The axe sliced clean through the log.
Alaric exhaled, muscles easing as the wood split neatly in two. He didn't move right away. Just stood there, hand braced on the handle, listening.
The birds were quieter today. The wind felt heavier, pushing down through the trees with the weight of something coming.
He'd offered to chop wood that morning with the same stubborn instinct that told him to keep moving, to do something with his hands, to stay sharp. The forest was beautiful, yes—but it still watched. And in a life like his, stillness was never safe for long.
The woodpile beside the chopping block was growing. Isolde had been nearby earlier, tending the garden and muttering at her basil, but she'd gone back inside after the clouds thickened.
He lifted another log.
That was when the scent hit him.
Not blood.
Not rot.
But wolf.
And not her scent.
Someone else.
Someone fast.
Someone afraid.
He turned just as the figure broke through the trees—hooded, lean, panting hard. A young man, barely more than a boy, soaked in sweat and mud. His cloak bore the faded emblem of a minor outer-ring pack.
His eyes widened the moment he saw Alaric, but he didn't stop.
"Isolde Silvanne?" the boy gasped, nearly stumbling over the last stretch. "This is her place?"
Alaric stepped forward, axe still in hand—not threatening, but not soft either.
"She's inside."
The boy swallowed hard. "Tell her… she's needed. There's sickness. A child. The fever's spreading, and the other healers are too far."
Alaric nodded. "I'll get her."
But before he turned, the boy added, eyes narrowing slightly as if suddenly placing the figure before him:"You're not from here."
"No," Alaric said. "I'm not."
The boy hesitated. "You're the wolf from the southern crossing. The one with no scent."
Alaric's jaw twitched.
Before he could answer, the door creaked open behind him.
Isolde's voice rang through the air—calm, steady, already prepared.
"What's happened?"
Isolde stepped down from the doorway, skirts brushing the herbs drying along the threshold. Her braid was hastily tied back, wisps still clinging to her cheekbones. She carried a leather pouch already half-filled with salves and linen.
The boy straightened the moment he saw her—something reverent in his posture, or maybe just desperate.
"You said a child?" she asked, voice calm but taut with urgency.
The boy nodded. "One of the pack pups. His fever won't break. He's been half-shifted since dawn, and his mother—she's not breathing right either."
Isolde's jaw tightened, but she didn't let fear show. "How far?"
"Two ridges west. An hour, maybe. The old Frostbrook den."
Isolde exchanged a glance with Alaric. He gave a subtle nod, already moving to retrieve his cloak from the branch where it hung.
She stepped closer to the boy, assessing. "Any other symptoms?"
He hesitated. "Red eyes. Teeth chattering. Like something's moving under the skin."
Alaric's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
Isolde's breath came slower now. "And no one else has been able to treat it?"
"They sent for the midwife from Crosspine, but she turned back after the last one died."
That gave her pause.
She studied the boy's face carefully. "Why come to me?"
He looked down. "Because my sister said you once brought her back when her lungs had collapsed. And because the others said you were the last witch who hadn't run."
Alaric's eyes flicked to her at that word—witch—but Isolde didn't flinch.
She reached into her pouch and pulled out a tiny glass vial filled with smoky green liquid. "Put two drops of this on the child's tongue if he stops breathing again. Only two."
The boy took it with trembling fingers, nodding fast.
"Wait by the tree line," she said. "We'll follow soon."
The boy darted off, vanishing into the green with the same urgency he'd arrived.
Inside, the rhythm shifted.
Isolde moved quickly, gathering bundles of cloth, bitter roots, a bone-handled knife she rarely used but always packed. She filled a satchel with gauze and fire balm, wrapped three small jars in wool, and tucked a short leather-bound book of spells into the folds of a cloak.
Alaric leaned against the doorframe, watching. "You've done this before."
"Too many times."
"Is it a sickness?"
She hesitated, then looked up. "It might've started as one. But if it's doing what he described, it's moved beyond the body."
"Magic?"
"Or something worse. Desperation. Curses. Old grief."
Alaric stepped in, crossing the room to reach for the canteen on her shelf. "You're sure you want me to come?"
She looked at him, still as a held breath. "You said you weren't leaving."
"I meant it."
She nodded once, quickly. "Then grab the salt jars. And the red thread. You might be carrying the ward line."
His brows rose slightly. "You trust me with that?"
"I just told you not to touch the jar with your bare hands."
He smirked. "Noted."
They worked in tandem for a while, the tension folding into focus, the quiet between them not quite comfort—but not fear, either.
When the pack was full and her blade secured at her hip, Isolde turned to him, pausing just before the door.
"Whatever we find there," she said, voice low, "you follow me."
He stepped beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
"I will."
And then they were gone.
The cottage door swung shut behind them, the scent of rosemary and ash trailing in their wake.