilt, the leather wrapping making a soft sound against her palm. Giroud wants to tell her to relax her grip - a tense hand is a slow hand - but silence feels more precious than teaching right now.

His boots leave prints in the thick dust coating the boards. No other tracks mark the surface, which strikes him as odd. If the wolves are using this place as a den, there should be signs of traffic. Unless...

Another board complains under his weight, this one louder than the others. Giroud freezes, listening to the sound echo across the empty yard. Aya’s breath catches, then resumes its steady rhythm.

The metallic smell grows stronger near the farmhouse door, which hangs askew on one remaining hinge. Patches of darker wood stain the doorframe, confirming his suspicions about the blood scent.

Giroud steps into the farmhouse, his boots crunching on broken glass and splintered wood. The last light of day filters through gaps in the walls, casting strange shadows across the destruction before them. A heavy oak table lies on its side, deep claw marks scoring the surface. Tattered remnants of what might have been curtains hang like pale ghosts from bent curtain rods.

“Over here.” Aya’s voice draws his attention to the far wall. Dark stains mark the plaster in long streaks, the dried blood having turned a rusty brown. His stomach knots at the height of the marks - about chest level on an adult. Someone had died here, and not peacefully.

Giroud runs his fingers along a splintered doorframe leading to what once had been a kitchen. Coarse grey fur caught in the wood confirms what his nose has already told him. Werewolves have claimed this territory, using the abandoned farmhouse as their hunting ground.

The floorboards beneath the blood stains show deep gouges where victims had been dragged. Giroud traces the path with his eyes, noting how it leads towards the cellar door. A musty smell wafts up from below, mixed with the lingering scent of death.

Aya crouches near an overturned armchair, its stuffing spilled across the floor like pale intestines. Her fingers brush against more fur caught in the shredded fabric.

“Different colors,” she whispers, holding up strands of both grey and black. “At least two of them were here.”

Giroud nods, impressed by her attention to detail. The destruction around them tells a clear story - this isn’t just a random attack. The werewolves have turned this place into a proper den, somewhere to bring their prey. The thought makes his sword hand itch.

A china cabinet lies shattered against one wall, its contents scattered across the floor in glittering shards. Among the broken pieces, Giroud spots a child’s doll, its porcelain face cracked but still wearing a painted smile. He quickly shifts his body, blocking Aya’s view of it.

Giroud steps into what remains of the study, his boots crunching on broken glass. Moonlight filters through the shattered window, casting strange shadows across the room’s destroyed furniture. The desk has been torn apart, its drawers scattered and splintered across the floor.

But the bookshelf still stands against the far wall, exactly as El-Raffar had described it. Heavy oak, carved with intricate leaf patterns along its edges. Most of the books lie in tatters, their pages strewn about like fallen leaves, but the shelf itself appears untouched by the werewolves’ rampage.

“Watch the door,” he whispers to Aya. She takes position near the entrance, her small frame barely visible in the darkness.

Giroud runs his fingers along the shelf’s edge, feeling for irregularities in the wood grain. His hand comes away thick with dust. One by one, he begins removing the surviving books, setting them carefully aside. Some crumble at his touch, decades of damp having rotted their bindings.

A leather-bound tome catches his attention - its spine darker than the others, the gold lettering still sharp despite its age. He pulls it free, and something clicks behind the shelf. Giroud’s pulse quickens. He removes three more books from the same row, revealing a small brass lever set into the back panel.

The mechanism looks old but resilient, its surface resistant to the rust that covers most other metal fixtures in the house.

Giroud wraps his fingers around the lever, feeling the cold metal against his palm. Before he can pull it, Aya’s soft whistle signals movement outside. He freezes, hand still on the mechanism, waiting for her next signal. Three quick taps of her boot against the floorboard - their code for ‘temporary disturbance, hold position.’

Seconds stretch like hours until Aya’s quiet voice reaches him. “Just a raccoon in the apple trees.”

Giroud releases the breath he’d been holding and turns his attention back to the lever. The brass feels somehow warmer now, almost eager beneath his touch.

Giroud pulls the lever. Metal groans against metal as hidden gears turn behind the wall. A section of the bookcase swings inward with a grinding noise that sets his teeth on edge. Stale air rushes out, carrying the sharp scent of wolf musk.

He lifts the torch from its wall bracket, holding it ahead as he peers into the darkness. Stone steps descend into blackness, their edges worn smooth by countless feet. But it is the walls that draw his attention - deep gouges score the stone on both sides, some old and crusted with rust-colored stains, others fresh enough that fragments of stone still litter the steps below.

“They’ve been using this passage.” Giroud keeps his voice low, though the thick walls would likely muffle any sound. The torch flames cast dancing shadows across the scarred stone.

Aya slips past him, her movements silent despite the close quarters. She crouches at the top of the stairs, running her fingers through the thick dust that coats the steps.

“Look here.” She points to distinct paw prints pressed into the grey powder. “The dust hasn’t settled back into these tracks. They’re recent.”

Giroud studies the prints. The torch light catches their edges, showing clear definition in the marks. Four-toed prints, larger than any natural wolf’s, with deep claw marks at the tips. The beast that left them had passed through within the last few hours.

His grip tightens on his sword hilt. The narrow passage would make fighting difficult if they encountered anything down there. The werewolves would have the advantage in such close quarters, able to use their bulk to pin them against the walls.

The staircase curves away to the left, preventing him from seeing what lies at the bottom. More claw marks rake the ceiling where it lowers, forcing Giroud to duck his head as he moves forward.

Giroud’s torch illuminates the cellar’s vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across centuries-old stonework. The circular chamber stretches twenty paces across, its walls lined with empty shelves and rusted chains. At its center stands a weathered stone pedestal, and upon it lies their prize - the dusky tome El-Raffar had described.