The Bondmaker's curse

Chapter 10:Thorns in Moss

The morning air was thick with mist, clinging to skin and hair like cold breath. The paths through the woods were slick with dew and the remnants of last night’s rain, the moss beneath my boots whispering soft warnings with every careful step. What was meant to be a day of respite after the grueling Moonrise Trial had instead turned into something far heavier. I was summoned at dawn by a messenger whose eyes refused to meet mine.

Cathal stood silent at the northern edge of the training clearing, arms folded tight, jaw clenched as if chewing something bitter. Neasa wasn’t there. Maybe she hadn’t been told. Or maybe she’d chosen not to watch.

The Elders called it a “discipline test.” But I knew better. This was something darker.

The challenger stepped forward with a weight that pressed against the morning mist like a storm cloud. Older than me by several seasons, his broad shoulders filled the clearing with a menacing presence. His eyes, sharp and calculating, glinted with a cold hunger that unsettled me—not the hunger of a warrior seeking honor or glory, but something darker. There was a practiced cruelty in the way he held himself, like a wolf that had long lived in the shadows, waiting for its moment to strike. When he spoke his name—Ciaran—it felt hollow, as if the word itself was a lie he’d swallowed so many times he no longer believed it.

Every detail about him was wrong. The way his weight shifted, too eager, too calculated, as though he’d rehearsed this fight countless times in the silence of his own mind. His breath came steady and controlled, but the glint in his eyes betrayed impatience—a desperate need to prove something, not just to me, but to some unseen jury watching from the edges of the world. I sensed the sting of bitter resentment lurking beneath that need, a history written in scars and betrayals, fueling a fire that was far more dangerous than mere skill or strength. The air around him seemed colder, the mist curling unnaturally at his feet, as though the woods themselves recoiled from his presence.

I could feel the weight of the crowd’s silence behind me, but the challenge in his stance wasn’t for them. It was for me. This was no simple test of discipline, no ritualized trial to mark progress. This was a war of wills disguised as combat—a message wrapped in violence. Ciaran’s eyes flicked over me with sharp suspicion, and I knew that every strike he planned was meant to break me, to strip away not just my flesh but my spirit. I tightened my grip on the moment, steeling myself against the storm he promised, knowing that whatever this fight held, it was far from over before the first blow was even struck.

His claws sliced through the air, razor-sharp and merciless, aiming for my ribs with brutal precision. I twisted instinctively, feeling the cold scrape of his strike close enough to draw blood, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of pain or fear. My elbow drove hard into his side, a sharp, punishing blow meant to warn, to tell him I wasn’t an easy target. But Ciaran wasn’t interested in warnings—he was here to send a message, and it was soaked in rage and desperation. His eyes burned with a savage hunger, each strike fueled by something beyond the need to win; it was about breaking me down, piece by piece.

Then he dropped low, too low for any honorable fighter, his hand clutching a cruel weapon—an old rib bone carved into a jagged blade, dark with dried blood. It was a weapon meant to maim, to terrorize, not just to defeat. The sight of it made my heart tighten. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a threat disguised in ritual, a message wrapped in violence. The crowd held their breath in heavy silence, the kind that presses on your chest and makes your bones ache. They watched, waiting to see how this would end, but no cheers or gasps came—only the cold weight of inevitability.

I ducked under his wild, slashing blow, my breath catching in my throat as I caught the haft of the blade against my forearm. Skin broke, hot and raw, but I didn’t cry out. Pain was a tool, not a weakness. Using his momentum against him, I spun, hooking my foot behind his ankle and sending him sprawling face-first into the mud. Bran’s sharp command rang out, “Enough!” But Ciaran wasn’t done. He surged up like a wounded beast, wild fury blazing in his eyes, swinging blindly. My instincts sharpened; I grabbed his wrist, twisting hard, and drove the heel of my palm into his jaw with brutal finality. The blade clattered away. I kicked it clear, and Bran stepped between us, shoving the larger wolf back. “Enough.” Cathal remained frozen, his eyes locked on me but unmoving, as if caught between worlds.

My forearm bled slow and steady. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was deliberate. Meant to scar.

I looked past Bran and the murmuring crowd to find Neasa. She had arrived after all.

Her lips were pressed tight. Her fists clenched at her sides. But she hadn’t known. Neither had Cathal. They hadn’t felt a thing.

Because I couldn’t send anything.

They stood with expressions tangled between fury and guilt, and I realized something sharp and awful:

They had no idea I was in danger. The bond—the thing that should’ve screamed through their bones—was silent. Dead. Like me.

The longhouse was quiet, almost unbearably so, lit only by the flickering glow of the hearth fire. Shadows danced against the worn wooden beams, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and old stone. I sank onto a bench, leg stretched out in front of me, a rough cloth pressed tightly to the wound on my calf. The sting of blood seeped through the fabric, slow and steady, a reminder that even the smallest cuts could leave scars. The healer muttered something about tendon damage, but her words floated past me, distant and unimportant compared to the weight settling in my chest.

Cathal entered, his presence like a shadow cast from something vast and unreachable. He stopped in the doorway, the silence stretching taut between us. “Why didn’t you call out?” His voice was low, haunted. I didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, I focused on the dark stain spreading across the cloth. “I did,” I said softly. “Just not in a way anyone can hear.” He took slow, heavy steps toward me, each one seeming to carry the weight of regret. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” I replied, bitter truth settling between us like ice. “That’s the point.” His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. “That blade wasn’t standard. This wasn’t sanctioned.” I met his gaze, steady and cold. “No. This was a warning. A message. Someone doesn’t want me to last the week.” His breath hitched. “You could’ve died.” My voice was quiet but firm. “And who would’ve known? The bond’s dead on my end. No one would’ve felt a thing.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I would have. I would’ve felt it.” I shook my head, the silence swallowing us. “You didn’t.” And with that, the room fell into a heavy, broken stillness.

Later, beneath the long boughs of ancient yew trees, Neasa found me. The night was thick with cold air, shadows weaving between the twisted branches above us. She settled beside me without a word, the weight of her cloak pooling around her knees like spilled ink. Her hands trembled slightly as she passed me a mug, steam curling from its surface into the stillness between us. “Sweetroot and cedar,” she said quietly. “It’ll help.” I took the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “You always know what I need.”

“Not always,” she murmured, eyes tracing the dark outlines of the trees, lost in thought. We drank in silence, the only sounds the faint rustle of leaves and the distant call of a night bird. The world felt paused, fragile as glass. After a long moment, she spoke again. “Cathal’s furious.”

“He should be.”

“With himself, not you. And someone else—someone wanted that blade to find your throat.” Her voice was low, shaken. I sighed, the weight of it pressing down hard. “Then they missed. Bad luck for them.”

She set her mug down, fingers curling tightly. “I didn’t feel anything. I should’ve known. I should’ve come.” I turned toward her, the ache behind her words cutting deep. “It’s not your fault. I can’t send anything through the bond. You couldn’t have known.”

Neasa nodded, jaw tight, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’ve been trying to feel it. Every time you’re near, I reach for something—anything. But it’s like reaching into fog.”

“Because I’m not reaching back. Not by choice. Because I can’t.” My voice cracked in the cold night air.

Her eyes shimmered, caught in the pale moonlight and sorrow. “You think you’re not our mate.”

“I think you deserve someone who can feel it. Someone who makes the bond come alive.”

“And what if we’ve already chosen you?”

“Then you chose wrong.”

She didn’t flinch. “I don’t believe that. Neither does Cathal.”

“It doesn’t matter what we believe. The bond doesn’t lie.”

Neasa reached out, her hand warm and steady, brushing my wrist gently. “Then we’ll find the truth. Together. Even if it means walking through thorns.”

For the first time in days, I let myself believe it might be true.

Somewhere in the trees behind us, unseen eyes watched still. Waiting. Planning. Thorns hidden beneath moss, ready to bleed us all.