The creature's howl fractured the trees.
Alaric didn't wait.
The moment it turned and vanished—its form smoking from where it touched the barrier—he broke into a sprint, mud flying behind him, boots slamming into the ground like thunder. The others didn't follow. They lingered in the shadows, hissing, uncertain, watching the line they could no longer cross.
But Alaric had no eyes for them now.
He cleared the slope in seconds, chest heaving, heart already thudding too fast.
And there—at the centre of the circle, surrounded by scorched moss and glowing runes—was her.
Isolde lay on her side, one arm outstretched, her white hair wild around her like smoke. Her cloak was singed, one sleeve torn at the shoulder. Blood dripped steadily from her palm onto the earth—still feeding the magic that hummed beneath them.
She hadn't broken the spell.
She'd become it.
He dropped to his knees beside her. "Isolde."
No response.
He touched her cheek gently. It was too cold.
"Hey," he whispered, voice rough, urgent. "Don't do this. Don't leave me before we even understand what this is."
Still nothing.
He gathered her into his arms, her body limp, head falling against his shoulder. Her breath came in soft shudders—still alive, but far away. Her blood smeared across his chest as he pulled her in tighter, not caring.
"I'm here," he murmured, his hand cradling the back of her head. "You gave too much, love. Come back to me now. Rest, but come back. Rest."
The circle glowed brighter for a moment.
And then dimmed.
Settled.
She wasn't gone.
But she wasn't fully here, either.
Isolde (Dream)
It began with snow.
White. Endless. Falling in silence so thick it muffled even her thoughts.
She stood barefoot in a place that felt like a memory—half formed, half buried. The forest was gone. The sky above was violet, a pale moon high and distant. There were no stars.
Only the wind.
Only the cold.
Only her.
She turned slowly.
A figure stood ahead, cloaked in silver shadow.
Not Alaric.
Not the creatures.
Someone older. Wiser. Familiar.
The scent of night jasmine and frost clung to her cloak.
The Moon.
No face. No voice. But presence.
And in her hand—glowing—was a thread. Silver, fine, and trembling like a living thing.
The goddess reached out.
And from Isolde's chest, something pulled.
A matching thread of light rose to meet the one in the goddess's hand.
They touched.
And the dream began to burn.
The wind changed.
It didn't howl. It sang—low and mournful, a song with no words, only grief.
Isolde staggered as her own thread of light twined around the one held by the Moon. The moment of contact sent a pulse through her—through bone and blood and memory. She cried out, clutching her chest, where something old and sealed had begun to stir.
The Moon's figure stepped closer.
Still no face. Still no voice. But somehow Isolde understood her.
This was not the Moon of childhood prayers.Not the gentle goddess of the hearth or tide.This was the Weaver of Threads, the Memory-Keeper, the one who watches what wolves forget.
You have woken the land's old ache, the Moon seemed to say.Now you must bear it.
The threads shimmered again, and the world fell away.
She stood in a ring of stones.
Ancient. Cracked. Covered in frost and vines.
At the centre: a tree.
Dead. Split down the middle. Hollowed by fire.
And from within its trunk, a strange howl rose—not a voice, but a thousand voices. Not rage. Not sorrow.
Hunger.
The tree pulsed once.
Black vines slithered from the hollow, reaching toward her boots.
Isolde backed away—then stopped.
There was something carved into the bark, near the base of the trunk. A symbol. One she recognized not from study, but from blood.
Silvanne.
Her mouth went dry.
She turned to the Moon's shadow. "This is what's been waking," she said. "The rot. The Withering."
Yes.
"But it was supposed to be sealed."
It was.
"By my family."
By your line. But not all of them kept the vow.
The wind howled again.
One sought to take the grove's magic for herself. She broke the circle. She bled into the roots.Now the grove remembers. And it wants more.
Isolde swayed.
"You're saying this thing is… alive?"
No. Not alive.But not dead, either. It is the memory of betrayal.The hunger of root and bone and spell.The Withering is what remains when wolves forget their place in the balance.
She looked at the tree again.
The vines coiled toward her now, not as threat—but as if reaching.
"You want me to fix it?"
The Moon's light flared.
You are Silvanne. The last ember. The sealed flame.You are not the cure. You are the choice.If you fall, the forest burns.
The silver thread blazed between them.
The howl rose again—from the tree, from the earth, from within her own bones.
And then—
Everything went white.