The Bondmaker's curse

Chapter 3: The Weight of Silence

The morning after the tour dawned gray and restless. Mist crawled across the hills like something alive, and the entire isle seemed to hold its breath. It wasn’t raining, but the kind of cold that crept into bone and thought alike clung to everything—like the land itself wanted to warn me away.

I had spent the night in Neasa’s cottage. Not because it was planned—at least not officially—but because the Alpha made no offer, and the guest house was locked tight like a forgotten tomb. The message had been clear: I was a guest, but not a welcome one.

It wasn’t what I expected from a healer, especially not one the pack had half-cast out. The outside was plain stone, moss-kissed and half-swallowed by ivy. A squat chimney twisted smoke into the air like a warning flare.

But inside, it was warm. Lived in. Real. Lavender hung from the rafters in dried bunches. A single threadbare rug softened the cold stone beneath a creaking table and two mismatched chairs. One had clearly been favored; the other had dust until she wiped it off with her sleeve. Her scent—clover and smoke—was soaked into the wood.

There were books. Hundreds of them. Stacked sideways, jammed into alcoves, teetering on half-collapsed shelves. Some were about medicine. Some about monsters. Many were marked up with notes, frantic and precise, in a hand that didn’t forgive mistakes.

“It’s not much,” she’d said, bumping the door shut with her hip. “But it’s quiet. And it doesn’t ask questions.”

I didn’t say it, but it was the first place since I stepped off that cursed boat where I could breathe without feeling like someone was waiting for me to fail.

Now, with the sky low and the air tasting of iron, Cathal waited at the edge of the path. His posture was carved from stone—arms crossed, face unreadable, every line of him sharp and still. Neasa hadn’t said much before I left—only that the elders had called for me. That I should come back after the sun fell, if I could.

“Morning,” I said, trying to force something neutral into my voice. “Or close enough to it.”

Cathal didn’t answer. Just turned on his heel and started walking like I was already late.

I caught up in silence, boots crunching over frost-hardened earth. The trail we followed was barely a path—just suggestion and memory beneath clawed roots and mist. Stones jutted out like broken teeth. Everything here was ancient, and nothing wanted me in it.

“So,” I tried again, light, casual, anything to pierce the cold between us, “do you always take newcomers on the scenic route, or is this just part of my hazing?”

His pace didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t shift. If anything, the air around him got colder.

Still, I kept trying. “You know, back where I’m from, we usually start with names and questions before we throw people into the woods.”

“We’re not where you’re from,” he said flatly, without looking at me.

No room to wedge anything in. I tried again anyway.

“I meant what I said yesterday. I came here to prove something. Not to challenge you.”

That got a flicker—his head tilted slightly, just enough that I saw the set of his jaw tighten.

“Then prove it,” he said.

No more. Just that.

We crossed beneath an arch of woven branches and reached the first stone—tall, moss-veiled, marked in sigils worn down by generations of wind. Cathal stopped and gestured toward a bramble-thick slope that smelled of wet bark and hidden thorns.

“Trial of scent,” he said. “A charm’s been hidden. Don’t damage the trail. Don’t bleed on it.”

Then he stepped back.

I crouched low and breathed in. The scent was faint. Clove, maybe. Smoke. Something old and hidden behind layers of wet earth and rot. I moved carefully, mindful of branches and deceptive roots. Twice I nearly lost it, once doubling back to catch a trail I’d missed.

I found the charm nestled in the crook of a fallen tree, leather curled around a bone bead. It was warm to the touch, though I couldn’t say why.

When I turned back, Cathal was already moving.

“Did I pass?” I called as I caught up.

“You didn’t bleed,” he said. “Yet.”

The path narrowed. The air pressed tighter.

“Is there a reason you’re acting like I poisoned your water supply?” I asked, low enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for a joke.

His silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of answer.

The second trial was speed—a brutal scramble down a slick ravine and back up an incline lined with loose shale. I ran like I had something to prove. Maybe I did. At the top, panting, hands raw and knees burning, I glanced back to see Cathal watching. Measuring.

Still no approval. Still no word.

Third was strength. Stones—big ones—lined the river’s edge like forgotten memories. I was ordered to carry them uphill, one by one. I moved two. The third nearly broke me. The fourth didn’t move.

One of the elders muttered something under their breath. I heard the word “soft.”

I wanted to snap at them. Wanted to show teeth. Instead, I swallowed the burn and waited for the next test.

It came fast.

Tactics. A knotted coil was thrown into the underbrush. Two wolves waited inside, low to the ground, eyes sharp. I was told to retrieve the coil without being touched.

I didn’t run. I watched. Waited. Counted their breathing. I feinted right, rolled left, then dove low, using the slope to pull myself forward. One nearly grazed me. Nearly.

I returned with the coil and a bloody scrape on my arm. Not deep. Not disqualifying.

“That’s three trials done,” I said to Cathal, wiping my hands on my coat. “Do I get a scorecard yet?”

He looked at me for a long second. Then away. “You get to keep going.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Love the feedback.”

By dusk, the wind had shifted. Cold now in a way that made my skin itch. I felt eyes in the trees. Saw movement in the mist that didn’t belong to beasts or wind.

And I heard them.

“…if he fails the moonrise trial, they’ll send him back.”

“…no mark, no thread. Not one bond stirred.”

“…unless he’s hiding something.”

The words found marrow. I didn’t turn to see who said them. I didn’t need to. I wasn’t supposed to hear them. But I did.

That night, bruised and half-starved from the day, I returned to Neasa’s cottage. She opened the door before I knocked.

She didn’t ask. Just lit the fire and handed me a cup of tea that smelled like honey and bark and something bitter underneath.

“It doesn’t mean they’re right,” she said quietly, after a while.

I nodded. But I didn’t believe her. Not yet.

Outside, the mist swallowed the moon. Inside, warmth flickered and held. And for now, that would have to be enough.