Chapter 2: The Witch That Wouldn't Die.

Maeve.

The cuffs were so tight. My wrists hurt terribly. They were no longer bleeding, but my skin still peeled whenever I moved. One ankle was half-swollen from when they kicked it yesterday. Or was it the day before? I lost track of days in this pit.

Laughter drifted in from the guards.

“She doesn’t look like much now, does she?”

“Bet she’s regretting whatever curse she laid.”

“She’s nothing but a filthy little witch.”

Their words scratched along the stone walls, sharp as claws.

But I didn’t lift my head. If I gave them my eyes, they’d win.

The air changed. Heavier. And just like that, silence fell.

Footsteps. Heels clicking. A scent I knew before I saw her.

The guards dropped to their knees. “Luna.”

My head jerked up against my will.

Alia.

Every part of her was polished, gleaming, perfect. A gold pin glittered on her chest. She looked down at me like I was something stuck under her shoe.

“So. The bitch is still breathing.” Her lips curved in a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Why hasn’t Johan made the call yet? Why is her head still on her cursed shoulders?”

Another voice slipped in — Lucy. Always in her shadow. “Beta Roy said… they’re looking for another way. To break the curse without killing her.”

My heart stuttered.

Alia’s eyes flared. The vial in her hand smashed to the ground. Glass shattered, liquid pooling.

“What kind of trash is Roy pulling?” Her voice shook with rage. “I clawed my way here. Fought. Pretended to love him. And now, a mutt like you gets in my way?”

Her eyes burned holes straight through me.

Something cracked in my chest. The priest’s words — witch, curse, Lunari — they weren’t his.

They were hers.

I didn’t cry. Not for her. Not anymore.

Alia stepped closer, her perfume suffocating, her breath hot against my face. “What?” she hissed. “Got something to say? Should I rip it out for you?”

Her hand twitched toward my jaw, but Lucy caught her wrist. “We have to go. His mother’s waiting.”

Alia hissed, cloak snapping behind her as she turned.

Their footsteps faded. Silence rushed back in.

I stared at the place where she stood, where her lies wrapped around my throat tighter than any shackle. My jaw locked. I bit down so hard blood filled my mouth.

Rage was all I had left. Rage, and the burn of knowing the truth.

I’d wait. I’d bleed. But I wouldn’t break.

…

Hours slipped by.

Then the door slammed open like thunder.

And Johan stormed in.

His boots hit the floor hard, each step a war drum.

“Get the fuck out of my way, Roy!”

“Johan, wait—!”

My wolf whimpered, curled tight beneath my ribs. The bond flared alive, snarling, funneling his rage straight into my bones. My own pulse staggered, syncing to his fury.

He shoved past his beta and came straight for me.

The grip came first — his hand slamming around my throat, chains rattling as he yanked me up like I was weightless.

“You think I’m a fucking joke?” His spit hit my cheek. “You think you can curse me—curse this pack—and walk out alive?”

My back slammed against the bars, steel cutting into my spine. My feet dangled, wrist twisted in the shackle.

“I gave it three days,” Johan snarled. “Three. Fucking. Days.”

His fist drove into my ribs.

Once.

Twice.

Too many times to count.

“You ruined me!” His voice cracked with rage. “They whisper I’m cursed. They doubt my bloodline. All because of you!”

Pain crawled through every bone. My breath shattered into gasps, copper flooding my mouth. His boot caught my side, folding me in two.

He didn’t stop. He pinned me to the ground, knees crushing my arms, weight crushing my chest, hands around my throat. My vision blurred, spots popping at the edges.

I clawed at his wrist, nails snapping bloody. My lungs screamed for air. My body screamed for life.

I didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not for something I didn’t do.

The words burst out, raw, desperate. “It’s not me!” My voice broke. “It’s Alia. I heard her—I swear it’s her. She made the priest do it. She lied to you, Johan. She cursed you, not me!”

For a second, he froze.

His grip loosened. His eyes widened, like my words had actually reached him.

My chest heaved, air clawing back into me. Did he believe me?

But then—

His laugh tore through the dungeon, wild and sharp. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes blazing like wildfire.

“You hear that, Roy?” he barked, throwing his head back. “Now Alia’s the villain? Still spinning lies, huh?” His gaze snapped down, pinning me like a blade. “You really are a witch.”

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t fight when the guards stormed in. Didn’t scream as their hands clamped around my arms, dragging me out. My bare feet scraped stone, gravel cutting skin.

The night air stabbed my eyes as they shoved me into the open.

And the crowd was waiting.

“Burn the witch!”

“Kill her!”

“Drown her!”

Rocks and fists came from every side. A stone split my brow, blood running hot down my jaw. My arms wrenched behind me, pulled tighter.

Faces. Familiar faces. Wolves I had served food to, scrubbed floors for. They screamed for my death, and not one looked twice.

Not one.

Tears slid down, not for fear, but because it felt like the goddess herself had abandoned me.

The mob surged. The priest stepped forward, staff raised. “We’ll finish it deep in the forest. Under the moonlight, where the goddess can see. Where the bond can finally be severed.”

The guards seized me harder, jerking me forward.

The mob parted like water, torches blazing.

And they dragged me into the trees.

The forest swallowed me whole. Torches flickered against the bark, shadows leaping like demons. My body was dragged, shoved, tripped — every step pulling me closer to the end.

The priest raised his staff, chanting words that burned in my ears. The mob’s voices tangled with his — “Kill her! Burn her!”

They shoved me to my knees before a tree, rough bark scraping my cheek. My wrists were forced behind the trunk, rope biting deep into skin.

“By the goddess,” the priest intoned, “we cut her from the bond, cut her from our blood, and return her to ash.”

Johan stood before me, arms folded, face carved from stone. His eyes locked on mine, merciless.

The knife flashed.

“No—” My scream ripped out of me as the blade slid into my stomach.

Heat. Pain. Blood flooding down my thighs.

The crowd roared.

Another knife. My side.

Another. My chest.

Over and over until I couldn’t count.

My body shuddered, each wound ripping me further from myself. My wolf thrashed, then went silent.

The ropes slackened as I slumped forward. The earth rose to meet me, cold and wet, swallowing my blood.

The chanting blurred, voices muffled. The torches dimmed. The world pulled away.

And then—

The silence broke.

A pulse surged through me. Not mine. Not Johan’s. Something older. Darker. My veins lit with fire. My lungs dragged air back in like I’d never breathed before.

The wounds… they closed. Not clean. Not perfect. But enough.

I opened my eyes.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone screamed, “The witch lives!”

I lifted my head. Blood still dripped from my mouth, but I smiled. My voice came out low, broken, and unholy.

“You should’ve made sure I stayed dead.”

Johan’s face paled.

The mob stepped back, torches trembling in their hands.

And then—one boy, wide-eyed, barely sixteen—whispered loud enough for them all to hear:

“Goddess help us… she’s cursed.”