The first figure they saw was the boy.
He stood just inside the threshold of the den, backlit by the flickering torch wedged into the stone wall. His hood had fallen back, revealing a mess of dark curls and a face pale with sleeplessness. But when he saw Isolde, something in his shoulders unclenched.
"You came," he said, as if he hadn't truly believed she would.
Isolde nodded. "I said we would. How is the child?"
The boy stepped forward. "He's breathing easier. The drops helped. He stopped convulsing about an hour ago."
Isolde exhaled, but didn't relax. "Did he speak?"
"No. But he's aware. And his eyes—" the boy faltered. "They've gone from red back to amber. Mostly."
Alaric moved beside her, eyes scanning the stonework, the claw marks, the burn-stained moss around the den's edge. Whatever this sickness was—it wasn't just a fever. And it wasn't finished.
The boy turned, gesturing them inward. "This way. The elders… they're waiting. Not all of them wanted me to come for you."
"Of course not," Isolde muttered ruefully under her breath.
But she followed.
The den was deeper than it looked from the outside. Carved into the hill in tiers, its oldest stones etched with runes so faded they could only be felt, not read. As they passed into the main chamber, the air grew thick with smoke, wolf musk, and the unmistakable tinge of scorched magic.
Four wolves waited at the edges of the chamber—two shifted, two still in skin. Their eyes tracked her with thinly veiled suspicion.
"She's the one?" one of them asked. A woman with greying braids and a long scar across her nose.
"She is," the boy said quickly. "She's the reason Tamin made it through the night."
The woman's gaze drifted to Alaric, then narrowed. "And him?"
Isolde's chin lifted. "He's with me."
That earned a pause. A faint mutter passed between two of the elders. But no one challenged her outright.
"Tamin's this way," the boy said, breaking the tension. "We moved him into the inner chamber. It's cooler there."
They followed him down a narrow hall, torchlight dancing on the damp stone. The further they walked, the more magic clung to the walls—residue of old rites and older protections that had grown brittle with neglect.
When they reached the room, the air changed again.
Sickness lived here.
Not just the sharp-sweet tang of fever sweat, but something else—something slick and metallic that curled behind the teeth like rusted blood.
The child lay in a nest of furs, limbs twitching softly in sleep. His face was flushed, his shift incomplete—wolf ears visible, one clawed hand resting near his heart. But his chest rose in steady rhythm.
Isolde knelt beside him without hesitation.
She didn't ask for silence. She didn't need to.
Her hands moved automatically—checking pulse, temperature, the scent of his skin. Then she reached for the small vial at her belt, uncorked it, and let a drop fall into her palm.
Alaric watched as she whispered something too old to belong to any modern tongue.
The drop began to glow.
Softly. Faintly. A silver-green shimmer that flickered in time with the boy's breathing.
Isolde placed the glowing drop against the centre of his forehead. It sank in without resistance.
And then the child shuddered.
The glow flared once—bright enough to throw shadows on the wall.
And in the quiet that followed, the boy sighed in his sleep… and shifted fully, curling into a small, whole wolf.
The tension in the room cracked.
Behind her, someone let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
Isolde rose slowly. Her voice was hoarse. "The magic in him is old. And hungry. Something's been feeding it."
Alaric stepped closer. "Feeding it how?"
"I don't know yet." Her eyes flicked toward the walls. "But whatever it is—it's not finished."
The silence held until the child let out a soft huff in his sleep—wolf-shaped now, whole, for the first time in days.
A breath of relief swept the room. The boy who had fetched her sat down hard on the floor. One of the elders murmured something low and reverent, a prayer to the Moon or perhaps just to chance.
Isolde remained standing. Calm. Measured. She let them feel the relief—but only for a moment.
Then she turned.
"You did the right thing calling for me," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Tamin is safe for now. But this isn't over."
The older woman with the scar narrowed her eyes. "You healed him. Isn't that what matters?"
"I treated him," Isolde corrected. "The affliction hasn't finished its work."
The air tightened.
"Whatever this is," she continued, "it feeds on fear. On desperation. It slides into the body when we are too exhausted to fight it. Tamin is young. His mind is still fluid, still open. That saved him."
One of the other elders spoke up—male, broad-shouldered, with sharp yellow eyes. "And the others? The ones we already lost?"
She met his gaze. "They were already too far gone."
Another hush.
"I've seen it before," she added.
That got their attention.
Her voice lowered. "Two nights in a row, something's come for me in the woods. It moves like a beast but doesn't bleed like one. It's fast. Wrong. Stitched together by something not born of fang or claw."
"Why would it target you?" someone asked, wary.
"Because I see it," she said. "Because I fought it. Because it knows I can name it."
A rustle of unease swept the chamber.
Alaric moved behind her, silent and still—but watchful. Ready.
She faced the firelit space with both hands open.
"My theory," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her gut, "is this: the creature isn't one thing. It's many. Something old. Something broken that wants to be whole again. And it's using wolves—sick wolves—as a door."
The words hit like flint to dry grass.
"Possession?" one of the elders asked.
"Not exactly," she said. "It doesn't take the mind. It distorts the shift. Hollowing them out until they become the thing wearing their own skin."
Someone gagged softly near the back.
"It happened in the Deepwood once," she added. "My mother faced it. I thought it was sealed."
Alaric spoke then, his voice cutting clean through the rising panic.
"We've seen two of them already. One chased her. The other ran when it saw me."
The room turned toward him, startled.
"They know me," he said. "They fear me. And I don't know why."
That truth hung heavier than anything else.
Isolde's voice returned, low and clear.
"I'm not here to frighten you. I came because a child needed help, and I would do it again." Her gaze swept across them. "But if this den doesn't prepare… if you wait too long to act again… more of your pups will be taken."
No one spoke.
Then, slowly, the elder woman inclined her head.
"What do you need from us?" she asked.
Isolde nodded once.
"I need your sick moved to open ground. I need ash and salt, woven with red thread. And I need you to burn anything the afflicted slept on."
"And you?" the boy asked. "What will you do?"
She looked toward Alaric.
"Everything I can."