The Wildwoods were unlike any forest known to men or wolves. The air felt alive here, filled with old whispers and soft songs carried by unseen winds. The trees were ancient; their roots twisted like coiled serpents. Their branches were thick with moss and silver leaves that shimmered in the shadows. Every step deeper felt like entering another world, a place that had forgotten the sun.
Among those trees lived Elaria Thorn, the last witch of the Wildwoods. At least, that was what the villagers said, though no one ventured close enough to find out for sure. Some claimed she could turn men into beasts; others whispered that she spoke to the dead. But the truth was simpler, quieter, and lonelier. Elaria had not spoken to another soul in years.
That morning, she moved slowly through her cottage, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor. Her small home was built into the roots of an enormous oak. The walls were lined with shelves of herbs, glowing crystals, and jars filled with liquids that shimmered like starlight. The faint light of dawn slipped through cracks in the ceiling, painting her pale hands gold as she crushed dried petals in a mortar.
The world outside might have forgotten her, but Elaria had not forgotten it. Every sound—the distant howls from the packs and every rumor carried by the wind—reminded her of what she had lost. Her people, her coven, her mother, who died under a hunter's blade. The wolves had taken everything.
Yet, even now, something inside her resisted hating them completely. An odd, invisible pull kept her heart restless whenever the moon rose high.
She sighed and pushed the thought away. Emotions could be dangerous for a witch. They gave magic its strength, but they also gave curses their bite. She had learned that lesson the hard way.
Outside, the forest shifted. Birds went silent. The air thickened, and the runes carved into her door began to glow faintly, warning her that someone or something had crossed into her land.
Elaria straightened and brushed her long silver hair over one shoulder. Her green eyes darkened as she whispered an old charm under her breath. A faint circle of light appeared on the floor—a protection spell.
She stepped outside.
Mist curled around the trees like breath. The morning had quieted, too quiet. She could feel the disturbance—not from a wild animal, but from something powerful. Something broken.
Then she saw him.
A man stood at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by fog and shadows. His clothes were torn, his face streaked with mud and rain, but his presence filled the forest like thunder. His silver eyes, sharp even in the dim light, locked onto hers.
For a heartbeat, Elaria forgot to breathe.
There was something about him that made her magic stir—wild, confused, curious. But just as quickly, she masked it with cold calm. "You shouldn't be here," she said softly, her tone strong. "The woods don't welcome your kind."
The man didn't move. "I didn't come to be welcomed," he replied, his voice low and rough. "I came for help."
She almost laughed. "Help? From a witch?"
He stepped forward, his boots crunching over fallen leaves. "They say you can lift curses."
"They say many things." Her gaze hardened. "Most of them are lies."
The man didn't flinch. His stare was steady, filled with something deeper—desperation, maybe pride, maybe both. "Then tell me if this is one." He pulled aside the collar of his shirt, revealing a dark mark across his chest—a crescent moon shape that glowed faintly under his skin.
The sight made her freeze. That mark… she recognized it. She had seen it long ago in a book her mother forbade her to read. The Mark of Binding—a curse that linked two fates through pain and memory. It wasn't just a punishment; it was a mark of destiny.
"Where did you get that?" she whispered, her voice suddenly small.
His jaw tightened. "From a witch," he said. "One who wanted me to pay for sins I don't remember committing."
Elaria's hands trembled slightly before she hid them behind her back. "And you think I would undo the work of one of my own?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "I think you know what it's like to live cursed."
The words struck her harder than she expected. For a second, she saw her past—the flames, the screams, the night her coven fell. She swallowed hard and turned away. "You should leave before the forest decides to end you."
"I'm not leaving," he said firmly. "Not until you help me."
Something in his voice—the stubbornness and quiet plea beneath it—made her pause. She turned back to him slowly. "You don't even know who I am."
"I don't need to," he said. "All I know is that you're my last chance."
They stared at each other for a long, heavy moment—two strangers standing between hate and fate. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the faint howl of wolves from far away.
Finally, Elaria sighed. "If I agree to look at your curse," she said, her tone sharp but uncertain, "you'll follow my rules. You won't step beyond my wards, you won't draw blood in this forest, and you won't lie to me."
He nodded slowly. "And what do you ask in return?"
"Your truth," she said simply. "Every secret behind that mark."
His silver eyes glinted, unreadable. "Then we have a deal."
Elaria felt a cold shiver run through her as the forest responded—a faint hum in the air, like magic sealing their words. She wasn't sure why she had agreed. Something about him felt wrong and dangerous, yet oddly familiar.
As she turned back toward her cottage, she heard him follow. The mist thickened around them, and the forest whispered in old tongues. Somewhere deep inside her chest, her heart began to beat faster—not from fear, but from recognition.
She didn't know yet that the man walking behind her wasn't just cursed by a witch. He was cursed because of her.