The journey is a grueling haze of pain and endurance. Kael is not a gentle guide. He is a survivor, and he expects the same of me. There is no pity in his storm-grey eyes when I stumble, no offer of a softer path. There is only a grim, pragmatic urgency that pushes me forward. The wound in my side, though no longer poisoned with the icy dread of the iron, is a raw, screaming protest with every step I take. The poultice Kael applied works, but it is a battlefield remedy, designed to keep me on my feet, not to provide comfort.
For two days, we move deeper into the wild, forbidden lands. Kael navigates the dense, oppressive forest not like a visitor, but like a native. He reads the bent branches, the moss on the trees, the subtle shifts in the terrain with an expertise that speaks of years spent in this green prison. He shows me how to muffle my scent with crushed pine needles and mud, how to walk on the balls of my feet to make less sound. He is not teaching me to be a warrior; he is teaching me to be a ghost. It's a bitter education, but I absorb every lesson with a desperate intensity. My old life is ash; these harsh skills are the only thing that will allow me to build a new one.
As we travel, the forest itself seems to change. The trees grow older, thicker, their branches weaving together into a dense canopy that blots out the sky. A strange, heavy silence falls, broken only by the sound of our own breathing. It feels like the woods are holding their breath. I feel a pressure building, a strange, prickling sensation on my skin.
"The border," Kael grunts, noticing my discomfort. "The Alphas of all the surrounding packs agreed centuries ago. This part of the woods is off-limits. They call it the Deadwood. They tell stories of ancient evils, of ghosts that drive shifters mad. They use fear to keep their wolves in line." He lets out a short, contemptuous laugh. "They are fools. They fear what they don't understand, and what they don't understand, they call evil."
He leads me towards what looks like a solid wall of sheer, moss-covered rock, a dead end. But as we get closer, I see it: a narrow fissure, barely wide enough for a man to pass through sideways, hidden by a curtain of hanging vines. Kael slips through it without a word, and I follow, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
The moment I step through the ravine, the world transforms. The heavy, oppressive pressure on my senses vanishes, replaced by a feeling of profound, calming peace. The air, which had been thick and stagnant, is now fresh and alive, filled with the scent of damp earth, night-blooming flowers, and something else… something that feels like home. It is the silvery, humming energy of my own magic, magnified a thousand times. It's in the air, in the soil, in the very stones. It's a sanctuary.
We emerge from the ravine into a hidden valley. My jaw drops in sheer, unadulterated awe. It is a place completely untouched by the rest of the forest, a secret, verdant world bathed in a soft, ethereal light that filters down from the canopy high above. A gentle stream, its water so clear it looks like liquid crystal, winds through a meadow of vibrant, glowing flora. In the center of the valley, nestled against the base of the mountain, are the ruins of a small, ancient settlement.
The buildings are not the crude, timber-and-thatch constructions of a shifter pack. They are made of pale, smooth stone, carved with elegant, flowing lines that seem to mimic the world around them. The walls are covered in thick, emerald-green vines, and glowing moss clings to the crumbling archways. A sense of immense age and deep, sleeping power permeates the entire place. It's a graveyard, but a beautiful one. It feels haunted, not by angry ghosts, but by peaceful, sleeping memories.
"What is this place?" I whisper, my voice filled with a reverence I haven't felt since I stood before my Alpha, back when I still believed in gods.
"The witches' old sanctuary," Kael says, his own voice softer here, the hard edges worn down by the valley's profound peace. "My father found it years ago, following the old legends. It's hidden from the outside world by the sheer magical density of the place. It confuses the senses of normal shifters, gives them headaches, makes them feel like they're being watched. It's the perfect hiding spot."
He's right. My own magic, which has been a quiet, humming thing until now, sings in this place. It feels like it's being welcomed home, stretching and unfurling in the nourishing atmosphere.
The awe of the place is quickly replaced by the daunting reality of our situation. We are safe from pursuit, but we are not yet home. The ruins are just that—ruins. Most of the stone buildings have collapsed in on themselves, their roofs open to the sky, their floors covered in rubble and reclaimed by nature.
"We need shelter before nightfall," Kael says, his pragmatism returning. "The nights are cold, and you're still wounded."
He leads me to the largest of the structures, a collapsed hall with at least one section of its roof still miraculously intact. We spend the rest of the day in a state of exhausting, purposeful labor. Kael, with his superior strength, heaves fallen stones and timber out of the way, while I, with my smaller frame, clear away the smaller rubble, the leaves, and the dirt. The Moon-Fox, who had been following us silently the entire journey, watches from a nearby rock, a silent, approving overseer.
We work in a comfortable, unspoken rhythm. There is no hierarchy here, no Alpha's command or omega's task. There is only the shared, fundamental goal of creating a safe space. For the first time since my exile, I don't feel like a burden. I feel like a partner. We are two outcasts, building a new life from the wreckage of the old.
By the time the ethereal light of the valley begins to dim, we have cleared a small, defensible corner of the ruined hall. It's not much, but it's a space that is ours. It has three solid walls and the section of roof that will keep the worst of the rain off. We build a small fire in the center, and the dancing flames cast long, warm shadows against the ancient stones.
Kael shares his meager rations with me—strips of dried, salted meat and a handful of hard, nutty bread. It tastes better than any feast I ever had at the pack house. This is food earned, not given.
After we eat, a weary but satisfied silence settles between us. I run my hand over the cool, smooth stones of the wall. They are covered in faint, elegant carvings—spiraling patterns, celestial charts, and symbols that I now recognize from the journal. This was their home. My ancestors'. A deep, poignant sense of connection washes over me. I am not just a trespasser here. I am a descendant. I am the last daughter of a forgotten line, returned to the place where my history was born.
As I'm exploring the far wall of our small sanctuary, my foot catches on something uneven. I look down. The stone floor here is covered in a thick layer of moss and compacted earth. But where I kicked it, something else is visible. A dark, straight line. It's not a crack in the stone. It's a floorboard. A rotten, wooden floorboard.
"Kael," I call out, my voice low. "Look at this."
He limps over, his interest piqued. He crouches beside me, using the blade of his hunting knife to scrape away more of the moss and dirt. It's not just one board. There are others beneath the debris. The floor in this section of the hall isn't stone; it's wood.
"That's strange," he mutters, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Why would they build a stone hall and then put in a wooden floor? Unless…"
His eyes meet mine, and a shared spark of discovery passes between us. Unless the floor was hiding something.
I lean down to test one of the boards. As I put my weight on it, it gives way with a sickening crack of rotten wood. My foot plunges through, into darkness. I cry out in surprise, pulling my leg back up.
I peer into the hole I've just made. It's not dirt or stone beneath. It is a dark, empty space that smells of cool, still air and ancient dust. A cellar.
Working together now with a feverish excitement, we use Kael's knife and my smaller silver blade as levers, prying up the remaining rotten boards. They splinter and break, but we manage to clear a large enough section to see what lies beneath. In the flickering firelight, we find it. Lying flush with the earthen floor below is a large, square slab of dark stone, perfectly flat and out of place with the rough ground around it. It is a door. A cellar door.
And carved deep into its center is the unmistakable, elegant symbol of a crescent moon.