The trees were twisted things, ancient and knotted, their branches clawing at a sky the color of old pewter. Moss hung from them in thick, green shrouds, muffling sound and swallowing light. The very air was a physical weight, making every step heavy. The soft carpet of damp earth and decaying leaves offered only a slick, treacherous path forward. Beside him, Althea moved in grim silence, her face pale.
The bond was a grinding gear between them, its teeth chewing at their stamina, a low, constant thrum of agony that frayed the edges of Connall's temper and clouded his thoughts. Her pain was his own, a dull ache that mirrored the one behind his eyes. The ancient forest was steeped in power—neither benevolent nor hostile, merely present. It was a distinctly watchful stillness that put every one of his senses on high alert.
Suddenly, the grinding gear seized. A spike of pure, white-hot agony tore through the bond, sharp and blinding.
Althea stumbled, a raw gasp ripping from her lips as she clutched her head. Connall froze, his own body locking up as the invisible fire lanced through him. He gritted his teeth, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword in a useless, instinctive reaction. He couldn't fight this enemy. He couldn't even see it. The pain receded as quickly as it came, leaving them both breathless and shaking, the dull thrum now a throbbing, insistent drumbeat.
"We need to use them," Althea said, her voice strained as she leaned against a moss-covered stone.
"No." The word was a flat denial, torn from him before he had time to think. He glanced at the small leather pouch on his belt, the one containing their dwindling supply of moon-herbs. It felt impossibly light. "They're for emergencies. Life or death."
"What do you call this?" she shot back, her eyes flashing with a mixture of pain and frustration. "We're slow, Connall. We're vulnerable. This constant agony is an emergency. It's going to get us killed."
She was right, and he hated it. He hated the weakness, the reliance on a few crushed leaves. Before he could form a retort, a new scent cut through the damp air. It was sharp and clean, smelling of old earth, ozone, and an ancient, settled power that made the hair on his arms stand up.
From the deep shadows between two gnarled oaks, a wolf emerged. It was massive, its fur the color of iron-grey stone, its muscles moving with a fluid grace that belied its size. It blocked their path, still as stone, and watched them. There was no growl, no bared teeth. There was only the unnerving, patient intelligence in its pale, yellow eyes.
***
The massive wolf observed them for a long moment, its gaze unnerving. Then, the air around it shimmered. Bone and sinew flowed, fur receded, and the shape reformed with a smoothness that spoke of immense power and countless years of practice. Where the beast had stood, there was now a woman.
She was old, her skin tanned like ancient leather and etched with a roadmap of fine lines that spoke of centuries, not decades. Her long, iron-grey hair was braided with small stones and feathers. She wore simple, dark leathers, but her posture radiated an absolute, unquestionable authority. This was not some ragged rogue hiding in the woods. She was a queen in her court.
Connall's hand tightened on his sword. Every instinct, honed by a decade of mistrust, screamed that this was a threat. He shifted his weight, preparing for a fight.
"Connall, wait," Althea murmured, her voice low. She held a hand out, not to the woman, but to him, a subtle gesture to temper his aggression. Her focus was entirely on the stranger, her expression one of cool, pragmatic assessment.
The old woman's eyes, the same pale yellow as the wolf's, flickered between them. Her voice, when she finally spoke, sounded like stones grinding together. "This is my land. All who pass through it must pay a toll."
The faint scent of royal blood on him, the Luna power emanating from Althea—it meant nothing to her. She was the only authority that mattered here.
Her gaze drifted from their faces and landed on the small pouch at Connall's belt. A flicker of understanding crossed her ancient features. "I smell your pain," she said, her voice devoid of pity or curiosity. It was a simple statement of fact. "And I smell your remedy."
She pointed a single, gnarled finger at the pouch. "That will be your toll. Half of what you carry for safe passage through my hills."
***
A surge of pure, unadulterated rage flooded Connall's senses, so potent it momentarily eclipsed the pain of the bond. The moon-herbs. Their only shield, their only respite, won with the blood of assassins. The thought of giving up a single leaf, let alone half their supply, was a physical blow. It was surrender. It was admitting to this stranger, to the world, that they were weak and dependent. It was giving up the last sliver of hope he possessed.
"No," he began, the word a low snarl.
Althea grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled him a step back. "Don't," she whispered, her voice urgent. "Look at her, Connall. Feel the power coming off her. We can't fight her here, not on her own ground."
"We don't even know if we can fight her at all," she continued, her eyes pleading with him. "Even if we win, we'll be injured, delayed, and exposed for any of Guntram's patrols to find. The risk is too high."
His jaw was so tight it ached. "And the price of weakness?" he growled back, keeping his voice down. "What do you think that is? If we bend the knee here, we become prey. Every rogue from here to the Bloodfang border will see us as a target. This isn't just about the herbs. It's about not bleeding in front of sharks."
Throughout their tense, whispered argument, the ancient she-wolf watched with a faint, detached amusement. Her patient silence was more intimidating than any spoken threat. She had made her demand and was content to wait, utterly certain of the outcome.
Althea's plea died on her lips as she saw the truth in his eyes: his pride, his ingrained Alpha defiance, would not allow him to yield. It was a flaw, a dangerous one, but it was as much a part of him as his own bones.
He shrugged off Althea's hand and turned back to face the queen of the hills. His expression was a mask of furious certainty, his decision made. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his weapon, a clear and final statement.
He met the ancient she-wolf's gaze and snarled, "We give up *nothing*."
A slow, dangerous smile curled the woman's lips but did not touch the cold, ancient light in her eyes.
"Then you will not pass."