The Alpha Kings Witch

My grandmother has officially lost her mind. That’s the only explanation for the thick cream envelope she holds, sealed with dark red wax stamped with a crescent moon and seven small stars. Her insistence that I can’t open it until my life falls apart makes my throat go dry. “I’m sorry—what?” “You heard me, Breelynn.” “Oh, I heard you. Should I fetch Mother, or the village healer?” She doesn’t laugh. Not even the faintest breath of one. My stomach tightens into a hard knot. She always laughs—even at my worst jokes, the ones that make Father roll his eyes. But her silence now feels like a door slamming shut between us, heavy and final. “Sit down, sweetheart.” She gestures to the chair across from hers, the old oak one whose legs have worn uneven grooves into the floorboards. “We need to talk.” I glance at the half-kneaded dough on the counter, pale and soft under a dusting of flour. My fingers itch to return to its simple, predictable rhythm—push, fold, turn. “Can it wait? Mother will have my head if supper isn’t ready when Father gets home.” “The bread can wait.” That’s new. Supper is sacred here. Father works the fields until his hands are raw; Mother helps the healer until her apron is stained with tinctures and crushed leaves. By evening, we’re all starving. Grandmother’s the one who insists we sit together, no matter what. Yet now she looks like she’d toss supper straight out the window without a second thought. Wiping flour onto my apron, I take the seat opposite her. The wood groans under my weight. “Alright. What’s going on?” Her pale blue eyes trace over my face like she’s memorizing it—the curve of my cheek, the stray strand of hair stuck to my flour-dusted neck. I shift, uncomfortable under the weight of a gaze that has never felt so heavy. “Grandmother?” “You look just like your mother did at your age.” I force a smile. “You tell me that every week.” “And you have your father’s stubbornness.” “That one you tell me every day.” Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It falters and dies like a candle snuffed by a sudden draft. “I wish things could stay like this forever.” Something in her voice—a raw, unvarnished sadness—makes my chest ache. I sit up straighter, back rigid against the slatted chair. “What do you mean?” Her gaze drifts to the window, where bruised purple clouds mass over the distant hills. Wind stirs the pine trees around our cottage, their needles whispering secrets, carrying the honeyed smell of Mother’s honeysuckle from where it twines around the fencepost. A beautiful afternoon, even with a storm coming. We live just outside Talmeria—far from all that noise and politicking, where the air smells of woodsmoke and damp earth instead of crowded streets. Most days nothing much happens here, and I like it that way. I like knowing everyone’s name—the baker’s boy who always saves us a loaf still warm from the oven, old Hemlock who tends the goats and tells outrageous lies for a laugh. I like trailing Mother as she gathers comfrey and yarrow in her wicker basket, and listening to Father curse when rabbits get into his carrots, his big hands gesturing wildly at the ravaged greens. I don’t even mind Grandmother’s lessons on becoming a proper witch—learning which herbs ease fever and which bring sleep, how to read omens in birdflight or smoke. Well, except the parts where she tells me to mind my temper. Part of me wants to cling to that normalcy, to dismiss her odd behavior as another lesson in patience or perception. But another part knows—this is different. “Things are going to change, Bree,” she says at last, her voice low like the wind outside. “Sooner than I’d hoped.” My throat feels tight, as if wrapped in rough twine. “Change how?” “I can’t explain it all now.” “Why not?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to, edged with frustration. “Because you aren’t ready to understand some things.” I groan, falling back into familiar frustration, my shoulders slumping forward. “Grandmother, I’m nineteen. When will I be old enough not to be treated like a child?” “When you stop acting like one.” Her voice is quiet but firm. I narrow my eyes. She raises an eyebrow. Usually one of us would laugh by now—a release of tension that lets us both pretend it was only teasing. But she doesn’t. Instead, she reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her fingers are trembling against mine. Just like that, my annoyance vanishes, replaced by a cold prickle of fear creeping up my spine. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine, sweetheart.” “You’re shaking.” The words come out hushed. She looks down as if surprised by her own hands—veined and spotted with age—then grips mine tighter, her knuckles whitening as though I’m the one anchoring her. “Listen carefully.” Her voice drops even lower. “There are things about our family you don’t know. Things your mother and I have tried very hard to keep from you.” A cold feeling settles in my stomach like a swallowed stone. Part of me wants to know; part of me wants to run back to the bread dough and pretend today is normal—that Grandmother is just being strange again. “What things?” “Secrets that go back further than you can imagine.” Her gaze is steady now, holding mine as if willing me to understand what she cannot say aloud. My voice comes out thin and reedy. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.” “Bree.” Her tone—final and frayed at the edges—shuts me up. She laid the envelope on the table between us. Thick cream parchment, sealed with dark red wax stamped with a crescent moon and seven small stars—the same symbol on the silver pendant she always wears. My name was written across the front. “What is this?” “A letter I’ve kept for you.” “From who?” “Someone who loves you very much.” I frowned. “You?” Her smile was sad. “Among others.” That made me even more curious. I reached for it, but her hand closed around my wrist before I could break the seal. “Not yet.” “Why?” “You have to promise me something first.” I looked from her face to the letter. “You’re being awfully mysterious about a piece of paper.” “This isn’t a game, Breenlynn.” The sharpness in her voice startled me. She sighed and let go of my wrist. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to frighten you.” “Well, you’re doing a wonderful job.” She reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Keep this letter with you always. Hide it where no one would look. Don’t open it unless something terrible happens.” My chest tightened. "What kind of terrible?" I asked, my voice smaller than I intended. "If the world you know starts to crumble," she said, her words measured and slow. "If you find yourself with no one to turn to, or if you can't tell friend from foe—that's when you read it." I could only stare. "Why would I have no one?" She looked away, and the silence that followed was heavier than any answer. "Grandmother?" When she turned back, her eyes were glassy. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I regretted ever leaving the bread dough. "Are we being hunted?" "It's not that simple." "That isn't an answer." "I know." Her voice was thin. "But if there is danger, we cannot simply go to the elders." Something shifted in her expression at the word elders—a quick, dark flicker I'd never seen before. "Those who offer shelter may not always provide safety." I blinked, thrown. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying trust is a currency. Spend it carefully." My thoughts spun through everything I knew—the long history of witches in Talmeria, the council that had always governed us. There were tensions, old rivalries between families, but nothing that warranted this. Unless— The wolves. A chill traced my spine. We grew up on stories of the Alpha King and his hatred for magic, of wars that had stolen generations. "Does this concern the wolves?" I whispered. Her gaze drifted to the window, to the gathering dark beyond. "Just promise me you'll keep the letter hidden." I wanted to press her, to demand the truth until it cracked open between us. But the raw fear in her eyes sealed my lips. "All right," I breathed out. "I promise." Her shoulders sank as she released a breath, then she drew me into an embrace. For a heartbeat, I stayed rigid, surprised by the sudden closeness—then my arms wound around her, holding on. "I love you, Bree," she murmured into my hair. "I love you too." She pressed a kiss to my forehead before letting go. "Now, go finish that bread before your mother comes home and discovers we've accomplished absolutely nothing." I laugh, grateful for the familiar teasing. But as I return to the counter, I can't shake the feeling that something has changed between us. And I have absolutely no idea what it is. By the time Mother arrives home, rain is falling steadily against the kitchen windows. I'm attempting to rescue a loaf of bread that has developed a rather unfortunate black crust when she walks through the back door, carrying a basket overflowing with herbs. She takes one look at the bread and sighs. "Breenlynn." "I know." "How many times have I told you to watch the oven?" "In my defense, Grandmother distracted me." Mother glances toward the sitting room, where Grandmother is quietly knitting beside the fireplace. "Of course she did." "She did!" Mother smiles as she removes her damp cloak. "Perhaps you'd have better luck with healing magic than baking." "I've already mastered healing magic." "You healed a scratch on your father's hand." "It was a very serious scratch." "He got it opening a jar." I fold my arms, pretending to be offended. "You're both terribly unsupportive of my talents." Mother laughs, and despite everything Grandmother told me earlier, I find myself smiling. This is what I love about our family. We argue over silly things, tease one another mercilessly, and somehow always end up laughing. I can't imagine my life being any different. Mother begins sorting through her herbs while I scrape the burnt crust from the bread. "How was your day?" I ask. "Busy. Mistress Elowen's youngest has another fever, and the rain has made it difficult to gather what we need." "Do you want me to help tomorrow?" "That would be lovely." She paused, her hands stilling among the herbs. Her eyes lingered on me. "Something on your mind?" I kept my gaze on the burnt loaf I was scraping. "What makes you say that?" "You've barely said a word since I walked in." "I'm always quiet." She gave me that look—the one that meant she knew I was full of it. "Alright, fine," I conceded. "Maybe not always." Her hand came across the counter, warm against my cheek. "You know you can tell me anything." For a heartbeat, I almost did. The weight of Grandmother's letter felt like a stone in my pocket. But the promise—and the fear of what Mother might say—kept my mouth shut. I manufactured a smile. "Just tired. Really." She studied me a moment longer before nodding and turning back to her work. Father came in just as the light began to fade, dripping rainwater onto the floor and grumbling about the southern fence. "Three good posts," he muttered, sinking into his chair. "Gone. Just rotten through." Mother set a bowl of stew before him. "At least you're home before dark." "At this rate, we'll need a boat to get to the fields tomorrow." "Perhaps you could ask Bree to conjure one," Grandmother suggested from her chair. I choked on my water. "Absolutely not. Last time I tried a transportation spell, your boots ended up in the chicken coop." Father pointed his spoon at me. "And my best hat spent three days on a very confused hen." We all laughed—even Grandmother. For a little while, the strange conversation from earlier feels like a distant memory. We eat together, talk about the weather, and discuss the upcoming harvest celebration. Father promises to repair the fence before the weekend, while Mother insists he should wait until the storm passes. Everything feels normal. Almost. Because every so often, I catch Grandmother staring toward the window. And every time she does, my fingers drift toward the letter hidden beneath my dress.