All Chapters of Witch Among Wolves - The Alpha's Enemy Bride: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The hall has settled into a kind of cautious routine: the revenant is no longer the terror at the threshold but a guest no one quite knows how to greet. There’s a ring of salt around Fyre’s cot, and the witches come and go with offerings of tea, soup, and old songs. I watch, wary but curious, as the revenant kneels beside Fyre, who lies propped up on rag-stuffed pillows, her breath thin but peaceful for the first time in days.It—he, now, perhaps—speaks in low, lilting tones, telling Fyre stories of old times and older places. Of nights when the moon was red and wolves danced in the snow, of witches who wove their hearts into stones to keep their people safe. Fyre listens, eyelids fluttering, sometimes offering a story in return: of her childhood in the wild lands, of her daughter’s laughter (Aradia, though she does not name her), of mistakes she wishes she could undo.The more they speak, the more the revenant seems to change. Shadows gather and swirl, but his form becomes clearer: t

The letter arrives at dawn, carried by a storm-battered hawk and sealed with the spiraled sigil of the southern cabal. Rowan breaks the wax with a thumb, his eyes narrowing as he reads in the half-light.The Hollowing has returned. The Herald walks openly now—too many villages gone, too many wards shattered. If hope remains, it comes from you, from Silverpine. Bring your strongest. Bring your witch.The message is signed by Elowen herself, the careful script jagged with exhaustion or fear.Thalia reads the letter twice, her heart clenching. The quiet, hopeful spring seems to slip away beneath her feet. She can almost taste the distant smoke in the words, the plea running beneath them: Help us, before we are erased.Emyr is the first to speak, voice steady. “I know these roads. I can guide us—there are places even the Hollowing fears to linger, if you know the old signs.” His eyes flicker, deep and ancient. “And I owe a debt to the cabal.”Rowan nods, resolve hardening in the lines of

Dusk comes sudden and sharp, settling over the battered village like a shroud. The fires in the hall burn low, everyone gathered close for warmth and for courage. Thalia moves between tables, checking talismans, smoothing trembling shoulders, promising that hope is not gone.Outside, the mist thickens, swallowing the line of trees, pressing against the village like a living thing. The wolves bristle, tails tucked. Witches tighten their circles. The very air aches with waiting.It comes not as a scream, but a hush. The wind drops. The last bird falls silent. Then, from the fog, a figure steps—neither beast nor man, but the shadow of something hungry, its form always shifting, face turning inside out like a mask worn too long.Thalia freezes where she stands, a cold hand wrapping around her spine. Her breath fogs in the air, heart hammering against her ribs. The Herald does not glance at Rowan or the others—it comes straight for her, as if it knows her name, her soul, her every secret s

The air crackles with the aftershock—blue fire still burns on the hearth, licking at stone and shadow. The villagers and pack cower where they’ve fallen, every face turned to the center of the hall. Rowan, dust rising from his knees, stares at Thalia, half-afraid to move.Thalia stands in a broken circle of scorched floorboards. Her hair clings wild and damp to her cheeks; her skin is ghost-pale except for two burning spots of color high on her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and glassy, glow like coals struck by moonlight.She breathes out—a long, shuddering breath, full of fog and grief and something hungry.No one dares speak at first. Then, Fen whispers, “Thalia?”Her gaze flicks to him. For a second, he flinches—not at her, but at the thing in her eyes. Then she blinks, and it’s just Thalia again—only more raw, more real, more present than ever before.Rowan crawls to her side, voice barely above a prayer. “You came back. You’re here. Gods, Thalia—what did it do to you?”She sways, and Ma

The suspicion seeps in slow, a sour taste at the back of my throat. I recognize the look in their eyes—the careful distance, the watchfulness, the way conversation shudders to a halt if I pass too close. I’ve worn this before, like a too-tight coat, all those weeks in Silverpine. I survived it, barely, then. But now I’m not sure I’ve survived anything at all.The urge to run starts as a whisper behind my ribs. Just a tickle, a flutter. Maybe it’s memory—maybe it’s the Herald, scratching at the inside of my mind, begging me to move, to flee before suspicion hardens into accusation. Maybe it’s self-preservation. Or maybe it’s something darker, a tug on a string I can’t see.Outside, the village is brittle with waiting. I slip through the hall and out into the grey morning, the air sharp with cold and woodsmoke. No one stops me. I think some of them are relieved.My boots crunch frost as I cross the square. I keep my head down, my breath a ghost trailing behind me. Don’t run. Don’t give