Every morning, Gisela rose before the sun, moving through her healer's hut with heavy limbs. She ground herbs with more force than necessary, the pestle pounding into the mortar until her fingers ached.
Once, this work had been her sanctuary, the place she found peace. Now it felt like shackles, her skills reduced to a dowry, her very hands bartered away in a bargain she had never agreed to.
By midday, the village stirred with whispers. Iron Woods thrived on gossip, and ever since Hagen declared her his betrothed, tongues had worked faster than any loom.
"She should be grateful," one woman said as Gisela passed, her arms heavy with bundles of sage.
"At last, someone to claim the healer," another added with a snort.
"She'll bear him many strong sons."
"Or curse him like her mother before her."
Gisela kept her head bowed, biting her lips to prevent herself from speaking. She had learned long ago that defiance only fed the fire. But inside, her heart beat like a trapped bird against its bars.
And worst of all, Renard avoided her eyes. At Astrid's side, she saw him often enough, laughing, whispering, and touching his betrothed with the same hands that had once held her. The memory of his promises haunted her more than the gossip, a wound that never closed.
The man who once professed his love to her now barely acknowledged her existence. When their eyes met, his expression faltered, his eyes flickering with guilt. But then he turned back to Astrid, as though Gisela had been a shadow in his past and nothing more.
Her thoughts drifted to Hagen. At least he was honest in his pursuit. He appeared at her hut each evening, sometimes bringing pelts she did not need, sometimes carved trinkets in the shape of wolves, sometimes just standing silently as though his mere presence was enough.
"You will grow used to me," he said once, his voice thick with pride. "A wife learns in time. My mother fought my father every day, but she bore him eight children in the end."
Gisela forced a smile, the kind that strained at the edges. She did not fight him. Fighting would make him angry, due to the type of man he is. Silence was easier. Silence was safer.
Yet the silence at night was unbearable. When she finally closed her eyes, sleep offered no peace. Dreams came—dark and a sorrowful howl echoing in her ears, and eyes like burning fire. The same dream, night after night, until she began to fear closing her eyes at all.
By the fourth day, she could hardly breathe. Every step she took felt heavier. Every glance burned. Every word pressed down on her like another stone in her cage.
***
SKOLLHEIM
Far to the north, where frost clawed at the bones of the earth, Fenrir stood on the cliffs of Skollheim.
The pack had grown wary. Their whispers followed him through the stone halls. Cursed, tainted, born of prophecy. A son of wolves who brings only ruin.
Fenrir bore their stares in silence, but inside, the storm raged.
Since Theobald's warning by the purple fire, he had not known peace. The scent of the stranger, the name Elsbeth, the strange stirring in his blood—none of it would release him.
At night, he prowled the halls, unable to sleep. He dreamed of faces too, but unlike the pack's nightmares, his visions pulled him south, tugging him toward lands beyond Skollheim.
He closed his eyes now, standing at the cliff's edge. The wind blew wildly, but beneath it, he heard something else. A sob, the sound of a heartbeat, faint but real. However, it wasn't his own. It was a stranger's despair. A cry carried through the tether of something older than prophecy.
Fenrir's jaw tightened, his hand curving into a fist. He did not know her name. He did not know her face. But he knew this. She was bound, shackled by chains he could not yet see, and her sorrow called to him as the moon calls to the tide.
For the first time in years, he felt something he'd never felt. A bond.
***
IRON WOODS
That night, Gisela lit her hearth late, too weary to eat, too restless to lie down. She stared into the flames until her vision blurred, the weight in her chest pressing harder with her every breath.
Outside, the village was quiet. Hagen would not come tonight—he had gone hunting. Renard would be with Astrid as usual. Gisela was left alone, except for the dream.
When the flames flickered, she swore she saw them shift, elongating, curling, and forming the outline of a wolf's face. Its eyes glowed with strange intensity, dark and endless, locked on hers.
She gasped, stumbling back, her hand clutched to her chest. For a moment, the fire seemed alive, reaching for her, pulling her closer every second. Its glow sharpened into teeth, into fur, into a presence that did not belong in this world.
Suddenly, it vanished, with whatever came with it, making her conscious of herself again.
"What just happened?" Gisela blurted out in fright, her eyes wide with shock as she glanced around the room.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. And in that instant, she felt a presence beyond the fire, beyond the village, beyond everything she knew. The air felt still. She could feel strange eyes on her; she could hear the growls again.
"Boris," she called in a whisper. But unfortunately, the spirit didn't respond.
Gisela gripped the edge of her table, her knuckles white. She whispered the spirit's name again, louder this time, her throat tightening.
"Boris."
Still, there's no answer. Suddenly, something slammed against her door. Her heart lurched, and she froze instantly, straining to listen. No one was supposed to be there at that time. The villagers rarely visited her hut at night, not unless in need of healing. And this—this was not a knock for aid.
The third strike rattled the frame, and she let out a sharp cry. Whoever it was, they weren't asking for entry—they meant to break it down.
Gisela scrambled backward, her hand flying to the small iron dagger her aunt had once pressed into her palm. The door shuddered again, and the latch splintered.
She lifted the dagger with trembling hands, her mind torn between running and standing her ground. However, she forced herself to stand still, her gaze fixed intently at the door, while her heart pounded loudly in her ears.