Forbidden Temptation

Chapter Six

Seraphine's POV

The pulling rhythm was drumming inside me all morning. It was a quiet but persistent beat. The forest slowly changed around me. The bark of the trees became darker, and mossy markings appeared on the stones—small, angular carvings that did not belong to our packs. The smell of the wind was also foreign: a dry, iron-tasting breath ran over my skin like a cold needle.

At one point, the hillside suddenly smoothed out. The trees became sparser, and the soft pine needles were cut through by hard-packed strips of ground. My wolf slowed down inside me.

“It’s here,” it said quietly.

I stopped. In front of me, there was seemingly nothing. But the surface of the earth looked like it had fine hairline cracks. I took a step. Nothing. Yet, the pull in my chest tightened slightly. I raised my hand and reached into the air. I felt something invisible, a membrane-like layer, brush my skin. As if the air were thicker here.

“It doesn’t let just anyone in,” my wolf growled. “But it doesn't shut everyone out either.”

“And us?” I asked.

“It called,” it replied. “You know that too.”

I took one more step forward. The membrane settled on my skin, as if I had taken a breath, only inwards.

Crossing the border was not dramatic. There was no light, no sound. Only the air changed. First, it became colder. The iron taste grew stronger, and behind it mixed a dry, spicy scent—oil and old leather. The trees inside seemed closer together. The pull in my chest loosened. It no longer guided me. It just signaled: you are here.

I crossed over.

After the first step, my knees wobbled. At the third step, something shifted in my head. The world wasn't spinning, but the light seemed to drain from my eyes. The strength ran out of my legs.

“Hold on,” my wolf said, but it sounded farther away.

I fell forward. My shoulder hit the ground, and my mouth tasted of dirt and something metallic. The pull let go. The world drained out of me.

Sounds slowly returned. As if someone was blowing air onto embers again. First, iron clanked on stone. Then, a rough, hoarse cough. I heard words—hard consonants, a foreign rhythm. The smells arrived too: leather, oil, cold iron, and somewhere behind it, a dull wolf scent.

“I told you the membrane moved,” a voice above me said dryly. “It wasn't the wind.”

“Still, it’s impossible,” a younger voice answered. “The King's border does not let just anyone through.”

“It doesn’t let them through,” a third, deep voice growled. “But if it calls, it brings them too. Look at her.”

I opened my eyes. I saw boots: thick leather, covered in mud. Above them hung dark cloaks, with metal fittings on the shoulder, and a symbol on the chest: a three-pronged tree or a crown. The heel of one boot carefully nudged me.

“She’s awake,” the first voice said. “See her eyes?”

I turned my head to the side. A face looked back at me: square-jawed, with short, dark hair under a low-pulled cap. His eyes held caution and tired discipline.

“How did the membrane let her pass?” the young one asked.

“Because it wanted to,” the man with the cap replied. “Our job is to take her in.”

“What is your name?” a man with a scarred face leaned closer.

My voice didn’t come out at first. My wolf gently pushed from within.

“Seraphine,” I said. My name sounded foreign in this air.

“Seraphine,” he repeated. “Pack?”

My wolf answered for me, inside: Not yours. Outside, I only blinked.

“Not ours,” the man with the cap nodded. “And yet she crossed the membrane.”

“Spy,” the young one interjected. “Or exiled. Or a witch.”

“And not all the blood is her own,” the man with the cap noted, looking at the bloody strip of fabric wrapped around my abdomen. His voice thinned, but not out of pity. Rather out of restraint.

“The King’s command is to bring all border crossers to the guard post alive,” the scarred man growled. “From there, up the ranks. We don’t judge in the forest.”

“Iron on her, dressing on the wound,” the man with the cap said. “Whoever crosses the membrane like that should not have free hands.”

At the word iron, my wolf tensed inside me.

“Not too tight,” I whispered.

The man with the cap looked at me, then nodded to the scarred man.

“We don’t want her to bleed out before we can question her,” he added. Then he turned to me. “You stepped onto the King’s land. Now you are here by the King's order.”

The scarred man knelt next to me and carefully pressed my side through the bloody bandage.

“She's bleeding,” he said. “Old and fresh. We won't question her today. It's enough if she's alive.”

“She’s alive,” the man with the cap replied. “And she talks too. Where did you come from?”

“North,” I finally said. It was true. But it revealed nothing.

The man with the cap stood up.

“Two ropes. Two shackles. And give her your cloak.”

“Mine?” the boy asked in surprise.

“Yours. Her blood shouldn't get on our cloaks. Good answers rarely come from a cold body.”

The scarred man locked iron around my wrists. It wasn't silver, but the cold of it bit. It was placed on my ankles too. Then he draped a wide, warm material over my shoulders. It was the boy's cloak.

“Can you stand?” the man with the cap asked.

The scarred man reached under my armpit. My abdomen protested, my head swam, but I finally stood up. I let out the air between my teeth so the groan wouldn't be heard.

“Step,” the man with the cap said. “The post isn't far. You’ll get a proper dressing there. Water too. Then questions.”

“The King must be informed,” the young man said. “About the membrane too.”

“We’ll inform him,” the man with the cap nodded. “But first the body. The body always comes first.”

They flanked me. The iron jingled softly with every step. The air was cooler; the world sometimes blurred before my eyes.

“If the membrane let her in, the King will want to see her,” the young man said.

“Maybe,” the man with the cap replied. “Maybe not. People like her belong under the stone first.”

“In the cell,” the scarred man corrected. “Cold, but clean.”

My body understood: I had been contained. The pain came like an echo.

“I’m holding you,” my wolf whispered. Not proudly. Just as a fact.

My legs matched the soldiers' pace. The last image before the light dimmed was the metal fitting on the cap man's cloak: the King's sign.

The darkness now was not sticky, but smooth. It didn't swallow me, it just sat beside me. My body, for the first time since I could remember, was not dwelling on the past or clinging to the future. It just moved. It lived.

And strangely, that was enough for now.