Chapter 7
The road from Red Tail wound like a scar through the forest, moonlight catching on the Council’s procession as it moved in grim silence. Hooves thudded against the packed earth, cloaks flapped in the wind, and not a single Elder spoke for miles.
Elder Malachi rode at the front, his shoulders squared, his expression carved from stone. Behind him, Seraphine’s silver hair gleamed faintly beneath her hood, her pale eyes half-closed as if still caught in visions. Elder Haman trailed further back, whispering sharp commands to the guards who accompanied them.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Seraphine finally broke it.
“She is veiled.”
Malachi’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Not by her own doing,” Seraphine went on. “The girl is shrouded. I reached for her flame, and it slipped away like smoke. Someone hides her from us.”
At this, Elder Gideon, broad and bearded, let out a growl. “The witches.”
The word hung heavy in the night.
Malachi said nothing at first, but his silence was agreement enough.
Seraphine’s lips curved faintly. “They meddle as they always have. Did I not say I smelled the Wonder Woods on the wind? Their magic clings to her like a cloak.”
Gideon spat into the dirt. “They defy the Council. They have grown bold.”
“They have grown desperate,” Malachi corrected, his voice like gravel. “The prophecy was never theirs to guard. Yet they cling to it, weaving shadows around the child.”
Elder Haman urged his horse closer, his eyes glittering. “Then we strip the shadows away. Root them out. Burn the Wonder Woods until nothing remains but ash.”
Seraphine’s voice cut across him, sharp but calm. “And risk war with forces older than our Council? Even your ambition, Haman, would not dare such folly.”
Haman scowled, but Malachi raised a hand, silencing them both.
“We must tread carefully. The witches cannot be fought by steel alone. If we strike blindly, we will lose more than ground—we will lose the people’s faith. Already the packs whisper of destiny and flame. If we burn the woods, we feed their legends.”
The Council fell quiet, the steady rhythm of hooves filling the void.
At last, Malachi spoke again. “No. We do not attack the witches, not yet. We weaken them by other means. If the girl is theirs to protect, then we make the girl theirs to lose. Let her falter, and their veil crumbles. Let her stumble, and destiny fails itself.”
They stopped at a clearing where a fire was kindled. Guards pitched tents, but the Elders gathered apart, their voices hushed yet fierce.
Seraphine sat close to the flames, her eyes distant, seeing not the wood but visions only she could glimpse. “I saw her again in a dream,” she whispered. “A crown of fire upon her brow. Blood at her feet. Wolves kneeling.”
Gideon shifted uneasily. “Your visions grow more fevered with each moon.”
“They grow clearer,” Seraphine corrected coldly. “Do not mistake truth for madness.”
Malachi leaned forward. “And in your dream, was the boy there?”
Her gaze flicked to him, a shadow crossing her face. “Yes. Always. The crippled son of Tobias. He stood at her side, and his mark burned upon her skin.”
A silence fell heavier than before.
“That boy,” Gideon growled, “is no warrior. No Alpha. He limps like a broken hound. How can he be her mate?”
“Because prophecy cares little for strength,” Seraphine murmured. “It binds hearts, not muscles. The witches know this. That is why they shelter him as surely as they shelter her.”
At her words, Haman’s face twisted with distaste. “Then let us end him before the bond can take root. Strike the boy, and the vision shatters.”
Malachi’s eyes narrowed. “And risk open war with the Thick Fur Pack? Tobias would not forgive blood spilled on his line. We would gain nothing but chaos.”
“Chaos can be useful,” Haman countered, leaning forward, his voice low and eager. “If Red Tail and Thick Fur bleed one another, who gains? We do. While they squabble, we press Louis to act. The White Fur Pack grows restless under his ambition. He craves the girl’s hand for his son. Let him strike where we cannot.”
At the mention of Louis, a few Elders muttered uneasily. He was not of their Council, yet his hunger for power often mirrored their own.
Malachi considered this in silence. At last, he said, “Louis is a blunt instrument. He would grasp too quickly, and in doing so reveal our hand.”
“Unless,” Haman said slyly, “we guide him. Whisper of the prophecy. Feed his fear of being cheated of his bargain with Elias. He will do the work for us, believing it of his own will.”
Seraphine’s pale eyes gleamed. “Let the wolf chase the scent of meat, never knowing we set it before him.”
Malachi gave a slow nod. “Perhaps.”
The fire crackled. For a while, none spoke. Only the wind moved, sighing through the trees.
Finally, Gideon growled, “And if the witches strike back? They will not stand idle while Louis makes his move.”
“Then let them strike,” Malachi said, his voice cold and certain. “Every spell costs them strength. Every whisper to the girl binds them closer to her fate. If she falls, they fall. That is the way of prophecy. We need only wait until their own devotion damns them.”
Seraphine’s lips curved into a thin smile. “And if she does not fall?”
Malachi looked into the flames, their glow reflected in his dark eyes. “Then we ensure she does.”
Later that night, as the others drifted to their tents, Seraphine lingered by the dying fire. Her visions clung to her, heavy as chains. She saw Cassie’s face, saw the fire crown blaze brighter than the sun, saw Caleb’s hand entwined with hers. She saw the Elders’ thrones crumble to dust, their power stripped like bark from a tree.
And she felt, for the first time in centuries, a flicker of fear.
Whispers stirred at the edge of the clearing, voices that did not belong to the Council. They slid between the trees, faint yet clear: You cannot stop what has begun.
Seraphine stiffened, scanning the dark, but saw nothing. Still, the voice echoed, unmistakable. The witches had reached even here.
She drew her cloak tighter, muttering a curse. “So be it. If you weave shadows, witches, then I will weave fire. Let us see whose vision endures.”
The flames hissed, as if in answer, before collapsing into ash.
By dawn, the Council was on the move again. Malachi rode at the front, his expression unreadable, but his mind was set.
Their next destination: the White Fur Pack.
Their next weapon: Alpha Louis and his ambition.
And their next plot: to pit destiny against itself.
