Rise Of The Wolfless Witch

Chapter Seven — Fire Stories

By evening, the pack was restless.

I felt it in the air — a tension that crawled beneath my skin and refused to settle. Wolves paced more than usual, conversations turning sharp and hushed the moment I drew near. Fires were lit earlier than normal, their flames burning high despite the calm weather.

Fire was always the answer to fear.

I stayed close to my cabin, pretending to busy myself with mending a torn sleeve, though my hands shook too badly to make neat stitches. Mara’s warning echoed in my mind, relentless.

The stake.

I hadn’t realised until today how much of my life had been shaped by a single night I barely remembered.

At dusk, voices drifted through the trees — elders gathered near the main fire pit. I should have gone inside. I knew that.

Instead, I found myself lingering just beyond the circle of light, hidden by shadow and habit.

“…never should have let her stay,” an elder was saying. “Blood tells.”

Another snorted. “We showed mercy once. Look what it brought us.”

“She cursed us,” someone else added. “That’s why the river flooded that spring. Why the wolves were restless.”

My chest tightened.

I remembered that flood. I’d been small, clinging to my mother’s skirts as water lapped at the steps. She’d laughed softly, lifting me into her arms, whispering that the river was only angry because it had been ignored too long.

They remembered a monster.

I remembered a woman who sang to the moon.

“The fire was necessary,” a voice continued. “Painful, yes — but necessary.”

I pressed my fingers into the bark of the tree beside me, grounding myself.

“Did she scream?” someone asked.

There was a pause.

“Yes,” the elder said finally. “They always do.”

My breath hitched.

I turned away before they could see me, my vision blurring as I stumbled back toward my cabin. Each word felt like a brand pressed into my skin, rewriting my memories with theirs.

Inside, I slid down the door, pulling my knees to my chest.

Did she scream?

The question haunted me.

I tried to remember that night — really remember it, not the fragments that rose unbidden in dreams. I remembered the smell of smoke. The way the air had felt wrong, heavy and charged. I remembered a sudden, blinding heat — and then nothing at all.

No screams.

Just silence.

I pressed my palm over my mouth, stifling a sob.

Outside, the fires crackled louder.

A knock sounded at my door.

I froze.

Another knock — firmer this time.

My heart pounded as I rose slowly, every instinct screaming at me to stay silent. But the scent drifting through the door wasn’t hostile.

It was him.

I opened the door just enough to see the Alpha’s son standing there, his expression taut.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he said quietly.

“I’m always alone,” I replied.

His jaw tightened. “They’re talking.”

“They always are.”

“Not like this.”

I hesitated, then stepped aside. He entered, careful to keep his distance, as if afraid of crowding me. His gaze flicked briefly to the walls, the single window, the way I’d positioned my bed near the door.

As if measuring how easy it would be to drag me out.

“They’re telling the old stories,” he said. “About your mother.”

I laughed weakly. “They never stopped.”

“They’re changing them,” he corrected. “Making them worse.”

Anger flared, sharp and sudden. “Why now?”

He looked at me for a long moment, something conflicted flickering in his eyes. “Because fear needs a reason,” he said. “And you’re visible.”

I swallowed. “Mara told me to run.”

Relief and fear warred across his face. “Good.”

“You agree?”

“Yes.” The word came without hesitation.

The certainty in his voice startled me.

“I can’t protect you here,” he continued quietly. “Not anymore.”

The admission cut deeper than I expected.

“I don’t know where to go,” I said.

He stepped closer, then stopped himself. “Just cross the border,” he said. “Once you do, the laws change.”

“And then?”

His gaze softened. “Then you survive.”

Silence stretched between us, thick with things neither of us dared to say.

Outside, a fire flared higher, sparks lifting into the dark like embers searching for something to consume.

I nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” I said.

He hesitated, then reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against my wrist — a brief, grounding touch.

“Be ready,” he murmured. “Sooner than you think.”

When he left, the cabin felt emptier than before.

I packed that night.

Only the essentials — food, water, the sketch of my mother folded carefully into my pocket. I paused once, staring at my reflection in the small mirror by the door.

“You didn’t scream,” I whispered, as if she could hear me. “Did you?”

The candle flame beside me bent — just slightly — away from my face.

My breath caught.

Outside, the pack fires burned on, telling stories that weren’t mine.

But they wouldn’t get to finish this one.