Chapter 3

The dream was soft at first—just sunlight, lavender and warmth.

Sophia’s laughter echoed in the distance, a high, lilting sound that used to fill their home. Evelyn turned toward it, bare feet skimming cool grass, her arms open. The sky above was endless twilight, and the stars whispered her name like a song. Her heart full of love and Sophia, her beautiful baby girl.

Then the ground cracked beneath her, and the scent of lavender turned to metallic tinged blood.

Sophia’s voice went silent.

And Evelyn fell, screaming, into darkness.

She woke choking on her own sob.

The room was dim, the air warm but thick with smoke and herbs. Her skin was sticky with sweat, and her body throbbed in deep, punishing waves of pain. She gasped, blinking rapidly, heart racing like a trapped animal.

“Easy now.”

The voice was dry as dust and steady as stone.

A figure moved into view, stooped but sharp-eyed, with a thick braid of silver hair and a mug cradled in both hands. She looked like she’d been carved from the earth itself—weathered, cracked, but still standing. A woman wise beyond her years.

“You’re safe,” the woman said, setting the mug down beside her. “For now.”

Evelyn tried to sit up. A shock of pain roared through her side, and her vision spun.

The woman pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Your ribs were shattered. Don’t be stupid. Lie back down and rest.”

Evelyn stilled.

“How long?” she rasped.

“Five days since I pulled your bloody carcass out of the rain,” the woman said bluntly. “You almost bled out on my doorstep. If I’ve found you any later, I might not of been able to heal your wounds myself.”

Evelyn’s lips trembled. “I didn’t mean to survive.”

Silence settled like dust in the room.

The woman gave a slow, almost pitying nod. “I know. But the Goddess did. I can see the threads of fate have woven around you deeply, you will not die until it is your time my dear.”

She carried on to introduce herself, her name was Aleta, though she hadn’t offered it at first. The old seer had a reputation, even in the outer villages—too many people feared her gaze, said she knew death before it came, said she heard the thoughts of the forest and the whispers of the moon goddess.

Evelyn didn’t care about the rumors.

She only cared about the pain that refused to loosen its grip on her chest.

She stayed in the back room of the cottage, her body wrapped in linen and bitter-scented poultices. Each breath reminded her of teeth and claws. Of warriors snarling through the trees. Of blood.

And beneath it all—Sophia’s eyes, slowly dimming.

Evelyn rarely spoke those first few days. She didn’t eat unless Aleta forced her. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just existed, hollow and silent, like a cracked cup that refused to shatter.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her daughter’s body.

Still warm. Still small.

Gone.

And Adrian’s voice, echoing in the back of her mind:

“That pup would’ve ruined this pack.”

Rage simmered, coiled low like a snake waiting to strike. It had nowhere to go—not yet. So it festered. Poisonous. Heavy.

Sometimes Aleta would sit beside her and hum while she ground herbs. Sometimes she would touch Evelyn’s forehead and mutter things in the old tongue.

Once, Evelyn asked, “Why do you keep helping me?”

Aleta looked up from her mortar. “Because you still have work to do.”

The healing came slowly.

Her body resisted. Her heart refused.

But her wolf—bruised and buried deep—wanted to live. Wanted to fight. And some nights, in the space between sleep and dream, Evelyn could feel her.

Dark fur. Silent steps. Breath fogging the stars.

And always… always watching. Waiting in the background.

On the seventh day, Aleta opened the door and said, “Time to walk.”

Evelyn laughed bitterly. “I can’t even breathe without crying.”

“All the more reason to move your legs before they forget what they’re for.”

Evelyn tried to argue. Her ribs screamed. Her stitches tugged.

But she went.

They walked slowly, Evelyn leaning on a carved cane. The forest was still damp with old rain, and the wind smelled like autumn. Her breath caught at the sight of the trees—so much like her home woods. But colder. Harsher. More feral.

They reached a small rise, and Aleta pointed.

Below them was a crooked little village—mossy roofs, pale smoke from chimneys, a river winding along its edge.

And at the corner, near the cobbled square, a crooked red-brick building with a peeling sign and open shutters.

Evelyn caught a whiff of something warm and familiar.

Cinnamon. Flour.

A bakery.

That night, she sat by Aleta’s fire and stared into the flames until her eyes burned.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” she whispered at last. “I don’t even remember it. I just—lost control.”

Aleta stirred a pot of broth. “What did she take from you?”

“Everything,” Evelyn whispered. “My mate. My home. My daughter.”

“Then let the guilt go,” Aleta said. “Let the fire take it. You’ve got bigger things to carry. You will one day see this is just a tiny part of your story.”

Evelyn’s fingers curled tight around the quilt Aleta had given her.

Her voice was barely a breath.

“I want him to suffer.”

Aleta’s eyes met hers.

And for the first time, Evelyn saw something sharp behind them.

“Then live long enough to make him.”

Time passed.

A week became two.

Her wounds began to close, though they ached with every movement. Her hair grew dull and knotted. Her clothes—still bloodstained—hung loose from the weight she’d lost.

But her eyes sharpened.

And her voice, once silent, began to return.

Aleta brought her into town one morning—quietly, under a hood. Tomas, the village baker, needed help. His wife had died last winter, and he was falling behind. He would pay her room and board if she was to work in the bakery.

Evelyn said nothing. Just nodded.

The scent of flour and fire drifted through the open door.

Evelyn looked at the oven. The bread rising. The heat blooming.

Maybe this would be enough.

For now.