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CHAPTER 103: The Waiting Hunger
Last Updated:
2025-09-11 07:05:09
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THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 125: The Wolves’ Road
Dawn thickened into gold. Light slipped through the canopy in broken bits which made warm spots in the hollow. The fire‑scars glowed. Black roots had green shoots, twisted branches softened with moss, stones were still warm. The forest didn't look healed but it looked awake.The wolves did as well. Their howls changed as the sun rose and were no longer a warning or watch. They called now, a low long note, that climbed up into the ridges, rolled, eastward. The sound tugged at me, low in my bones, like a string connecting my chest to the horizon.Kieran heard it too. He glanced across the mountains, and in the dawn dark storms were coming. “It begins.”The girl froze where she sat, clinging closer to herself. “Begins? You mean you're really going to leave? Her voice was cracked, even more delicate than the moss. I looked at her face and my heart contracted. She was younger than I had anticipated. The ashes, the fear, the shadows in her eyes - they had aged her too fast. She had spent to
THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 124: The Weight of Dawn
The night was breaking slowly, as if not willing to release its grip. A gray hush crept through the canopy, softening the edges of the roots, the scars, the new shoots trembling up. The empty space that had once been a cage now lay bare and exposed for the first time in centuries, breathing.But liberty was more weighty than chains.I felt it against my shoulder blades as the ember in my chest burned, agitated, calling, relentlessly. Kieran stood at my side, his fire dim now but constant, as if it too had chosen not to burn everything away, but stay a hearth instead of a storm. The girl sat at the edge of the hollow, hugging her knees, her eyes large and rimmed red with smoke and tears. She didn’t speak, neither did I.The wolves spoke. Screeches again came from the ridges, less loud, threaded with some sort of warning. They weren’t celebrating. They were watching and waiting. Guardians of their own kind.Kieran was the first to break the silence. "When dawn arrives, we will not be a
THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 123: The Echoes of Chains
The air in the hollowness changed again, not with fire this time, not with ash but with listening. As if all branches, every sprout of moss, every wolf beyond the canopy had quietened to listen to what we would choose next.I could almost feel the pressure of their waiting pressing against my chest.Kieran slowly rose, the light of the ember shimmering around him like a mantle. The girl scrambled to her feet behind us, still staring as if she was not sure if she should bow or run. I couldn’t blame her. Part of me wanted to bow too. Another part wanted to drag him back down, to hold him until I was sure he was still the boy and not only the fire.His voice broke the silence, steady with something huge. “The Root-Heart is gone. Its hold shattered. But this forest is not the only one scarred.My breath caught. “You mean… there are others.”He nodded once, slow. "Roots go deeper than we knew. We didn't have just one empty, one prison here. It was the oldest but not the only.The girl gas
THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 122: The Scars of Roots
The howls of the wolves died somewhere in the canopy, and were echoed along a ridge or two, which I was not able to see. They continued to chant even after the hollow had been taken back by silence, as the last ring of a bell that was still vibrating in the air.None of us had moved for a long time. The girl was leant against the wall, and her chest sank and rose like it were hours that she had been running. The fire around Kieran was flickering, and no longer violent, nor blazing, but constant as though the spark were beginning to sleep. And me… I was torn between amazement and terror.The forest was alive. But it was also broken.New growths had been thrust everywhere through ash, green through black. But the fire had not left scars behind it. Splendid roots are torn open, zapped by centuries. Branches got entangled in hideous knots, so twisted that they will never be able to unravel.The disease had been burnt away by the fire, yes, but just like the fire it had left wounds.This
THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 121: What Survives
The silence after fire was not empty.It was full.The hollow no longer groaned with rot, no longer pressed with suffocation, no longer carried the Root-Heart’s voice gnawing against marrow. Instead, it pulsed with something quieter, steadier, the hush of a forest remembering how to breathe.Ash drifted like slow snow. Each flake shimmered, caught in the rising light, before it sank into soil and vanished. Where it landed, moss stirred, vines reached, saplings unfurled tiny fingers of green. Life was not waiting, it was already coming back, cautious but insistent, the way wounds stitch themselves closed when the bleeding finally stops.The air still smelled of smoke, sharp and bitter, but underneath it something else stirred; rain, earth, resin, the scent of things mending.But the forest was not the only thing changed.Kieran stood before me, still wreathed in white fire. Yet the longer I looked, the less it looked like fire at all. It no longer flared or consumed, it drifted, soften
THE LAST SHIFT: A Werewolf without a Wolf CHAPTER 120: The Breath of the Forest
The dawn did not wait for us.It poured through the ruptured ceiling in rivers of light, striking the hollow’s ash until every grain shimmered like embers cooling on a hearth. The air smelled of both smoke and rain, scorched ruin and newborn earth. It was dissonant, fragile as though the world itself wasn’t sure yet whether it had died or been reborn.The forest exhaled.Branches high above cracked like bones being set right, groaning as they bent toward the sun. Leaves quivered, brittle at first, then softened with green as sap surged back into them. The ground heaved beneath us, roots loosening their grip, no longer strangling stone but releasing it.Kieran’s fire flared in response. Not as an attack, or as destruction, but as a language. The white blaze around us thinned, stretched, poured itself like threads of light into the cracks of bark, into the marrow of roots that had been blackened with the Root-Heart’s poison. Where it touched, rot receded. Where it lingered, life returne
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