Anya hesitated, poised on the brink of flight, but the exhaustion in her limbs and the deep, unsettling pain in her soul held her rooted. The old woman's eyes, dark as ancient stones, seemed to pin her in place, yet held no malice, only an unnerving depth of understanding.
"Come, child," Morwen repeated, her voice a dry whisper that seemed to carry the scent of earth and old leaves. She stepped back, gesturing towards the open doorway of the cottage. The warm glow of a hearth fire pulsed from within, an irresistible beacon against the encroaching cold of the twilight.
Taking a shaky breath, Anya finally stepped forward, her every instinct screaming caution, yet something deeper, something she couldn't name, pulling her on. The threshold felt like passing through an invisible curtain. Inside, the cottage was small but surprisingly cozy. Herbs hung in fragrant bundles from the rafters, their earthy scents mixing with woodsmoke and something else – something sharp and clean, like rain-washed stone.
Shelves overflowed with jars, vials, and strange, gnarled roots. A large, well-worn armchair sat by a crackling stone hearth, its warmth radiating outwards.
"Sit," Morwen instructed, her gaze never leaving Anya.
Anya sank onto a stool near the fire, suddenly realizing how numb with cold and weariness she was. The warmth began to thaw her stiff muscles, but not the ice around her heart.
Morwen moved with surprising agility for her age, her white hair swaying like a curtain. She poured a steaming concoction from a clay pot into a wooden mug. The aroma was strong, a mix of mint and something bitter, yet strangely comforting. "Drink this. It will settle your body and your spirit."
Anya took the mug with trembling hands, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. She eyed the liquid suspiciously, but Morwen merely fixed her with that unnerving gaze. Trust, the witch seemed to convey, was not given, but sensed. After a moment, Anya took a tentative sip. It was potent, earthy, and immediately began to spread a soothing warmth through her veins, chasing away some of the gnawing fear. Even Lyra, deep within her, stirred faintly, a tiny sigh of relief.
"You ran far, little wren," Morwen finally said, settling into her armchair, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. "And from a great pain, if the echoes clinging to you are any indication."
Anya's breath hitched. "You... you know?"
"I know much," Morwen replied, her eyes briefly flicking to Anya's. "And I feel much. The snap of a mate bond is like the crack of lightning through the spirit. Hard to miss." She paused, her gaze turning back to the fire. "But even lightning can clear the air, child. Sometimes, what feels like an ending is merely a sharp turn onto a new path."
Anya clenched the mug, her knuckles white. "He said... he said I was tainted. Because of something from the past. I don't understand." Her voice was still thin, raspy from crying and disuse.
Morwen hummed, a low, ancient sound. "The Alpha of Stonehaven carries old wounds. He sees ghosts where there are only reflections. His fear is a shroud, blinding him to the truth. And to the rare spark within you, little one."
"Spark?" Anya scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "There's nothing but emptiness. My wolf... she won't even answer me."
Morwen's eyes finally met hers fully, piercing through Anya's despair with startling clarity. "Your wolf sleeps, wounded, but not broken. And the spark is not of the fated bond he so foolishly cast aside, but of something far older, far deeper within you. Something he, in his arrogance, could never perceive." The witch leaned forward, her gaze intense. "You possess a gift, Anya. One that could make you stronger than any Alpha. But only if you are willing to embrace it. Are you?"
Anya looked into the witch's knowing eyes, then down at her trembling hands. The witch's words, so unlike anything she'd ever heard, resonated with that newfound defiant spark. Stronger than any Alpha? Could that be true? After feeling so utterly powerless?
She had nothing left to lose. And a desperate, burning desire to understand, to be more than just the "timid" girl, the "rejected" mate.
Slowly, Anya nodded. "Yes," she whispered, her voice gaining a surprising strength. "Yes, I am."