Page 3 of To Carve A Wolf

The pain didn’t. It lingered, hot and raw, like embers pressed into open flesh. My limbs shook. Sweat clung to my face, pooling at my jaw. My breath came fast and shallow. I didn’t cry. Not now. The sob had already been swallowed. I lay there, panting, muscles twitching from the effort of holding still.

I couldn’t move yet. I didn’t even try. She leaned against her cluttered table and watched me, arms crossed, eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

“You know without the full set, an alpha could scent you if they got close.”

I forced my head to the side, meeting her gaze with a grimace. “I know how to stay away from alphas. I’ve done it my whole life.”

The witch tilted her head. “But why? Why go against your nature so hard? Why bleed for it, month after month, year after year?”

I didn’t answer at first. The words came slow, cracked around the edges.

“Because I saw what it means to be what I am. I saw what they did to my sisters. How they were groomed, caged, broken down into pretty little things meant to please the monsters who claimed them. I won’t live on my knees.”

She studied me a long moment, then shrugged and turned back to her workbench.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

But she didn’t say I was wrong. She handed me a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered, opalescent and cold.

“Drink this. For the pain. It won’t take all of it, but enough to walk.”

I drank. It tasted like copper and nettles.

“You know the cost of this magic,” she added softly, almost to herself. “It takes. Always takes. From the blood, from the bone. It’ll catch up to you one day.”

I nodded. I knew. I just didn’t care. The pain dulled slightly, enough for me to sit up, to pull on my cloak and limp to the door. Each step on the road back to the village was agony, like walking with fire stitched into my spine. But I kept moving. I had to.

I stopped at Jena’s house, a squat little home near the town centre. Baskets and wicker hampers lined her porch in neat stacks. She sold them in the market for just enough to feed her three children.

Jena answered the door with flour on her hands and a baby on her hip.

“Back already? Feeling better?”

I nodded, offering a tight smile. “Much. Just a stomach ache.”

Jena nodded in sympathy. “That woman’s got hands like magic. Scary eyes though.”

“Don’t I know it.”

She handed Dain over with a fond pat to his curls. “He was good. Helped me sort the reeds. Ate half the bread, too.”

“He’s growing,” I said, and Dain threw his arms around my waist with a laugh.

Jena and I spoke a bit more, casual and light, as if I wasn’t bleeding beneath my cloak. Then I took Dean’s hand and we headed home, one slow, painful step at a time.

The door creaked shut behind us, muffling the sounds of the village. The wind clawed at the wood, but inside, it was still—dim and familiar. Home.

I hung my cloak on the bent nail by the door and sankslowly onto the stool by the hearth, every movement sending a fresh ripple of fire down my back. Dain dropped to the floor and started rummaging through the basket of river stones and driftwood I kept for him, humming under his breath. My ribs ached just watching him bounce and move so easily.

He looked up suddenly, serious. “Did the lady make you better?”

I nodded, forcing a small smile. “She helped.”

“She has scary eyes,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Like owls.”

I chuckled, low and tired. “Yes. But she sees things others don’t. That’s her gift.”

He brought over a rock, oddly smooth and round, and pressed it into my palm. “This one’s lucky. I kept it for you.”

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