Page 22 of The Moonborn's Curse

When they were done, they dressed in fresh tunics provided by the Coven, and at last, Arken motioned them forward.

"Now," he said. "Now, you may meet the child."

Chapter 11

Seren

The village, thick with life and magic, seemed to still as Seren and Aaren stepped onto its paths, their footsteps light against the damp earth.

Towering trees stretched their ancient limbs overhead, their roots gnarled and twisted like knotted hands, their canopies thick, allowing only slender shafts of golden light to pierce through the morning mist.

Seren had expected to go home, but as soon as they arrived at the village's outer paths, their uncle appeared, his weathered face tense.

"To the Crone's hut," he said shortly, voice brooking no argument.

Aaren stiffened beside her. "Now?"

Their uncle's gaze flickered past them, toward something neither of them could see. "Now."

Seren said nothing as they obeyed, turning off the main path toward the hut at the village's edge.

The Crone's dwelling was built into the base of an ancient tree, its roots curling around its foundation like a great beast standing guard. The air smelled of earth, woodsmoke, and something sharper—herbs burning in the firepit.

As they approached, the voices of men carried through the air.

They were large men, their bodies bulging with muscle, standing near the firepit where the Crone sat on a fallen log, her fingers trailing absently over the ridges of the old wooden staff. Shadows from the flickering fire danced over them like wild maidens.

They spoke in low tones, their voices like the deep rumbling of thunder before a storm, but even from a distance, Seren could feel their alertness. Like a wild beast, constantly assessing his surroundings for a threat.

They were wolves.

Not like the wolves of her village—these men were from the outside, their scent earthy but edged with something foreign, something wild.

Aaren slowed beside her, his fingers tightening into a fist at his side.

But Seren did not falter.

She had learned long ago that the best way to move unseen was to be silent, to be small.

And yet, as she approached, every man turned his head as one.

It was not human movement—it was animal.

A sharp, fluid shift of attention, like predators catching the scent of something unknown.

Seren met their intense, golden gazes, her face carefully neutral.

And then, she heard it.

The whispers in the wind.

"This her?"

"She is so small."

"Her eyes—"

"Definitely not a wolf."

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