He hadn't meant to wake.He'd meant to lie still until the pain in his ribs dulled and the scent of her stopped rattling his focus.
But Alaric Draugrson had never been good at rest.
By midmorning, the healer was gone—off to tend to something in her garden, judging by the faint clink of ceramic bowls outside. The door had been left open a crack, and morning sunlight spilled across the floor in soft lines. Stillness hung in the air, the kind that only existed in a place long-lived and well-loved.
He rose slowly, bracing himself against the post of the cot. The injury along his side pulled, but it was healing faster than it should. Her salves worked like old magic. Familiar magic.
Alaric crossed the room, barefoot, quiet as shadow. Not snooping. Not yet. But drawn forward.
Her home was simple—rough stone walls, worn wood floors, open shelves crowded with dried herbs, bone charms, tiny labeled bottles with faded ink. There was a rhythm to it. A peace he'd forgotten existed.
He passed a table stacked with parchment and charcoal sketches: anatomy studies, diagrams of root systems, sigils carefully penned in elegant script.
And then—he saw it.
A small journal, the cover soft with wear, open to a page that caught the sunlight like it was meant to be read. A bedtime story written in looping hand.
He frowned.
And read.
"Long ago, the Moon wept a single tear into the forest, and from that tear rose the first wolf. He had no voice, only longing. When he howled, it cracked the frost and woke the stars—"
Alaric froze.
The rest of the page blurred. He didn't need to read it.
He knew this story.
Not from books. Not from bards. From somewhere deeper.
From before.
A flicker of a woman's voice—soft, warm, telling it by firelight.
A scent of crushed lavender and old pine.
A smaller body curled in his arms, humming beneath his touch.
He gripped the edge of the table, jaw clenched. His breath came too fast.
"No," he muttered. "Not again."
Because that was the cruelest part of his curse.
The memories always came like this—slippery, scented, fragmented. Never enough to hold. Just enough to hurt.
A soft sound broke the silence behind him.
He turned.
Isolde stood in the doorway, backlit by gold and green. Her hair spilled loose around her shoulders, her arms full of fresh-cut stalks. She was barefoot, and in the filtered light, she looked like something half-dreamed.
She tilted her head at the open book.
"I used to tell that to my brother when he was sick," she said gently. "It's passed down in my line. A story of the First Howl."
Alaric's throat worked.
"I've heard it before," he rasped.
Her brow furrowed. "You said you don't remember things."
"I don't." He looked back at the page. "That's the problem."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then she crossed the space and set the herbs down beside the sink. "Your body's recovering fast. Too fast for a man with no pack ties and no healer's bond."
He didn't respond.
So she added, softer now: "You're not just a warrior, are you?"
He met her eyes. "I don't know what I am."
"Maybe I do."
She stepped closer, and the air changed. The way it always did before a storm.
And without touching him, she said:
"The Moon doesn't mark wolves by accident."