Witch in wolf's clothing - Namaari

Chapter 62: Home

Namaari’s POV

The desert stretches before me, an endless ocean of dunes, rising and falling like waves. Each step sinks into the scorching sand, making every movement a struggle. I climb over sand hills, their slopes steep and treacherous. The sun beats down relentlessly, burning my skin. My mouth is dry, and my throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper.

The wind starts to howl, and the world turns into a swirling storm of sand. I pull the scarf over my face, squinting into the golden blur. Each grain of sand feels like a tiny needle against my skin. The storm is disorienting, shifting the landscape, and for a moment, I have no idea which direction to go. The amulet gives me a faint sense of direction, like a gentle tug at my consciousness, and I follow it blindly, hoping I’m not heading deeper into the heart of this cruel desert.

When the storm finally dies down, I find myself facing a group of werewolves, their eyes cold and calculating. Their forms are muscular, and their movements are predatory. They don’t have the fae elegance that marks Luna Vireena's pack—these are scavengers of the desert, no doubt looking for someone to rob. My heart pounds, but I draw my swords, the metal glinting in the fading light.

They lunge, and I fight, adrenaline surging through my veins. My body moves instinctively—each strike, each block, guided by years of training. The first werewolf falls, a s***h across his chest, and then the next one after that. I dodge, parry, and spin, using the momentum of my body to keep my blades dancing. When the last of them drops to the sand, I stand there, breathless, my muscles aching from the exertion. Blood stains the sand, both theirs and my own. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, feeling the sting of a shallow cut across my cheek.

But there’s no time to rest. Not in this desert.

The night brings a biting cold, the kind that seeps into your bones. I build a small fire, using what little dry brush I can find. Its warmth is barely enough, and I huddle close, the amulet clutched tightly in my hand as I drift in and out of a restless sleep. I continue my journey, exhaustion weighing down every step.

Then, it finds me—the Rasshuran, a beast known only in whispers among the desert folk. It’s massive, reptilian, with scales that shimmer like glass and six muscular legs that allow it to move across the sand with terrifying speed. Its eyes lock onto me, and I know immediately that I’m prey.

I run, my legs burning, lungs screaming for air. The Rasshuran gives chase, its growl reverberating through the desert. I can hear its claws tearing into the sand behind me, feel its hot breath against my back. I leap over a sand ridge, rolling as I hit the ground, and draw my swords. The beast is on me in an instant. I strike at its legs, one blade slicing through the leathery skin. It roars, rearing back, and I take my chance, plunging my second sword into its side. It thrashes, nearly throwing me off balance, but I hold on, wrenching the blade free as it withdraws.

I stumble away, breathless, my body trembling from the effort. Blood—both mine and the creature's—paints my clothes. I collapse against a dune, gasping for air, the adrenaline slowly fading. My hands ache from the tight grip on my swords, and my entire body screams for rest.

I can feel my wounds throbbing, the cuts and bruises from the fight not healing as they should. The gashes on my arms, deep and jagged, are still bleeding sluggishly, and the bruises across my ribs burn with every breath. My healing—once so dependable, so quick—is now painfully slow. It’s the price I paid for dismantling the dark magic on the amulet. I press a hand against a particularly deep cut on my side, wincing at the pain. I wonder, not for the first time, how long it will take before my healing abilities return to their full strength, or if they ever will.

Noali’s voice, ever a comforting presence in my mind, is there to remind me to keep moving forward, to push through the pain. “You’ve come too far to stop now,” she says, and I nod. I can’t afford to give up—not here, not now.

Days pass, blending into one another. The food and water in my backpack run out, and the desperation begins to set in. I search for anything—an oasis, a cactus, even the faintest sign of moisture. My lips are cracked, my skin sunburned and raw. Every step is agony, my body crying out for something to drink. I find a small cactus, its thick green skin a sign of life in this otherwise barren place. I use my knife to slice it open, the liquid inside bitter but lifesaving.

The nights are the worst. The cold bites into my bones, and the wind never stops, howling through the dunes, a constant reminder of the emptiness around me. I press forward, driven by the promise of home. The amulet guides me, its pull faint but insistent.

And then, one day, I see it—the horizon shifts, the golden dunes fading to a lighter, cooler shade. The sand beneath my feet becomes less hot, less harsh, and in the distance, I hear it. The sound of waves, crashing against the shore. My heart leaps in my chest, and I push myself onward, my body screaming in protest.

The sea—it's there, the endless blue stretching out before me. I fall to my knees, tears stinging my eyes as I hear the ocean's soothing rhythm. I’m close. Home is still far, but at least I’ve made it through the desert.

Now comes the choice. Either I go through Alpha Flint’s territory or make a detour around a smaller coastal pack. Hell, I’m so exhausted that I can't even shift into Noali. My body is sore, covered in wounds and dried blood... Alpha Flint’s pack it is. If I cross paths with that sucker, Goddess knows what I’ll do.

I step onto the ground of the Wavecrest pack, dragging myself forward. A guard approaches, but with a few swift blows, I knock him out cold. No other guards in sight... Alpha Flint must be terrified of these so-called Duneshadow attacks if he’s left so “many” watchful eyes here. I roll my eyes, continuing on.

As I near a more inhabited area, I spot it—a motorcycle. Perfect. People around stare at me, their faces pale as they take a few steps back. Of course, I probably look like someone fresh off a battlefield. I feel like it, too.

Standing by the motorcycle are three rugged-looking men, all of them broad-shouldered with the kind of overconfident air that comes from having too much time and too few challenges. Their leather jackets are worn, patched over countless times, and their eyes follow me as I approach.

“Can I borrow the bike?” I ask, my voice flat, already mentally preparing for resistance. I don’t have the energy to sugarcoat it, and I certainly don’t have time to be charming.

They stare at me for a beat, their expressions blank, before bursting into laughter. One of them wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “You’re serious?” he says, voice dripping with amusement. I stand there, unfazed, my eyes steady on his.

“I’m the Princess of Verdantwood Kingdom,” I declare, my words clipped, “and I’ll return it on my honor.”

They pause, eyeing me again, this time more closely. One of them—a tall man with a scruffy beard and a lazy grin—steps forward, looking me over from head to toe. His eyes linger a little too long on my blood-stained clothes, my disheveled hair. “You don’t look much like a princess,” he says, smirking. His buddies chuckle behind him. “And you’re far from home, aren’t you?” He steps closer, the smell of tobacco heavy on his breath. “But, hey, if you need a ride, I’d be happy to oblige.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing my arm.

I feel the exhaustion settle deeper into my bones. I’ve been pushed to my limits, fought to survive, and this—this is what stands in my way now? I warn him, my tone calm, almost uninterested. “Take your hand off me.”

But he doesn’t listen. Instead, his grin widens, and he leans in even closer. My patience snaps.

My body moves on instinct, fueled by weeks of frustration, hunger, and sheer determination. I pivot, grab his wrist, and twist sharply. He barely has time to yelp before I strike—an elbow to his nose, the sickening crunch echoing as he stumbles back. I follow up with a kick to his stomach, and he folds, collapsing onto the ground.

The other two men are frozen, their eyes wide as they watch their friend hit the dirt, groaning in pain. I take a step forward, meeting their stunned gazes. “Anyone else?” I ask, my voice deadly quiet.

They shake their heads, taking a step back in unison, no longer looking amused.

“Good.” I reach down, snatch the keys from the downed man’s pocket, and swing my leg over the bike. The engine roars to life beneath me, the vibrations humming through my body. I look at the two remaining men, their mouths still hanging open.

“Thanks,” I say dryly, and without another word, I gun the engine, speeding off down the road. The wind whips against my face, and despite everything—the exhaustion, the pain—there’s a small sense of satisfaction. I’m getting closer. Closer to the Silvermist pack. Closer to the packhouse. Closer to my friends and family.

As I ride, a sudden wave of heat blooms in my body, starting in my core and spreading outward. My fingers tighten on the handlebars as a sharp pain blooms low in my abdomen. My vision blurs for a second, and I grit my teeth, trying to stay focused on the road. “Great,” I mutter to myself. “Am I getting sick on top of everything else now?”

Noali’s voice fills my mind, calm but concerned. “If you make it to the packhouse, take a shower to get rid of all the dirt, then sleep. Hopefully, with rest, our wounds will heal faster.”

I let out a breath, trying to ignore the growing discomfort. “And eat something first,” I add, my tone half-joking, half-resigned. “I’m starving.”

Hours pass as I keep riding, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the road. Eventually, I pass Alpha Reed’s pack territory. A few pack warriors catch sight of me as I speed by, their eyes widening in recognition. They don't make any moves to stop me, which is just fine by me. I’m sure they'll notify the others back at their pack about my appearance, but I have bigger concerns.

Once past Alpha Reed’s territory, I enter the borders of the Silvermist pack. The heat intensifies, burning through my veins. It’s like my entire body is on fire, and even the cool sea breeze does nothing to ease it. There’s a strange ache building low in my belly, almost between my legs. I shift uncomfortably on the bike, a wave of embarrassment mingling with the discomfort.

“Noali, on second thought,” I groan internally, “I think I’m taking a cold shower first.”