The Witch's Contract

The Blackwood forest didn’t whisper at midnight. It screamed. Elara Nightshade knelt on frozen earth, her cloak doing nothing against the frost biting through her knees. Above her, the moon hung swollen and red, three days from full. Three days until it finished what the curse started. Beside her, Lyra’s breathing was wet and broken. Her little sister’s skin had gone grey, cracked like the bark of dead trees. Black veins spread from her heart outward, crawling up her throat. When Lyra tried to smile, her lips split. “Don’t,” Elara whispered, pressing a shaking hand to Lyra’s forehead. The skin was cold. Too cold. “Don’t try to talk.” “It hurts,” Lyra mouthed anyway. “I know.” Elara’s voice broke. She was 22 and the last witch in their bloodline who could even attempt a cure. Her mother was ash. Her coven was scattered. It was just her now. Just her, and a curse no healer in the realm had ever broken. The full moon was 3 days away. When it rose, Lyra would turn to dust. No body. No grave. Just gone. Elara tore open her spell bag with numb fingers. Last winterroot. Last sprig of moonbell. Last drop of her own blood magic left in her veins. She drew the summoning circle in haste, slashing her palm and letting blood drip onto the lines. “By old blood and dying breath, break this curse,” she chanted. Her voice shook. “Release her, release her, release her—” The circle flared. Weak. Pathetic. It sputtered once like a dying candle, then collapsed into black smoke that smelled like rot. No light. No healing. Nothing. Elara slammed her fist into the dirt. “No. No, damn it, no!” She grabbed more herbs but her bag was empty. She’d burned through everything. Every ritual in every forbidden book. She’d traded her boots, her cloak, her last silver coin to hedge witches and false prophets. No witch in the realm could break a death curse. Everyone knew that. She’d just refused to believe it until now. Tears hit the dead leaves. Hot and useless. Lyra coughed, and more black dust came up with it. “I’m sorry,” Elara choked out. “I’m so sorry, I’m out of options. I’m out of everything.” A sound behind her. Dry leaves scraping stone. Elara spun, dagger in hand, but it was only Old Hessa. The witch had been dying for months, bones sticking through paper skin. She crawled from the shadows on elbows and knees, blood at her mouth. “Stop wasting your breath, child,” Hessa rasped. Her claws closed around Elara’s wrist. Cold. Desperate. “No herb will save her. No spell.” “Then what?” Elara begged. “Tell me. Please.” Hessa’s eyes, milky and blind, fixed on the red moon. “Only one thing breaks a death curse. Only one.” She coughed, and blood flecked Elara’s face. “Alpha King Kade Blackwood’s blood. Werewolf kings are born with it. Royal blood kills all curses.” Elara went cold all over. Colder than the frost. “Kade Blackwood,” she whispered. The name felt like ice on her tongue. The Alpha King of the Northern Packs. Six-foot-four of muscle and murder. He’d declared war on witches ten years ago after his mate was poisoned. Since then, his wolves hunted them for sport. Silver bullets for children. Fire for elders. “He slaughters our kind on sight,” Hessa finished, her grip weakening. “But his blood… one drop, and the curse dies.” Hessa’s hand fell away. Her last breath rattled out. Elara stared at Lyra’s grey face. Then at the red moon. Three days. She stood. Her legs shook but she stood anyway. “Hold on,” she whispered to Lyra. “Just hold on a little longer.” Dawn came grey and thin by the time Elara reached the werewolf palace. It was built of black stone and iron, spikes lining the walls like teeth. The Blackwood gates were thirty feet high, carved with wolves mid-hunt. She dragged Lyra’s unconscious body to the gates. Her sister was lighter now. Too light. Like the curse was eating her from the inside out. Ten guards stepped forward as one. Silver blades slid from scabbards with a sound that made Elara’s teeth ache—ten points aimed at her throat, her heart, her eyes. “Witch,” the lead guard growled. “State your business before I run you through.” Elara’s hands shook. Her magic was gone. Her voice was gone. All she had left was five words and the truth. She lifted her chin. Met the guard’s yellow eyes. “I want to make a contract.” Silence. Then the guard laughed, but it was a sharp and ugly sound. “Kade doesn’t make deals with witches. Kade makes graves.” “Tell him a witch is at his gates begging,” Elara said. Her voice didn’t shake this time. “Tell him she has nothing left to lose. Tell him… tell him it’s about a death curse.” The guard hesitated. Something in her face must have convinced him. He barked an order and one wolf shifted, sprinting into the palace on four legs. Elara waited. Minutes stretched. Lyra’s breathing got worse. Then the iron gates groaned open. He stepped out. Kade Blackwood. Six-foot-four. Black hair falling over his forehead like a raven’s wing. Broad shoulders straining his black coat. And eyes—silver, sharp, ancient. Eyes that saw through skin and bone and lies. He stopped ten feet from her. Inhaled once. His nostrils flared. “A witch,” he said. His voice was low, cold, like a blade dragged across stone. “Reeking of desperate magic and blood.” Elara forced herself not to look down. Not to beg on her knees. Not yet. Kade’s gaze dropped to Lyra. His mouth curved. Not a smile. A smirk. Cold as ice. “And a dying one. How convenient.” “She has three days,” Elara said. “Death curse. I need your blood to break it.” Kade laughed. Once. No humor in it. “My blood? For a witch?” He circled her slowly, boots crushing frost. “Do you know what my wolves do to witches who beg at my gates, little one?” “They die,” Elara whispered. “Yes.” He stopped in front of her. Close enough she could smell snow and steel on him. He lifted her chin with one finger, same way he’d lift a knife. “But I’m feeling generous today.” He pulled a parchment from inside his coat. Yellowed. Old. Red wax seal stamped with a wolf’s head, fangs bared. “A contract,” Kade said, dropping it at her feet. “You sign this, marry me, wear my mark, be my Luna for one year and one day. In exchange, I give you three drops of my blood to save your sister.” Elara stared at the scroll. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “One year,” Kade murmured. He leaned in, breath hot against her ear. “One year of my bed. My name. My rules. And when the year ends, you walk free. Unless…” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Unless I decide you’re worth keeping.” He pulled back. Silver eyes locked on hers. “Sign it, witch. Marry me. Be my Luna for one year… or watch your sister die.” The moon was still red above them. Three days left. Elara looked at Lyra. Then at the dagger beside the contract. Then at Kade. Her whole life, she’d been taught to fear monsters. She hadn’t realized the monster would offer her a way to save the only person she had left. She reached for the dagger.