Eating the cold breakfast
The fourth night came colder than the rest.
Frost kissed the edges of fallen leaves, and the wind turned sharp, laced with the bite of coming snow.
Liora didn't light a fire.
She had stopped needing its comfort. The hunger in her belly no longer gnawed, it had become something quieter. A companion. A reminder. Not of weakness, but of will. She moved through the woods like a shadow now, no longer bothering to mask her scent. No one followed.
Not yet.
But something called to her.
It threaded through the branches above, curled between tree roots below, spoke in a voice without words. In the hush between footsteps. In the ache behind her ribs. It was in the wind. In the bones of the trees. In the way the moon shifted, just slightly, toward an unfamiliar part of the sky like it had turned its eye toward her.
She followed it.
The path twisted where it shouldn't. Deeper. Older. Into a place no map remembered and no prey dared. The air thickened with silence. Even the owls held their breath.
The glade she entered didn't exist in her memory, though the land had once been hers to roam. The trees bent away from the center, as if some great force had pressed outward from a single, ancient breath. The ground was soft with moss, undisturbed, though no animal scent lingered. No crushed fern. No broken twig.
Sacred. Or forsaken.
That's where she found him.
The Elder sat on a stone that hadn't been warm in centuries, draped in a cloak of crow feathers and smoke-gray fur. His beard was coarse as bark, and his eyes were cataract-pale, milky and unmoving yet somehow piercing, as if they saw through her, around her, and far beyond.
"You came," he said.
Liora froze. She hadn't made a sound.
"Do I know you?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
"No. But I knew you'd come." He didn't smile. "They always do. The ones who walk away full of fire."
She stepped forward, cautious, her wolf just beneath the skin, watchful, uncertain.
"Who are you?"
"A keeper. A witness." His fingers drummed once on the stone. "You can call me Marlek. It's all that's left of me anyway."
"I didn't come for riddles."
"Didn't you?" He tilted his head, bird-like. "Then why did your wolf lead you here?"
Liora's breath caught.
Her wolf had been restless since she left Bloodfang. Not mournful. Not broken. Just… seeking. Nights when sleep eluded her, it paced behind her ribs. Howling without sound. Waiting without knowing why.
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. But you want something from me." He reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a small wooden bowl. Its contents were strange, ash, root shavings, something darker, glistening faintly in the moonlight.
"You want to make him pay."
Her jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know revenge when it walks in with blood on its breath." The Elder looked at her like a storm might, not afraid, but measuring. "You're not the first. You won't be the last."
Liora's hand curled into a fist. "Then help me. If you've helped others, help me."
"I didn't say I helped them. I said I saw them."
"I don't need a witness." Her voice dropped to a snarl. "I need power."
Silence fell.
The kind that thickens the air. The kind that waits for something to break.
Then:
"Power always comes at a cost."
"I've already paid."
The Elder rose slowly, joints creaking like old bark. "No. You've only made a down payment."
He turned and moved through the trees like mist unraveling. Liora hesitated, then followed.
They came to a circle of stones, half-buried in dirt and time. At its center: a stump carved with runes older than the Bloodfang name. The moonlight bent strangely here, forming arcs instead of angles.
"Sit."
She hesitated. "What is this?"
"A choice," the Elder said. "This is where you stop being a wronged girl and become something else. Something older. Something feared."
"I'm already feared."
"Not by the one who cast you out."
The words struck her like a thrown blade. Her jaw clenched. She sat.
The Elder knelt and lit the bowl. Smoke rose, spiraling. Sweet, acrid, ancient. Like forgotten prayers and old blood.
"Breathe."
She obeyed.
The smoke coiled into her lungs like memory. The world blurred. Tilted. Her wolf recoiled, then leaned in, hungering.
Visions struck her like lightning:
Gonzalo's face. The sharp betrayal in his eyes.
His blood on her hands.
But also,
A crown made of bone.
A child's scream, distant but piercing.
The moon, cracked and bleeding silver.
Liora gasped, jerking away.
"What was that?"
"Possibility," the Elder said. "One of many. But it waits for you. Hungers for you."
"I don't want visions. I want strength."
"Then take it." He drew a thin dagger from his belt, its blade was black, like obsidian drenched in oil. It glistened unnaturally. "Blood answers blood. If you want the old strength, you must bind yourself to it."
Liora stared at the blade.
"What do I give?"
He met her gaze, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes, sorrow, warning, or both.
"Whatever part of you still hopes."
She took the knife.
Her hand did not tremble.
She dragged the blade across her palm the pain was immediate, but distant. Like it belonged to someone else. She let her blood fall onto the carved stump.
The ground shifted.
The moss recoiled. The runes glowed faintly. And something ancient stirred beneath her feet. It wasn't good. It wasn't evil.
It was raw. Unshaped. Infinite.
And it knew her name.
The Elder smiled, just slightly. Not with joy. But with recognition.
"It's begun."
Liora stood. The wound in her palm burned, then closed, not with scar tissue, but with symbol: a pale crescent, like a second moon branded into her skin.
She looked down at it.
Then toward the trees, where vengeance waited like a beast chained too long.
"I'll make him bleed," she said.
The Elder turned away, already vanishing into shadow.
"No," he said without looking back.
"You'll make him beg first."
Liora stayed in the circle long after he was gone.
The wind no longer called her Liora the banished.
It whispered something else.
Liora the becoming.