Remington “Rem” Riley's Arc

Chapter 1 of 10

Rem Riley knew the axe felt wrong the moment he lifted it from the wall. He had inherited the lodge two months ago from relatives he never met, and the axe came with it. His father's people had carried the thing for generations. Tonight the storm had killed the power, and the backup generator kept only the hall lights burning. Rem walked the corridors doing room checks, axe on his shoulder, counting guests he barely knew. Room seven was empty. The bed lay unmade. On the blanket sat a torn travel journal, its cover frayed, ticket stubs jammed between ripped pages. Rem opened it. The guest had filled it with local folklore. Page after page described a mountain and a black wolf with red eyes. The last entry ended mid-sentence, the paper torn away. Rem's stomach tightened. He turned toward the window. The balcony door stood open. Snow had blown across the floor. Rem stepped out and saw the footprints leading down toward the treeline. Beside them, dark spots stained the white. He crouched and touched one. Blood, still soft, not yet frozen. Someone had gone into the storm bleeding, and the trail would vanish soon. Rem grabbed his coat and went after them. The wind cut at his face. He followed the red dots past the last balcony post and into the trees. The prints led to a tall pine, its bark raked by deep scratch marks. Fresh gouges. Something had dragged claws down the trunk at a height above Rem's head. The blood pooled thick at the roots, then smeared sideways into the dark. He raised the axe and pushed on. The trail climbed. Through the snow he saw the shape of the mountain ahead, its jagged silhouette black against the clouds. Cave mouths gaped along its base. The footprints stopped there. The blood led straight to the nearest opening and did not come back out. Rem stood at the cave mouth. He could not carry a wounded guest out of a mountain alone in a storm, not tonight. He needed to know what he was chasing first. He knelt and studied the last clear print in the snow. Beside the guest's boot sat another mark. A paw. Wider than his two hands together, with claw grooves that matched the scratches on the pine. A sound came from inside the cave. Low. Wet. Breathing. Rem backed away. His grip slipped on the axe handle, and warmth bloomed against his palm. He looked down. The old iron head glowed faint red, the same color as the blood, the same color the journal had described for the wolf's eyes. The axe had grown warm the closer he came to the cave. The guest was gone. But now Rem understood one thing. The axe was not warning him away from the mountain. It was pulling him toward whatever waited inside it.