It was evening when he asked. Isolde was surprised it took him so long.
The kettle hissed on the stove. Outside, the chickens murmured and settled under the thatched lean-to, and the wind slid fingers through the leaves like it was trying to listen in.
Isolde sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug, grinding roots into powder with the back of a spoon. Her hair was tied up loosely, wisps falling into her eyes as she worked. She hadn't spoken in a while, but the silence was companionable.
Alaric was by the window, shirt back on but unbuttoned, one hand resting on the bandage beneath his ribs. He watched her—not hungrily, not possessively, but the way a wolf watches a path it once knew and lost. He could feel the pull between them, the thread of fate.
"Why are you packless?"
The question landed gently. Not an interrogation. A wondering. A thread tugged from curiosity, not suspicion.
Isolde didn't look up at first. She let the question hang in the air, like herbs drying from a beam.
Then: "Most people assume I was exiled."
"Were you?"
"No." She tapped the edge of the spoon against the bowl. "I left."
Alaric turned fully toward her. "Why?"
Now she did look up. Her green eyes were calm, but there was weight beneath them. Old weight.
"Because I couldn't save him."
The words weren't dramatic. They weren't even bitter. But they struck with more force than a blade.
Alaric said nothing.
She set the bowl aside, brushed her hands on her skirt, and stood slowly—pacing to the shelf where a single wolf carving sat. Smooth. Worn. Made by a child's hands.
"My brother," she said softly. "His name was Callen. He was the only other one born with the gift in three generations. But his was different. He heard things. Saw things. The elders said the Moon had marked him, that he'd grow into a Seer."
She traced the carving with her fingers. "He wasn't ready. He was just a boy."
Alaric stayed still, sensing the sharp edge of her voice softening into memory.
"One winter, the visions became too much. He said the stars were screaming. That the trees were moving wrong. No one listened. They thought he was... sick. That I was coddling him."
Her throat worked.
"Then one night, he shifted under a new moon and ran into the woods. I followed. I always followed."
She drew a breath. "I found him near the Standing Stones—bleeding. Carved with those same runes you found yesterday. He said they were calling him. Pulling him apart from the inside."
She paused. Her knuckles had turned white against the shelf.
"I tried to bring him home. But something in the dark came with us. Something that didn't want him back."
Alaric's voice was low. "What happened?"
"I killed it." Her eyes were far away now. "But not in time. And not without cost."
A long pause.
"They buried him without rites. Said his gift had turned him mad. That I'd brought the curse on him. On the pack."
She turned back to Alaric, her face composed, but her voice raw.
"So I left."
He didn't speak. Not right away.
Then he crossed the room to where she stood. Close, but not touching.
"I know what it means," he said quietly, "to carry the guilt for something you couldn't stop."
Her eyes flicked to his—searching, cautious.
"But you did stop it," he added. "You ran toward him. You stayed. That's more than most ever do."
Isolde looked away, her voice barely audible. "It wasn't enough."
Alaric leaned in slightly. "Then maybe now… it can be."
And though she didn't say it aloud, a part of her whispered:
Maybe.
Alaric leaned against the wall before asking her quietly, "Aren't you going to ask about me?"
She flashed him a quiet smile, "Your reputation precedes you Alaric, we've all heard your stories. The wolf who cannot die."
"So why treat me then?" He asked me gruffly.
Isolde pauses to really look at him, "Because I said you cannot die, not that you cannot get sick --cannot feel pain."
His silence was her answer.