The Bondmaker's curse

Chapter 1: A long cold soak into an odd land.

Salt clung to the air like regret. Even before the boat breached the horizon, I could taste it—sharp and metallic on my tongue, carried inland by the restless wind of a Texas storm. The sky was darkening with an edge of violence, clouds bruised and bloated, gathering weight. I stood alone on the dock, shoulders hunched against the wind, my lone duffel sagging by my feet. The wood beneath me creaked with every gust, and I wondered if the sea ever grew tired of carrying things away.

They told me the boat would look ordinary, and it did. It wasn’t ancient or mystical, no carved wolves or ominous howls from the past. Just a clean, modern vessel with dull metal and painted trim. Something that could pass for a ferry or a research boat if anyone asked questions. Its engines hummed low, even from this distance, steady and unbothered by the brewing weather. It didn’t fit the stories I’d grown up hearing, but neither did I.

Voices echoed over the waves before faces were visible. Laughter, loud and foreign. Accents twisted in ways I wasn't used to—words clipped and curled, like music I didn’t have the rhythm to dance to. I could feel my chest tightening already. I hated new things. Not because they were bad, but because I never knew who I had to be around them.

The ramp dropped with a thud, metal meeting wood, and a small group of men emerged. Not the Alpha. That in itself was a surprise. Instead, a lanky, ginger-haired man stepped forward first, his grin already halfway to trouble.

"You the Bondmaker, then?" he asked, voice smooth but teasing. "Funny. Thought you'd be taller. Maybe glow a little."

I didn’t blink. "I ran out of glow yesterday. Used it to warm my breakfast."

The man—Callum, he later told me—chuckled and nodded like I’d passed some kind of initial test. A few others weren’t so easily amused. I heard one whisper, "Hope he’s not too broken," and another add, "They always send the pretty ones when they want to lie."

The teasing didn’t stop after I stepped on board. Some of it was light-hearted—mild jabs about my clothes, my drawl, my quiet. But there were edges to it, barbs buried in laughter. One man muttered about Americans needing instructions to use a kettle. Another mocked how I said "y'all" with genuine curiosity.

Callum stayed close, deflecting when things got mean. "Don’t mind them," he said once. "They bark louder than they bite."

"That why they haven’t stopped barking since I got here?" I asked.

He only grinned wider.

Below deck, the Alpha remained unseen. I overheard the crew say he was checking the engines, worried about how the boat would handle the incoming storm. I suspected he was worried about something else, too. Something not made of wind and water.

The first day at sea was a mess of misunderstanding. I couldn’t track half their slang, and when I tried to contribute, I either got blank stares or laughter that didn’t feel good. One called me "sir" with mock politeness, and another asked if I was planning to bless the boat with southern charm and sweet tea.

Still, I watched. Listened. Learned.

On the second day, two of the younger crew started arguing more than usual. Their voices were loud enough to echo through the cabin walls, their silences even louder. They'd known each other for years, apparently, but something had shifted. No one else noticed. Or if they did, they chalked it up to being cooped up together for too long.

But I felt it. That subtle hum in my bones. That ache I’d learned to read like braille on my skin.

That night, I pulled my pouch from my coat. Thirteen carved bones, polished with use. Each rune marked with symbols only I could read. I called them over.

"Sit," I said, voice quiet but firm.

They sat, mostly out of curiosity. I cast the bones on the floor between us. They hit the wood with soft clicks and rolled into place.

Twined Moons — A bond buried deep, not yet awakened.

Kindred Flame — Affection born from friction.

Fang & Flame (inverted) — Love disguised as rivalry.

Crossed Tails — Paths tangled, lives already overlapping.

Voidstone (shadow side) — Neither recognizing the truth.

I looked up. "You're bonded. You just don't know it yet."

The room went still.

"Piss off," one muttered. "That a party trick?"

"Three days," I said. "You’ll see."

And they did.

On the third night, the two were caught sitting close, touching hands like it was a habit they'd always had. Someone saw them kiss on the upper deck when they thought no one was looking. No one joked about my bones after that.

The next morning, the Alpha finally came to find me. The storm had passed. The air was clearer, the sea calm. But he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

"There’s something I can feel," he said. "A thread between us. But it only pulls one way."

I knew this was coming.

"Then why don’t I feel anything from you?"

I looked at him. Really looked.

"Because whatever I was supposed to be tied to... died before I learned how to speak its name."

He didn’t reply.

"I don’t get the bond," I said. "I get the silence it leaves behind."

And then I walked away.

They fed me that night, and it wasn’t what I expected. Not bland military rations or greasy dock food. It was stew, rich and fragrant, spiced in ways I couldn’t name. My senses, heightened by nature and training, picked apart every detail: the iron tang of fresh blood in the meat, the sting of sharp herbs, the warmth of potatoes cooked slow. Each crew member had their own way of eating—some with speed, some with reverence. But the noise, the scrape of spoons, the clink of bowls, the occasional belch and bark of laughter—was oddly comforting. Homey, even if I wasn’t home.

They passed around a bottle after the stew, something brown and burning. I sipped out of politeness, only to find I could hold it better than most. Callum watched me with amused curiosity as I kept pace with men twice my weight.

"Quiet and hollow," he said. "But you drink like you’ve been thirsty your whole life."

"Maybe I have."

The storm outside kept us company. Thunder low and constant like a sleeping beast, waves slapping the hull with dull insistence. But inside the boat, there was warmth. A pack, even a fractured one, had gravity. It pulled you in, whether you wanted it to or not.

At some point, I caught one of the pranksters staring at me differently. Less mocking, more uncertain. Like he couldn’t decide if I was a trick or something sacred. It made my skin itch.

"You ever... bond someone without meaning to?" he asked, not meeting my eyes.

"No," I said. "But I've seen it happen. Wanting something enough can make a lie feel real."

He didn’t like that answer. But he didn’t ask anything else.

We kept sailing. Ireland was days away, but already close enough to dream about. I imagined the forests, the mist, the wildness. I imagined packs that didn’t look like mine, or speak like mine, or treat someone like me as a tool instead of a healer. But hope was dangerous. I kept it small, like a candle cupped in my palm.

I didn’t sleep much that third night. I could feel eyes on me. Not cruel. Not curious. Just... expectant. Like they were waiting to see if I’d glow in the dark after all.

That morning, when I stepped onto the deck, the Alpha was already there. Wind in his coat, jaw set like stone.

"You spoke true," he said. "They’re bonded. I saw it."

I nodded. "You doubted."

"I still do."

He stepped closer. Too close. "I feel it. The thread. It should be there. But when I reach for yours, there's nothing. Just air."

I swallowed. "Then maybe I was never meant to be part of this. Maybe I'm just here to help you fix what you still have."

His voice cracked. "Then why does it hurt when you walk away?"

I didn’t have an answer. I never did.

That was the curse of the Bondmaker.

Not every bond goes both ways.

Not every bond can be named.

Some are just storms we don’t speak of.

And some... we sail straight into anyway.