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Seren

Seren stood at the edge of the forest, the sky around her awash in twilight indigo and deep gold. Her cloak was pulled tight against the wind, her braid tucked beneath the hood.

She had made her calls.

The arrangements were in place.

The last few days had passed beneath the stone arches of the old caves, deep beyond the forest—where no one dared go. They were whispered to be haunted, cursed. But she found peace there.

The bear had stayed close. Getting accustomed to his new shape. But he refused to speak. It was clear that he understood the Wolven language. And yet not a word passed his lips. He only listened and followed.

He brought her offerings: bright berries, edible roots, moss-wrapped bulbs. He ate meat—but never around her. She had spoken to him in her way, and he listened with his ancient eyes. It hadn't been easy to give him the slip to do what needed doing.

Now, she stood at the threshold of the town square, near the sacred pool. The courtyard was mostly empty—only the guards on rotation, and a few traders clearing out for the night .

Twilight. Neither day nor night.

The right time.

She moved with quiet steps, her cloak brushing the ground. The sacred pool shimmered ahead, still and deep, reflecting the first of the stars. The air was thick with old magic.

A buzz sparked across her spine—someone had seen her.

It didn't matter. She had to be quick.

She stepped forward, drew the small pouch of rice powder from around her waist, and poured it into a wide ring around her feet. She whispered the binding syllables under her breath, the ones the Crone had written in faded ink and the margins of a much more innocent page.

A hum began to build in the air as the circle sealed itself.

The wards rose like a glass dome—silent, glowing faintly gold.

Nothing could come in.

The whisper of movement came now from all sides. Figures approaching. The gathered wolves. The buzz of the tribelink spiked in confusion. It all seemed far away .

She let her cloak fall.

Gasps.

She was dressed in the red of her people. Runes in blood on her cheeks and forehead glowed in the low light.

She began the second spell.

Her voice didn't tremble. She had practised it so many times in her mind, in the caves, even in her sleep.

A blood-sacrifice. One that could either bind or sever.

It was old.

Forbidden because not many have survived the pain of it.

But not impossible.

Her hands moved in precise patterns. Her voice rose with each breath. She was vaguely aware of him—a familiar thread at the edge of her senses. A storm pounding against the wards.

Hagan.

He was shouting something, but she couldn't hear it. She didn't need to .

The crowd was growing—alarm, confusion, panic. A few ran for the Oracle. Others tried to push through, but the wards shimmered stronger.

And then—

The knife.

She drew it from the sheath tied to her thigh. Silver. Blessed. Another gift from the Crone.

Her hands didn't shake.

She pressed the blade to her wrist.

And cut.

A clean line from the soft underside to the crease of her elbow.

Then the other.

Blood ran in steady streams, soaking the white fabric, and spilling onto the sand of the sacred courtyard. The magic sparked beneath her feet—crimson now, tinged with gold .

She was swaying, her chant faltering. But she kept going.

In the periphery, she saw Hagan throw himself against the barrier.

It didn't give.

He was screaming. As if underwater, she felt the vibrations of him calling her name.

Seren

Seren

SEREN

And still, she chanted.

Until her knees buckled.

She pitched forward—falling outside herself. Falling into the magic. Into the silence.

The last thing she felt was the burn blooming across her wrists—sharp, searing—

—and then the world tilted .

She was falling.

Into darkness.

Into silence.

Into the abyss.

And then... nothing.