Isolde
"Catch me if you can!" Fenrir's voice rang through the meadow, wild and teasing, before his laughter tumbled after it.
"You're too loud," Alaric hissed, darting between the tall grass. "Do you want the entire forest to hear you?"
"Maybe I do!" Fenrir shot back, his grin flashing like sunlight on water.
I tried to keep up, my dress snagging on the weeds. "If someone catches us," I puffed, half running, half tripping, "they'll—"
"They won't," Fenrir interrupted, glancing back at me with that reckless glint in his golden-brown eyes. "Not unless you scream louder than you're running, Isolde."
"I'm not screaming!" I said, planting my fists on my hips.
"Yes, you are," Alaric murmured. His voice was soft but sharp, like it always carried a warning. There was the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, though—like he was fighting a smile. "You're both screaming, even if you don't know it. I told you—we're being watched."
The way he said it made my stomach twist, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. "Then let them watch," I declared, dropping onto the grass. "We're not doing anything wrong."
Fenrir barked out a laugh and flopped down beside me, dirt streaking his knees. "Everything we're doing is wrong. That's why it's fun."
Alaric didn't sit. He lingered at the edge of the clearing, his dark eyes flicking toward the shadows of the trees as if he expected someone to step out at any moment. He always did that—like joy was something stolen, and the world was waiting to take it back.
The grass swayed around us, tall enough to hide our small shapes. My feet were damp from the riverbank, the scent of wildflowers heavy in the air. For a while, it was just us—breathing, laughing, whispering secrets no one else would ever hear.
Three children from three worlds—wolf, vampire, and human—breaking the one law that mattered most.mAnd though I tried to hide it, I loved it. I loved them. Even if one day, someone would make us pay for it.
"Tell me a story," I said after a while, leaning back on the grass. The sky above was a bright, endless blue, the kind that made me forget the walls of the human village, the sharp stares of the elders, and the warnings that whispered through every shadow.
Fenrir groaned, tossing a pebble into the river. "Stories are boring."
"They're not boring," I argued. "They're—"
"Dangerous," Alaric finished for me. He'd finally sat down, though not close—he never sat close. "Stories make you believe things that aren't real. And that's how you get hurt."
I frowned, plucking a blade of grass and twisting it between my fingers. "Not all stories."
Alaric tilted his head at me, eyes like polished obsidian, unblinking. "All stories."
"Not this one," I said quickly, before he could cut the air with more sharp words. "This one's about us. A story where a wolf, a vampire, and a human can sit in a meadow without anyone telling them it's wrong."
Fenrir's grin broke across his face again, brighter than the sun. "I like that story."
"It isn't real," Alaric muttered.
"Yet here we are," Fenrir shot back, stretching his arms behind his head like he'd won some grand argument. "You can't deny it. We're sitting here, aren't we?"
Alaric didn't answer. He never did when Fenrir challenged him like that.
I lay there between them, listening to the hush of the wind in the grass and the quiet thump of my own heartbeat. For a moment, it felt like Fenrir was right—that we'd stolen something precious from the world, and for as long as we held on to it, nothing could touch us.
But in the way Alaric's gaze kept sliding back to the trees, I knew better. This story was real now, but stories never stayed the same forever.
The meadow always felt like ours. A secret kingdom where rules couldn't reach, where the world wasn't divided into human, wolf, and vampire. But that didn't mean danger wasn't close.
"Do you think they'll ever find out?" I asked softly, plucking another piece of grass and tying it into knots.
"Who?" Fenrir rolled onto his side, chin propped in his palm. "Your village? My pack? His nest of bloodsuckers?"
Alaric stiffened, but he didn't rise to the insult. Not with me sitting between them.
"All of them," I said. "What if one day they—"
"They won't." Fenrir's voice was sharp, certain, as if he could chase away the fear with nothing but his tone. "And if they do, I'll fight them."
I looked at him, really looked. His smile was still there, but beneath it, I caught the flash of his wolf—the instinct to protect, to tear apart anything that threatened what he cared about.
Alaric spoke before I could. "And when they rip you apart for breaking their laws? What then?"
"Then I'll come back and bite them harder," Fenrir growled, baring his teeth in a grin.
I laughed, but Alaric didn't. His dark eyes were on me now, steady and cold. "It's not a joke, Isolde. If they catch you with us, it won't be Fenrir who pays first. It will be you."
The words landed heavy in my chest. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong—but I wasn't foolish. Humans didn't get mercy.
Fenrir sat up straighter, glaring at him. "Don't scare her."
"She should be scared," Alaric said quietly, his gaze never leaving mine. "Fear keeps people alive."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My throat was tight, my chest heavy, and all I could do was stare back at him. His face was calm, but his words… they were sharper than Fenrir's claws could ever be.
Still, I found myself whispering, "I'm not afraid of you."
Alaric blinked, something flickering in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper.
And then Fenrir laughed, throwing his arm around my shoulder like he could shield me from everything. "Good. Because no one gets to hurt you. Not him, not anyone."
For that moment, in the meadow, it almost felt true. Almost.
The sun was dipping lower, brushing the meadow in gold. Time always betrayed us. No matter how long we played, no matter how much we laughed, the light would fall and the shadows would remind us of who we were supposed to be.
"We should go," Alaric murmured, standing first. His movements were careful, precise, as if he were already older than the rest of us. "They'll notice if I'm gone much longer."
Fenrir groaned, flopping backward into the grass. "You always ruin it. Just a little longer."
But even he knew Alaric was right. We had already stolen too much time.
I hugged my knees to my chest, not ready to let the moment go. "Promise me," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Fenrir lifted his head. "Promise what?"
"That no matter what happens—no matter what they say about wolves or vampires or humans—we'll always find our way back here. To each other."
For once, Fenrir didn't laugh. He pushed himself upright and nodded, solemn in a way I rarely saw. "I promise."
Alaric hesitated. His dark eyes searched mine, unreadable shadows shifting behind them. For a heartbeat, I thought he would refuse. That he would tell me promises were foolish things, just like stories.
But then he said, softly, "I promise."
I smiled, a warmth blooming in my chest, as if the meadow itself had folded us into its arms. Three children bound by something stronger than rules, stronger than blood.
We sealed it the way children do—by pressing our hands together, palm to palm, a messy knot of fingers and dirt and small scars.
And I believed it then. Truly, I did. That nothing could ever break us. But time has sharp teeth. And promises… promises don't always survive growing up.