Three days had passed since the storm, yet the forest still shivered as though it remembered every strike of thunder. Branches hung broken like bones across the paths; the air smelled of burnt pine and wet soil. The wolves whispered of omens in hushed tones, glancing at the sky as if afraid it might answer back.
The Crimson Pack, once a place of laughter and warm fires, now crouched beneath its own fear. Smoke from the forges rose thin and uncertain into the gray morning, while hunters returned empty-handed, muttering that prey had fled deeper into the mountains. Every small misfortune, every shadow that crossed the sun, had found a single name to carry their dread.
Asher.
When she carried buckets from the well, conversations died mid-sentence. When she passed the training field, even the clang of swords seemed to falter, as if the air itself refused to touch her. Eyes followed her, not with pity but with the quiet revulsion one reserved for a curse made flesh. She became something less than human—an omen wrapped in skin.
At first, she told herself it would fade. That storms left wounds in people's minds just as they did in the earth. But by the third morning, she realized the whispers had taken root.
"The storm was her doing," said a she-wolf with a scarred muzzle, her voice low but sharp.
"A curse like hers festers," another replied. "Soon, it'll consume us all."
The words clung to her like smoke. She kept her head bowed and her pace steady, pretending not to hear, but every syllable left a bruise she could not hide.
That evening, the Alpha summoned the council. The great hall—once alive with laughter, boasting contests, and feasts—now felt like a crypt warmed only by fear. The torches burned low, their flames bending in unseen drafts. Faces that had once glowed with pride now looked gaunt, drawn by sleepless nights and whispering dread.
At the head of the long stone table stood Abigail. Draped in crimson velvet that caught the firelight like blood, she looked every inch the noble daughter of the pack. Her beauty, once their joy, had become their weapon. When she lifted her gaze, the room quieted as if she commanded the very air.
"Brothers and sisters," she began softly, her tone honeyed and mournful, "the signs are clear. The moon refused to shine the night my sister was born—it screamed when she drew breath. And look now: sickness, famine, lightning that scorched our trees. How long will we suffer before we admit what must be done?"
Her words, shaped like pity, fell into the hearts of those already softened by fear. Murmurs rippled around the table. The Alpha—a thick-shouldered man with streaks of gray through his hair—rubbed a tired hand over his face. "She is young," he said. "And she has done no wrong that I have seen."
"She exists," one of the elders spat, his eyes glittering with unease. "That's wrong enough."
Abigail lowered her gaze, the picture of humility. "I love my sister," she said, voice trembling in practiced sorrow. "I would bear her burden if I could. But perhaps there's another way to appease whatever darkness clings to her." She looked up slowly, eyes bright with false revelation. "The Lycan King of the North values strength above all. If we send her to him—let him decide her fate—perhaps our misfortune will end."
The chamber stirred like a hive. Some nodded; others glanced at the Alpha for direction. Fear, Asher would later think, is a language all wolves speak fluently.
Old Mara, frail but fierce, rose from her seat. "We cannot sacrifice a child to our own superstition," she said, leaning on her cane. "The curse lives in your fear, not in her blood."
Abigail turned toward her, voice gentle, almost tender. "And yet, Mara, you were the one who said her power was strange. You've seen it, haven't you?"
Mara hesitated. "Strange does not mean evil."
But the hesitation was enough. Fear, once given form, needs only silence to grow teeth. The Alpha looked around at his people and saw only the reflection of his own dread in their eyes. Finally, he exhaled—a long, broken sound—and nodded. "If this act restores peace, then so be it."
Abigail bowed her head to hide the small, satisfied smile curving her lips.
Asher did not know of the meeting. That night she only noticed how Mara avoided her gaze, how the servants whispered but would not speak, how the corridors seemed narrower, filled with a strange anticipation. By morning, her few belongings had been packed for her.
She found Mara behind the kitchens, the older woman's hands shaking as she tied bundles of herbs. "What are they saying?" Asher asked, her voice a fragile whisper. "What's happening?"
"Sometimes," Mara said, eyes heavy with grief, "a lie told long enough becomes a prayer. Keep your heart steady, child. Whatever comes, endure it."
Asher frowned. "Endure what?"
The healer only pressed a charm of bone and thread into her palm—a small thing carved with runes that felt older than memory—and walked away without answering.
By dusk, the pack gathered in the square. Asher was summoned by name. She stepped into the open, the cold wind biting at her skin, confusion burning behind her ribs. Every face in the crowd turned toward her—some pitying, most resentful, all certain. They had come to witness not judgment, but offering.
Abigail stood beside the Alpha, radiant beneath the torchlight. Behind them waited three riders in dark armor, their cloaks stitched with silver insignia: the mark of the Lycan King. Their wolves, restless and immense, pawed at the frozen ground.
The Alpha's voice carried over the crowd. "Asher of the Crimson Pack, you are to journey north under protection of the King's men. There you will serve at his court, in honor of the alliance between our kind."
The words struck her like ice water. Alliance? Serve? She looked around for someone—anyone—who might object. None did. Even Mara watched in silence, lips pressed tight with fear.
Abigail stepped forward, her sorrow painted perfectly. "You'll be safer there, Asher," she said sweetly. "The King's power is boundless. Perhaps he can break what curses us all."
Asher's throat tightened. "You're sending me away?"
"Not away," Abigail murmured, smile small and cruel. "Upward. To a greater purpose."
The tallest of the riders moved closer. "The King accepts your gift," he said, voice flat and cold. "She is to be taken in chains—his orders."
A shiver of outrage moved through the onlookers, but Abigail seized it before it could swell. "We obey, of course," she said quickly. "The curse must remain bound until it leaves our land."
The rider produced a pair of silver manacles, their polished surfaces catching the torchlight like mirrors. Asher's breath hitched. She turned to Abigail, disbelief breaking through the fog of fear.
Her sister leaned close, her whisper a dagger. "Don't look at me like that. You were born to ruin lives. At least now you'll ruin someone else's, not mine."
The chains closed around Asher's wrists with a sharp, final click. The crowd fell utterly silent.
They left before dawn. No one came to the gates. The riders said nothing, their wolves breathing clouds into the cold. Asher didn't ask where they were going—only watched the forest recede behind her, its trees bending like mourners in the wind. Grief and relief coiled together in her chest until she couldn't tell one from the other. For the first time, no one called her cursed—but only because no one dared speak to her at all.
When night fell, they camped by a frozen stream. The men built a fire and ate in silence, not sparing her a glance. She sat apart, staring at her reflection in the black water. Her face looked pale, foreign. Is this what exile looks like? she wondered. Is this peace?
The cold deepened. Her breath came in clouds, her wrists aching beneath the silver. Above her, the moon hung full and pitiless. She remembered her mother's voice—soft, humming lullabies that smelled of lavender and smoke—and her father's rough hands lifting her from the cradle. All gone. Traded for silence.
She pressed her bound hands together and whispered into the dark, "If you can hear me, Mother… please. Don't let them take all of me."
The wind sighed through the pines. At first it was only sound—then came a scent, faint but unmistakable: wild lavender. The horses stamped, snorting uneasily. Somewhere beyond the firelight, a wolf howled—a long, mournful note that trembled like grief.
Asher lifted her head. For a heartbeat she saw it—a pale figure among the trees, watching her through the stormlight. The fire flickered. When she blinked, it was gone.
Was it only the wind that answered?
Or had her mother finally heard her?