Chapter 33 - The Witch’s Truth
1518 Words
Finn stopped at the edge of the forest clearing.
The old cabin stood exactly where it always had.
Hidden between crooked trees and thick undergrowth, the structure looked as if it had grown out of the forest itself. The wooden walls leaned slightly to one side, darkened by decades of rain and smoke.
A thin stream of gray smoke curled lazily from the narrow chimney.
Good.
That meant she was home.
Finn studied the hut silently.
He had never liked this place.
Or the woman who lived inside it.
Witches were unpredictable creatures. Wolves respected strength, hierarchy, loyalty.
Witches answered only to themselves.
But sometimes…
Even wolves needed answers.
Finn walked toward the cabin.
Each step made the dead leaves crack beneath his boots. The forest was unusually quiet tonight. Even the birds seemed to have abandoned this part of the woods.
The smell reached him before the door did.
Herbs.
Smoke.
Something rotten.
And something metallic that reminded him unpleasantly of blood.
Finn wrinkled his nose slightly.
Still, he stepped onto the wooden porch and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the door creaked open.
Finn expected to see the old crone he remembered.
Bent back.
Wrinkled skin.
Cloudy eyes.
Instead…
A young woman stood in the doorway.
Finn raised an eyebrow.
She looked no older than twenty-five.
Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders, tangled and wild. Her clothes were little more than patched rags tied together with strips of cloth.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were ancient.
She smiled slowly.
“Not all witches are born old.”
Finn leaned slightly against the doorframe.
“I suppose not.”
The witch stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Finn hesitated.
But curiosity—and necessity—pushed him forward.
He stepped into the cabin.
The smell inside was worse.
Bundles of dried plants hung from the ceiling beams. Small jars filled with powders and strange liquids covered every available shelf.
The center of the room held a rough wooden table.
A single candle burned beside it.
The witch moved to a crooked wooden chair and sat down.
Then she gestured to the chair across from her.
“Sit.”
Finn did.
The wood creaked beneath his weight.
The witch studied him carefully.
Not the way most people looked at wolves.
She looked at him the way a butcher studies meat.
Finn didn’t like it.
She extended her hand slowly.
Her palm faced upward.
Finn understood immediately.
Payment.
He reached into his coat and removed a delicate silver chain.
At its center hung a small emerald pendant.
The stone caught the candlelight beautifully.
The witch took it.
She weighed the necklace in her palm thoughtfully.
“Pretty,” she murmured.
Then she slipped it into her pocket.
Her eyes returned to Finn.
“So,” she said softly.
“What brings a wolf like you to my door?”
Finn leaned forward slightly.
“I want to know the fate of someone.”
The witch tilted her head.
“A lover?”
Finn smiled faintly.
“No.”
“An enemy?”
“Perhaps.”
The witch chuckled quietly.
“Names are useful.”
Finn didn’t hesitate.
“Florence Drake.”
The witch’s expression did not change.
But something in the room shifted.
She reached for a wooden cup sitting beside the candle.
Inside were small white objects.
Finn leaned closer.
Chicken bones.
The witch shook the cup slowly.
The bones rattled together with a dry, hollow sound.
Then she scattered them across the table.
They landed in random directions.
She leaned forward and studied them carefully.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Finally she frowned slightly.
“Strange.”
Finn waited.
The witch looked up.
“I see nothing.”
Finn narrowed his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“It means her fate isn’t visible.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible.”
She tapped one of the bones lightly.
“Unless something is hiding it.”
Finn considered that.
Then he reached into his coat again.
“I thought you might say that.”
He placed a small stone on the table.
The stone was dark.
But a faint red stain marked one edge.
Blood.
The witch’s eyes lit up.
“Ah.”
She picked it up.
“Personal.”
Finn nodded.
“Her blood.”
The witch smiled slowly.
Then, without warning, she licked the blood from the stone.
The reaction was immediate.
Her body jerked violently.
As if lightning had struck her.
The candle flame flickered wildly.
The witch’s eyes rolled back.
White.
Completely white.
Her mouth opened as she gasped for air.
The bones on the table began to move.
Finn froze.
At first it was subtle.
A slight shift.
Then another.
The bones slid slowly across the wood, scraping together.
They formed lines.
Patterns.
Symbols.
Finn felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
He was not easily frightened.
But magic was something else entirely.
The witch’s breathing grew ragged.
Her body trembled violently.
Her hands slammed down on the table.
Then—
Silence.
The bones stopped moving.
The witch collapsed forward.
Her fists struck the table hard.
The candle flickered again.
Slowly…
Her eyes cleared.
The white faded.
She blinked several times.
Then she looked at Finn.
And laughed.
“Interesting.”
Finn leaned forward.
“Well?”
The witch wiped blood from the corner of her mouth.
“That girl…”
She shook her head slowly.
“She accepted another’s curse.”
Finn raised an eyebrow.
“I beg your pardon?”
The witch leaned back in her chair.
“Florence Drake carries a curse that was never meant for her.”
Finn crossed his arms.
“Explain.”
The witch pointed at the bones.
“Red wolves are rare.”
“Very rare.”
Finn nodded slightly.
“I’ve heard that.”
The witch smiled.
“But most wolves misunderstand why.”
Finn waited.
“Red wolves,” she continued softly, “are the strongest wolves ever born.”
Finn frowned.
“That’s not what I’ve seen.”
The witch laughed.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She leaned forward.
“Because your Florence…”
She tapped the table.
“…took a curse into herself when she was born.”
Finn’s eyes narrowed.
“A curse?”
“Yes.”
The witch’s voice lowered.
“Her soul absorbed it.”
Finn remained silent.
“She should have been powerful.”
“Brilliant.”
“Dangerous.”
The witch spread her hands.
“But the curse stole everything.”
“Her strength.”
“Her instincts.”
“Her confidence.”
“It turned her into something weak.”
Finn considered that carefully.
“A victim.”
The witch nodded.
“A pure soul.”
“Too pure.”
Finn sighed.
“So what does that mean for me?”
The witch smiled slowly.
“Ah.”
She leaned forward again.
“Now we reach the interesting part.”
Finn waited.
“Even cursed,” she said quietly, “Florence Drake still carries the blessing of the red wolves.”
Finn tilted his head.
“Blessing?”
The witch’s smile widened.
“She is lucky.”
“Very lucky.”
Finn rolled his eyes.
“Luck is a child’s fairy tale.”
The witch pointed at him.
“You came to me because of luck.”
Finn didn’t respond.
“She brings fortune to those close to her.”
The witch leaned back again.
“Like a four-leaf clover.”
Finn stared at the bones on the table.
“So if someone stays close to her…”
The witch finished the thought.
“They become unstoppable.”
The words hung in the air.
Finn remained silent for a long moment.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
A slow smile spread across his face.
“Interesting.”
The witch watched him carefully.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
Finn chuckled.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She leaned forward.
“You’re not interested in saving her.”
Finn didn’t deny it.
“You want to use her.”
Finn stood slowly.
“Everyone uses something.”
The witch watched him walk toward the door.
Before leaving he stopped.
“One more question.”
She waited.
“If the curse were removed…”
The witch’s eyes glittered.
“Then Florence Drake would become what she was always meant to be.”
Finn raised an eyebrow.
“And what is that?”
The witch smiled darkly.
“A force.”
Finn nodded slowly.
“Good to know.”
He stepped outside.
The cold night air felt refreshing after the suffocating smell inside the cabin.
Finn walked down the steps of the porch.
Behind him the witch called out softly.
“Careful, wolf.”
Finn stopped.
“She may be weak now…”
“…but curses rarely stay quiet forever.”
Finn smiled without turning around.
“That’s what makes this interesting.”
Then he disappeared into the forest.
And somewhere in the darkness…
A plan began to form.
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