Page 2 of Destined to the Lycan (The Shadow Realms #3)

The shocked expression on the healer’s face reflected the distress I felt when I first realized that the symptoms manifesting themselves shortly after my arrival seemed to confirm my mother’s dire prediction.

“Is it?” Ronika asked carefully. “Is the house cursed?”

I shook my head. “Sadly, it isn’t. It would have been too easy had that been the case.

Willow Grove is home to some of the most powerful sorcerers and exorcists.

I brought three different ones to try and determine if some evil force within was slowly killing me.

But they detected no evil spells or malevolent presence. ”

Ronika pursed her lips, her beautiful dark brown eyes going out of focus as she reflected on my words.

“I recall you mentioning that you first became sick approximately one month after arriving here,” she mused aloud. “If the house isn’t making you sick, can you think of any unusual places you might have visited in search of ingredients for your candles, or merely while exploring the region?”

“Believe me, I wondered about that as well. But I have not gone to any of the cursed places everyone warns us about, least of all a freaky place like Hemdell. As for my ingredients, I have only bought them right here in Charmers District, aside from what I already had and brought here with me. However, I have acquired some exotic reagents from the artifact traders in town. I first thought that maybe I was having an adverse reaction to one of them. But they are not anything no one else has used before. Had they been the cause, surely someone would have recognized the symptoms.”

Ronika nodded slowly, her expression troubled.

She gestured for me to lie down on the table.

I promptly complied. Despite the fear discussing my health issues always brought forth, I couldn’t help a proud smile when she shortened the wick off my Caladrius candle before lighting it up.

She then began passing it slowly a few inches above me, as one would to examine something with a magnifying glass.

In many ways, it acted exactly like that for someone with her arcane powers.

For commoners, using this candle would only suck out some minor illness or injuries, like quieting a particularly unpleasant headache, dimming some seriously sore or achy muscles and joints, mending a cold, or dousing a fever.

But in the hands of a master healer like Ronika, it would give her an open window into what was ailing me.

Lying down as I was, all I could see was the air blurring around the candle.

Its flame changed colors and intensity depending on where Ronika was moving the candle above me.

She would be seeing a clear vision, almost like an X-ray.

I didn’t have the magic to do the same, but the colors of the flame indicated undeniably that something was truly wrong with me.

“By the Gods,” Ronika whispered under her breath, with an air of disbelief.

“That bad?” I asked with a nervous laugh to hide how distraught I felt.

“The disease has indeed returned. But this time, it is spreading much faster than before. This looks like a case of frequent exposure to some sort of toxin or poison. Except I’ve never seen anything like it before.

I don’t know what could attack your body in this fashion.

Are you sure you’re not exposed to anything? ”

“I genuinely cannot think of anything,” I replied, defeated. “The arcanists and I have scoured the entire house and found nothing. And I’ve only gone to places that other people also visit regularly. I have no clue what this is.”

Ronika gave me a sad look. “I won’t lie to you, Amara. Your illness is beyond me.”

“You can’t be serious!” I exclaimed in a crestfallen whisper. “You’re my only hope. Dr. Osborne also gave up on me. And none of the witches could assist me. You were able to take the illness away last time. Can’t you do it again?”

She gave me an apologetic look. “I cannot cure you, Amara. I should be able to remove some of the infection and mend the damage to your organs. But it is not a cure. Whatever is ailing you is still there and will grow again. Sadly, it now knows how to attack you and will continue to spread faster each time.”

“So I’m doomed?” I asked, disbelieving.

A sliver of hope sparked deep within me when she hesitated. That she didn’t flat out say no meant an option remained.

“I have no clue where to begin to investigate your case. Right now, this toxin inside you is bound to kill you sooner than later. All I can do is to delay it,” Ronika said carefully. “You need someone with greater power.”

“Someone like who?” I asked, as if she had made a ridiculous statement.

“Cliona Nox, the Weaver,” she said in an almost solemn tone.

I recoiled and stared at her in shock. “The Weaver?!” I exclaimed.

“She rejects everyone who comes knocking at her door. As I understand it, unless you have something of extreme value to her, she will not give you the time of day. What could I possibly have that she might want? I’m just a candle maker. ”

“I won’t lie and pretend that she has an open-door policy.

No one truly knows why she grants her assistance to some and not to others.

You would be surprised by what she may deem valuable.

Anyway, what have you got to lose? If her gates open, then you’re in luck.

If they don’t, then we will continue to look for other alternatives.

But at least, we’ll know for sure that we explored every option. ”

The urge to argue burned my tongue. I heard so many things about the Weaver, most of them scary.

No one knew exactly what she was. While the common folk often referred to her as the Hag, rumor had it that she was in fact one of the Ancients, and maybe even a goddess descended amongst mortals to entertain herself.

The problem was that the lucky few who benefited from her assistance never spoke about what had transpired between them or what the cost of her services had been.

Naturally, that led people to spread all kinds of outlandish statements implying that one had to sell their soul to her, sacrifice someone dear to them—especially a child—or to subject themselves to some sort of unholy ritual in exchange for her aid.

Ronika never implied—let alone hinted at the fact—that she personally benefited from the Weaver’s assistance. That didn’t stop everyone in Willow Grove—me included—from thinking her newfound impressive healing powers had been a gift from the Weaver. But what had been the price for it?

“Very well,” I conceded at last. “Like you said, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose. The worst thing that could happen will be for me to be turned around.”

Ronika smiled then proceeded to heal me the best she could with a mix of magic and potions.

By the time she finished, the lancing pain I hadn’t fully realized was eating me alive completely faded.

It had grown so gradually and in such a subtle fashion that I became used to it and pushed it to the back of my mind.

But now, I could see the difference as the sudden feeling of being free, healthy, and full of energy surged through me.

It was merely a reprieve, but one I intended to use to the best of my ability to seek a cure before it came back with a vengeance.

Before releasing me, the healer handed me multiple vials containing a potent tonic to help give me a boost whenever my energy level crashed.

It felt odd to have her pay me for the candles when I felt like I owed her even more for the treatment.

But she charged ridiculously low prices, nominal at best. She truly was a healer at heart, in the profession for the sake of improving the lives of her patients, and not as a scheme to enrich herself.

The entire journey to my new home, I debated when to head over to the Weaver’s house, and above all, what I could offer her as compensation should she bless me with opening her gates. What could a goddess possibly need from someone like me?

I crossed the small bridge over the moat leading to the entrance and stopped my carriage right in front of my mansion.

I’d inherited a well-maintained gothic house on a large private land.

Four towers rose above the three-story home.

Black gables adorned the witch’s caps topping them.

The decorative shingles, columns, and railings around the balconies on each of the upper floors as well as on the front porch presented the same dark color.

Thankfully, the paler sandstone hue of the stone walls brightened the otherwise slightly ominous style of the house.

A flock of birds took flight in the distance, soaring over the tall trees of the peaceful forest surrounding the estate. One could hunt some small game within it, mostly rabbits, deer, and the occasional pheasant.

Sighing, I climbed the short flights of stairs, accompanied by the soothing sound of the water flowing below, and the singing of the windchimes dangling over the porch.

I made a beeline for my workshop to put away the supplies I purchased in Charmers District.

The prospect of working at long last with a centaur’s hoof dust and a chimera’s venom thrilled me beyond words.

I never would have been able to get my hands on such reagents in the small town of Harmstead, where I grew up.

I eyed my cauldron, itching to get to work.

But I needed to go to stable my horse first.

No, you need to go see the Weaver first.

My shoulders drooped, and my stomach knotted with apprehension.

It didn’t take a genius to know I was procrastinating.

The prospect of meeting the Weaver scared me.

I honestly couldn’t say if it was the woman herself or what she potentially would tell me that I feared the most. My gut screamed that her verdict—assuming she even received me—would be a devastating blow.

Delaying won’t make it go away.