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Seren

Seren lay curled up on her side in the Oracle's loft like a ghost—her body present, her soul somewhere unreachable.

She didn't move.

Didn't sleep.

Didn't eat.

The days passed in a grey blur, light bleeding in through the slats and fading again with nothing in between. The Oracle tried, gently, with tea, with stories, even with a brush to her hair. But Seren didn't speak.

"I could only carry the messages of the Three Sisters," the Oracle said once, voice breaking. "I wasn't allowed to interfere. You must believe me."

Seren said nothing.

Even Veyr came, sitting beside her in silence. When he offered water, she drank a little. But nothing else passed her lips. Not food. Not words. Not glances.

Her phone rang—her mother, Talis, even Astrid once .

She didn't answer.

She felt like she was drifting from her body, weightless, untethered.

The bond in her chest—once a glowing thread, once the promise of something—now felt like a jagged wire. Raw. Splintered. Bleeding. Newly bonded never went this long without even a simple touch.

On the first night, Draken came.

He stood awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, guilt heavy on his face. "Seren," he called softly. "Please. I owe you more than I can ever repay. Just give me a moment. Just let me explain."

She didn't answer.

She lay curled beneath the quilt, unmoving.

Draken stayed a while longer, then turned and left—his footsteps heavy with shame.

On the second night, Hagan came.

She heard the door creak open. Heard his breath catch as he climbed the steps slowly. She lay on her side, her back to him, the quilt pulled high over her shoulder .

"Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "Please look at me."

She didn't.

He stood there for a long time, saying nothing else.

Then she heard him turn away.

Later, she heard him crying downstairs.

The next day passed the same.

Veyr came and sat beside her on the floor. When he offered water, she sipped. But she still didn't speak.

Her phone rang.

Her mother. Talis. Astrid.

She didn't answer.

On the third morning, the footsteps returned.

Draken again, followed by Hagan .

The Oracle stood at the door, barring them from climbing the steps. "She's not ready," she said gently.

"She doesn't need time—she needs me," Hagan growled, panic rising in his voice.

"No," the Oracle replied. "She needs herself."

"At least let me touch her" begged Hagan "I don't want her in pain."

There was silence, then footsteps up the stairs. She could feel the bond pulse painfully as he came close. Slowly his fingers touched her toe peeking out from beneath the quilt. Immediately, the pain of the bond receded. There was peace. She slept.

He left, but not without lingering in the garden below, pulling out weeds, his tears soaking the earth. Occasionally he would look up at the loft window with longing in his blue eyes.

Inside, Seren remained beneath the covers.

Until, at last, she rose. On the fourth morning, her limbs finally moved.

She rose slowly, like someone rising from a grave. Her limbs felt stiff and ached from the inactivity. She bathed in silence, dressed, and walked down the stairs barefoot .

The Oracle didn't speak.

She simply placed a bowl of steaming broth on the table and sat nearby, watching.

Seren drank half.

Her hands trembled around the spoon.

Then her voice came, hoarse from disuse. "How do I break the bond?"

The Oracle's face paled. "Seren... you can't. It has never been done. It's not just magic—it's fate."

Seren didn't argue. She just stood, climbed the stairs again, and reached for her phone.

Her mother's face appeared on screen, bright and cheerful—until she saw Seren's.

"My moonbeam... What happened to you?" she whispered. "You look so tired."

"I need to speak to the Crone," Seren said quietly.

Her mother froze, her expression crumpling. Her voice broke. "I didn't want to upset you but... she passed, love. In her sleep, two nights ago. "

Seren didn't respond.

Tears spilt over, quiet and relentless.

"I tried, Mamma," she whispered. "I really did. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry..."

Her mother's voice cracked with panic. "Seren—what happened? Tell me, please—what's going on? Is it Hagan? Is it the tribe? Baby, talk to me—"

But Seren just stared at the screen.

And then, with trembling fingers, she ended the call.

Leaving her mother's desperate voice echoing into the void.

She set the phone down, curled forward, and buried her face in her hands as the tears came harder, deeper—shaking her shoulders and soaking the sleeves of her tunic.

She curled forward and cried into her hands—raw, silent, and alone .

Much later, she sat on the floor and opened the book the Crone had gifted her. A Practical Herb Grimoire, it read. It was a collection of notes of useful plants. Remedies. Salves. Warding smoke. She had read and reread it many times.

But tucked between the pressed flowers and lined pages were spells.

Old ones. Faded. Illegible in places.

Still, nothing of use to her.

She searched the Oracle's library, slipping through shelves of brittle parchment and dust—but found nothing.

It was only when she went back to the Crone's book, flipping pages slowly by lamplight, that a folded yellow envelope slipped free and landed in her lap.

Her breath caught.

She remembered—barely—being handed it years ago as she said her goodbyes, the Crone's voice a whisper in her memory: "For when the path is lost, and all doors are locked."

She opened it with shaking fingers .

The writing was shaky. Faded. But each word made her heart beat faster.

The knock at the door startled her.

Hagan.

He stood there, exhausted and unshaven, his voice raw with hope and desperation.

"You need to come back," he said, his voice already frayed, barely above a whisper. "Please, Seren. The bond... it's eating me alive."

She didn't answer.

He swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the ache building in his throat. "I'll do anything. Anything you ask. You can mark me with the whip, exile me, make me wear silver until I bleed—just say the word."

She stared past him, hollow-eyed.

"I deserve it," he said, stepping closer. His voice cracked. "I know I deserve it. But please, don't leave me in this silence."

Still nothing.

He took another step, shaking now .

"You have to feel it too." His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for her—but didn't dare. "I know you do. That pull in your chest. That ache that doesn't stop. It hurts when we're apart. It wasn't meant to stretch like this."

His voice dropped to a whisper, desperate and frantic.

"The bond will bring you back to me. It has to."

But Seren just looked past him. Still hollow-eyed. Still silent.

Something flickered in his expression—panic, then anger.

He turned and left.

Her heart thundered, but she didn't turn from her path.

Instead, she turned back to the envelope, her hands trembling as she reread the final lines of the letter.

That night, long before dawn, Seren slipped from the loft window in silence. She climbed down the tree barefoot, her cloak tied at her waist. The forest welcomed her, cool and whispering, as her senses stretched outward—listening. Feeling. Like a mother welcoming her child back .

No one followed her.

She moved like a shadow through the underbrush, until the path opened into the clearing.

The same one where she had first fled, breathless, terrified—from the beast.

But it was not a beast now.

The bear stepped from the trees cautiously, shoulders heavy with muscle and silence. It's great head tilted snout twitching.

She didn't run.

She didn't flinch.

She stepped forward, her hand outstretched.

And for the first time, her palm touched the rough wetness of his nose.

His eyes met hers—dark, ancient, aware.

"I need your help," she whispered.