The moment the thread turned to ash, the air shifted.
Not with wind.
Not with sound.
But with pressure—like the earth had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
Isolde staggered back from the firepit, the blackened remnants of the protection circle crumbling between her fingers. Her ears rang. Her vision tilted.
The magic hadn't just failed.
It had recoiled.
"No," she whispered, heart hammering. "No, no, no."
She dropped to her knees and swept the ruined ash aside, clearing the circle, trying to restart the ritual. Her hands shook as she reached for more salt, fumbling the jar. It spilled across the moss.
She cursed under her breath and grabbed another strip of thread, unraveling it too fast, tangling it in her fingers.
The earth pulsed.
Somewhere deeper in the den, a child began to wail.
She didn't look. She couldn't. Not yet.
Isolde placed her hand to the ground and spoke the invocation again—louder this time, firmer, like that might force the old magic to obey.
"By salt and ash, by thread and breath,I seal the wound. I bar the death.By Moon unbroken, root run deep,Let no corrupted shadow keep—"
The ground beneath her palm went cold.
A shiver ran through her body—sharp and slicing, as though something beneath the surface had just turned its face toward her.
Her breath caught.
"Please," she whispered, almost to herself.
Her magic surged again, wild this time—too much, too fast.
The salt ignited in a flash of white heat. The red thread sparked. Her wards collapsed in a blast of silvery smoke that threw her backward onto the moss.
She hit hard.
Stars danced behind her eyes.
She lay there, gasping, skin tingling, mouth full of iron and dirt.
And the forest watched.
A shape appeared above her.
Not the monster. Not yet.
He dropped to his knees, pulling her up before her arms could fully give out. His eyes were sharp with concern, pale and stormlit, scanning her for injuries she hadn't even noticed.
"What happened?" he asked.
Isolde shook her head. "The magic—turned on me. It shouldn't be able to. This land wants to protect its wolves. But something's twisted it."
He looked toward the trees. "I saw it. Them. Watching us."
She didn't need to ask what.
"I need to try again," she said, breath ragged.
"No. You need to rest—"
"I don't have time," she snapped, shoving herself back up. "If this spreads, if more of them begin to shift wrong, we'll lose the whole den. Maybe more."
He stood with her, catching her elbow when she swayed.
"Then I'll stand guard," he said. "I'll hold the line. You focus."
She nodded, barely able to keep her hands from shaking as she reached for her remaining supplies.
Ash. Salt. Thread.
This time she wouldn't speak a spell.
This time she'd bleed it into the earth if she had to. Alaric turned and made his way back to the treeline.
Alaric
The first one stepped from the trees just as he drew his blade.
It didn't rush him.
It didn't need to.
It watched.
Its shape was wrong—limbs too long, shoulders too narrow. Its skin shimmered between flesh and fur, never committing to either. No eyes. Just voids.
Alaric didn't flinch.
A second figure emerged to its right.
Then a third.
They weren't attacking. Not yet.
They were gathering.
He could feel it now, vibrating low beneath his ribs. Not fear—but memory. A knowing without words. These things had circled him in lifetimes before. They had taken, devoured, tried to wear his face and name.
But not this time.
He stepped between them and the path to the den, planting his feet like stone. Blade in hand. Shoulders square.
He wouldn't strike unless they crossed the threshold.
But if they did—
He'd end them.
Isolde
The salt was gone. The thread was ash. The rites had failed.
So she did the only thing left.
She cut her palm.
The blade was sharp. The pain was clean.
Blood welled and dripped into the soil, hissing as it touched the scorched earth. She pressed her hand to the moss and began to whisper—not in words, but in pulse. In magic drawn from marrow and inherited ache.
Her blood shimmered silver in the firelight.
Not spell. Not charm. Not prayer.This was legacy.
The energy twisted in her gut—tight, painful, raw. Her breath came short. Her shoulders hunched. Magic that hadn't stirred in years clawed its way forward.
And the earth responded.
The circle flared to life again, not with elegant symbols or glimmering lines—but with claw marks, etched in light. The moss smoked beneath her knees.
Isolde clenched her teeth and pressed harder.
The ground shook faintly.
The wolves behind her whimpered in their sleep—but didn't convulse. The pressure in the room began to lift, just slightly, like a storm backing away.
But the forest wasn't done.
Alaric
The first creature moved.
Its foot hit the boundary line—and it reeled back like it had been burned.
Alaric narrowed his eyes.
"Try it again," he growled.
It did.
This time it pushed forward—but he was faster.
His blade caught it mid-lunge, slicing a line through whatever held its shape together. It didn't bleed. It hissed—like steam, like bone cracking under ice—and vanished into the trees.
The others hissed in answer.
But they didn't cross again.
Because they knew.
Alaric Draugrson had remembered how to kill them.
Isolde
The circle flared bright one last time, and then settled—low, humming, intact.
Isolde gasped, falling back onto her elbows, blood still dripping from her hand.
It was done.
The circle held.
The magic no longer fought her—it bent around her like roots finding a home again.
And from somewhere near the den's edge, she heard it:
The low, furious howl of something that had just been denied its prey.