Page 19 of Rose's Untamed Bear

“And the forest answered,” Mother whispered. “From that day until now, Alarion has never found us. His eyes slide past this place as though it is no more than another hollow in the trees. Wolves circle, but they do not cross. Storms batter, but the roof holds. It isn’t witchcraft, not truly. It’s a promise. Andpromises,” she added, her eyes glinting in the firelight, “are magic enough. So long as we live under this roof, girls, you are safe.”

Snow exhaled shakily, her sewing forgotten in her lap. My heart beat hard, full of wonder and gratitude and something like awe.

I stayed awake long after the others had drifted off to uneasy sleep, listening to the sound of rain against the roof and tracing in my mind the story Mother told and the one Derrick had tried to tell me. It wasmyfather who cursed him. With that realization, I renewed my vow to find a cure for him. I owed him that much.

The next day, the snow had melted just enough to show patches of black earth between the drifts. I drew water from the well, hauled it back to the hearth, and watched Mother’s shoulders relax with every mundane task I performed. As if normalcy could knit together what had been torn. Snow hummed while she set the table, the tune more hopeful than any I’d heard from her in weeks.

But in the afternoon, as the light faded and the chill crept back up from the ground, I saw the print of a massive paw in the slush beyond the woodshed. Not a wolf. Not a dog.

For a long while, I just stood and stared at it. Then I pressed my hand into the track, palm to pad, fingers splaying into the hardened mud.

A perfect fit.

That night I dreamed of Derrick—the man, the bear, and something in between—waiting patiently just on the edge of our little clearing, where the woods grew thick with secrets. He didn’t speak, but I felt his longing, like a rope thrown across thedark. I woke with my heart hammering, the taste of pine and honey in my mouth, and for the first time, I was not afraid.

When the thaw came at last, and the first crocus pushed through the snow, I packed up a wedge of bread, some honey, and a twist of smoked rabbit, and set out for the edge of the wood. The forest air was sharp as a slap, bracing and sweet with the scent of meltwater.

I left a note for Snow and Mother, telling them not to worry about me, that I would be fine. I didn't tell them that I went into the woods to find my father—I just said I was going to try to find a cure for the curse. I didn't want to lie to them, not even by omission, but not worrying them too much seemed more important—that evil bastard owed me. I wasn’t naive enough to think he would acquiesce to my demands from the goodness of his heart; I had prepared my arrows with sacred Hawthorn, and for good measure, I had added Rowan berries and ash. Threatened with his own life, I was sure he would tell me how to lift the spell.

Now all I had to do was find him.

The scent was so strong it sliced through the old rot and snowmelt, making my hackles lift. Even Magnus, who liked to pretend that the dwarf's stink was beneath him, turned our nose into the wind and huffed.

I found a fresh trail marked with a heavy, anxious tread that dug into the sodden earth as if the dwarf's greed itself weighed him down. I followed, ears and claws sharp, weaving between the pines where snow still clung in lopsided shrouds, each step a living memory of the last time I'd seen Rose's face, so pale and luminous it made the dawn jealous.

At first, the forest seemed to almost part for me. The birds went dead silent. Even the wind, which hated me with the patient malice of something that would outlast my bones, seemed to hush. I imagined the woods themselves wanted this chase done,wanted the old feud finished. But the deeper I went, the more I understood that all I'd earned was the right to be hated slower, more intimately. Roots curled up in the muck to snag my paws. Branches whipped me; one nearly gouged my eye out. The snow softened beneath me, and I felt the land itself trying to drag me down into the old wounds, the ones that never healed.

Still, I pressed on. I pressed on not just for myself, and not just for the promise I'd made to Father in the last lucid moment before his mind turned to stone, but for Rose, who haunted me. She hovered at the edge of each thought, a ghost I feared to conjure and yet could not dismiss. I remembered her lips, warm and raw with her own grief, whispering against my fur—I love you too. Each time the memory surfaced, something inside me contracted so violently that even Magnus had to pause and pant to catch his breath.

For a time, I lost the trail, water had pooled into a miniature bog, and the tracks vanished. I circled, snuffling, until my nose caught the undertone of metal and bitterness, the troll's coat, or maybe just his own bile. I found the trail again, and with it, a glimmer just ahead. Past two leaning stones, something glittered, a coin, maybe, or a drop of blood in one of the last snowbanks for the season. I crept closer, every sense on fire.

Suddenly, the ground, traitorous as always, gave way beneath me.

I fell fast, and the shock of the drop jarred my teeth together hard enough to taste blood. I landed on something sharp, then all went spinning as snow and dirt collapsed over me. The air was thick with the stench of pitch. I tried to scramble upright, but found that the sides of the pit, slicked with resin and mud, were lined with sharpened stakes. I bellowed, a roar that sentbirds shrieking from the trees, and clawed at the edge, but only slipped, tumbling back and gouging a raw line down my right foreleg.

Above, I heard his laughter. It was as ugly as his soul, and echoed in the way only true malice can, turning even the air against me.

"Big, stupid bear," he shrilled, and I could almost see him grinning from the safety of his perch. "Follow the crumbs, follow the trail, right into the hole. I thought you were supposed to be smart!"

I tried to ignore him, but Alarion—or Grimbalt, as he was cursed to be, warped by greed, spite, and a malice that had shriveled him into a troll—scrambled to the edge of his pit, jeering down at me. His face was a mask of mockery, and every word struck like a stone against my chest.

I dug my claws in and climbed, but the stakes splintered under my weight, and black pitch smeared my paws. It burned, gods, it burned. My fur smoked where the pitch had caught fire from the friction of my own escape attempt.

Magnus snarled inside me, savage and weary all at once.Enough. Let it end here. We’ve fought long enough.

For a moment, I almost agreed. It would be so easy: let the pit fill, let the darkness close around me, let the curse finish what it started.

But then I saw her again. Rose, kneeling at the stream with the winter sunlight on her hair, turning it to copper and flame. Her hands, both strong and soft, cupped my ruined muzzle, her voice so gentle and absolute when she said,It’s really you.

I seized on that memory and shoved it at Magnus.She’s why we need to get out. You hear me? She’s what matters. Not this hole. Not Grimbalt’s lies. Her.

Magnus growled, low and reluctant, but it wasn’t refusal; it was rage. A pulse of fury, of fight.

So I tried, again and again. My muscles screamed, and my paws were slick with burning pitch. The walls crumbled every time I managed to drag myself higher, showering me with dirt and ash, making me slide back half the footing I had just gained.

Grimbalt’s cackling rattled the pit like thunder. “Stay down, beast! The hole suits you. Crawl and burn until nothing’s left!”

Shut him out,Derrick urged Magnus.Climb. Claw. Tear if you must, but move!