The village of Thornehill sat wrapped in a crown of whispering woods and curling fog, the kind of place stories whispered about but no one dared to visit. On its outskirts, past the nettle thickets and blue mushroom groves, stood a crooked house with a crow-shaped weather vane spinning madly on top.
That was her house.
Wren Myles. Seventeen. Outcast. Witch.
Wren stirred her potion counterclockwise—always counterclockwise on crescent moons—with ashroot and deadman's rose steeping in iron. Her familiar, a black fox named Thistle, stretched languidly on the windowsill, eyes glinting like bottled obsidian.
"Storm's coming," Thistle said in his low, ever-bored voice. "Wolves'll be prowling the woods again."
Wren didn't look up. "They always are."
"But tonight is a blood moon."
That made her pause.
Outside, the wind howled like something in pain, and the wards on her windows shimmered a faint violet in warning.
Thornehill was neutral ground—but only in name. Witches and wolves had never mixed. Not truly. Even though the local wolf pack, the Redfangs, had long sworn to keep the peace, everyone knew the truth.
They feared witches.
Especially her.
And they had good reason.