Her Enemy, His Curse

Arielle:

The market was alive today—louder, busier, and more dangerous than usual—which made it perfect for stealing anything.

But I didn’t have a choice.

The hunger was worse today—sharper and crueler. I clutched my stomach as it twisted on itself, hollow and aching like a rusted blade scraping bone. Each breath felt heavier, as if the air itself had weight, pressing me down while the scent of roasting meats and sugared fruits drifted through the crowd like a curse.

I kept my head low beneath my tattered cloak, slipping through bodies like smoke. I’d learned how to move without being seen. How to make myself forgettable. The cloak helped—it was too big, threadbare at the hem, and smelled like mildew and ash—but in a place like this, poor and invisible were sometimes the same thing.

Noble witches glided past me, their silk gowns rustling like leaves, their jeweled hands clutching polished parasols or crystal vials that shimmered with liquid magic. Velvet cloaks swept the cobblestones, and perfumes hung in the air like spells cast on the wind.

Their laughter—bright, lilting, untouched—rattled something inside me.

I tried not to look at the food. Really, I did. But the vendor’s cart was stacked high with fresh bread—still warm, steam curling faintly from the crust, golden and perfect. One bite would’ve been enough to quiet the beast gnawing at my ribs.

Just one loaf.

The merchant was distracted, arguing with a customer over the price of enchanted thyme. His round face was flushed and furious. His coin purse jangled as he gestured wildly, fat fingers flashing with cheap rings.

Opportunity whispered.

I moved closer, weaving between robes and boots, ignoring the press of magic thick in the air. My fingertips grazed the crust of the nearest loaf.

Smooth. Quiet. Quick.

The bread vanished beneath my cloak like it had always belonged there.

I turned to leave.

And then—

A hand closed around my wrist like iron.

I gasped as I was yanked backward, my hood falling. The sun hit my face and I froze.

“Thief!” the merchant roared, voice cracking with outrage. “Guards! Guards!”

My heart kicked into a sprint. I thrashed, tried to wrench free, but he was too strong. Too angry. Around us, heads turned. Gasps. Whispers. A child pointed. Someone laughed.

The red cloaks were already pushing through the crowd.

Witch guards.

Their armor gleamed—layered black leather etched with runes, crimson cloaks billowing behind them. Gold insignias glinted like curses on their chests. Power radiated from their boots as they stomped toward me, magic gathering in tight fists.

Not again.

I kicked the merchant’s shin—hard enough to hear him yelp—but it only earned me a sharper grip. Two guards grabbed me from behind, dragging me down to my knees. My cloak twisted, arms pinned.

"Street rats like you never learn," one snarled, twisting my arm behind my back until my shoulder shrieked.

“It was just bread!” I choked. “Please—I’m starving.”

The second one laughed. “Then die hungry,” he said, as if it were a mercy.

My fingers clenched around the stolen loaf, still hidden in my cloak. Pathetic. A crime of survival, and they’d still rather see me bleed for it.

“She stole under protective wards,” the merchant said, voice puffed with pride. “I demand full punishment. She’s marked for conscription.”

Everything stilled.

Conscription.

The word was a blade.

Not prison.

Not lashes.

Not even the gallows.

The guard’s grin widened, slow and cruel. “A fitting punishment,” he said.

“No—” I began, but a hand shoved my head down until I tasted the stone.

I’d heard of the Warborn Accord in whispers—always whispers, never shouts. No one wanted to speak of it too loudly. It was a law passed in shadow, forged in the blood of criminals, rebels, orphans. If you were of age and convicted of any crime… You weren’t jailed. You were claimed.

Shipped off to Warborn Academy.

Where witches and werewolves were trained as weapons. Together.

The thought alone made my stomach churn.

They marched me through the market with my arms twisted behind me like a captured beast. Bystanders gawked as I passed—some sneered, others just turned away.

But some stared too long. Recognition flickered in their eyes. Not just pity.

Thornbrook.

The name still carried weight, even if it had long since rotted.

The war drums started just as we left the square—low, pounding, ancient. Not near, but close enough to remind me where I was going.

Where I now belonged.

The tower loomed ahead like a shadow swallowing the sun—black stone spiked with iron, each slab etched with runes that glowed faintly beneath the guard’s touch. The doors opened at their command.

Inside, it was colder than the street.

The High Council chamber.

Seven figures stood above the dais, blood-red robes pooled around them like rivers. I barely saw them. My gaze locked on her.

High Priestess Morganna.

She sat in the center, a crown of bone and garnet coiled in her ink-dark hair, her emerald eyes sharp enough to flay skin from bone.

The guard spoke, but I barely heard it.

“Your name?” she asked.

I swallowed hard. “Arielle Thornbrook.”

There was a pause—long enough to make my stomach flip.

Then she smiled.

“Thornbrook. Once of noble blood. Now, gutter filth.”

I straightened my spine, refusing to flinch. If she wanted to see fear, she’d have to look elsewhere.

“You’ve been found guilty,” she said, bored already.

“But the Council has no use for more prisoners. Our kingdom requires soldiers.”

I didn’t breathe.

Soldiers.

The Accord.

She continued, each word dropping like stones. “By decree of the Warborn Accord, all criminals of age shall serve the realm at Warborn Academy. You will be trained for battle alongside your… counterparts.”

She waited.

Then:

“Werewolves.”

The world fell silent.

Werewolves.

Monsters. Beasts. The ones who slaughtered my kind. The ones who started this war. The ones I’d been raised to hate.

And now I was going to live beside them?

Train beside them?

Bleed beside them?

“No…” I whispered, too soft to matter.

Morganna smiled like a wolf.

“You’ll serve the realm, street rat. Or you’ll die trying.”

The guards grabbed me again, dragging me backward through the chamber. My boots scraped stone, my mind already spinning.

Conscription.

Academy.

Warborn.

Werewolves.

The doors slammed behind me with a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

Somewhere beyond the tower, a transport waited.

It would take me out of the city. From the only life I’d known.

To war.

To wolves.

To whatever came next.

And no matter what I wanted, I was already theirs.