Aava
Something shifted. A perception, subtle yet sharp and undeniable. In the air, in the water, deep in my gut.
It was the dead of night, and the clash between the packs seemed to have finally burnt itself out.
Beings of sheer chaos, raw instinct, and feral violence. For months now, skirmishes and bloody retaliations had ravaged the North… but this battle had been different.
It had dragged on for days—days without a moment of respite, leaving us constantly on edge along our invisible ward-lines, vigilant lest they breach our borders.
By afternoon, the violence had begun to wane. Come nightfall, the howls and cries of agony had finally ceased.
I stood upon the lower ledge of the cliff at the boundary of the ward, watching, listening. Nothing. Perhaps the slaughter truly was over. Finally.
A waxing moon cast a pale sheen over the tranquil low-tide waves breaking against the shore. I glanced back up at the sheer cliff plunging into the sea, tracing the slope as it softened downward toward where I stood.
Black and jagged gray rock, threaded with hardy, salt-bitten scrub, tumbled down to the gentle curve of the beach, carving out a hidden nook of sea caves completely concealed from prying eyes.
This was the northwesternmost edge of the ward—my patrol route, and a haven for foraging the medicinal herbs I had gathered since childhood.
I felt it again, stronger now. Like a distant wail, vibrating not from the air, but from within my own marrow.
I stepped onto the beach, moving toward the line where sand gave way to rock, careful not to cross the ward.
And there I saw him. A silhouette, a spark of life cradled and shielded by the stones, half-submerged in the shallows just beyond the barrier.
A man, unconscious. The sharp, copper-heavy stench of a recent, brutal shift clung to his skin.
His scent reached me: unmistakably wolf, unmistakably powerful. Yet it lacked the raw taint of the beasts I had caught wind of from afar.
He smelled of pine, damp moss, dark embers… and beneath it all, an unsettling, wild trace of sweet amber sap.
I snapped my gaze to the crest of the cliff above. Nothing moved. I searched the dark, straining my ears, but caught no sound.
Knowing full well the risk, I chose to step beyond the ward. I was a healing witch; I could not leave him to rot.
However unworthy of mercy wolves might be, I could not walk away without knowing whether he drew breath or was already claimed by death.
I advanced cautiously. The sea foam lapped at the hem of my dress and cloak, soaking my boots.
Picking my way through the slick rocks and wet sand, I crouched beside him to check his pulse—or seal his passing.
His breath was faint. I brushed dark strands of hair from his brow, revealing a pale scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
When my fingers grazed his throat, I was met with startling heat: despite the freezing tide and the bitter air, he was burning hot.
He was completely naked, stripped bare by the violent shift.
Severe lacerations tore across his body: his left arm, covered in dark, ritual ink that wound from the back of his hand up to his shoulder, was shredded.
Deep gouges scarred his chest and right shoulder. The lower half of his frame was swallowed by the dark water, obscuring further wounds.
He had to be remarkably strong to still be breathing after such brutality. Young, certainly—perhaps only a few years older than myself—with heavy, battle-forged muscle.
I scanned the ridge once more, looking back down at him, and then I heard them: howls.
Not the frenzy of combat, nor a war cry. They were low, resonant, communicating across distances.
A scouting party, I realized.
His pack tracking him, or rivals hunting him down.
What do I do? The howls drew closer, creeping along the clifftops.
Acting quickly, I wove a masking ward to veil both our scents, then cast a tight, invisible perimeter around us.
With the shield set, the immediate danger lessened, but I couldn’t leave him exposed.
If those howling beasts were his kin, he could return to them once mended; if they were enemies, they would butcher him where he lay.
An instinctive urge seized me to shelter him, to keep him breathing. A wolf—a wretched brute.
Yet it wasn’t merely my healer’s oath driving me. There was something else, an inexplicable pull humming between us, one I chose to obey.
Dragging him across the open beach was out of the question; he was far too tall, far too massive.
Channeling my magic through a pair of lifting charms, I levitated his dead weight a few inches above the sand and guided him into one of the deeper, hidden caverns nested safely within our territory.
Inside, he was barred from whatever hunted him outside—though entirely vulnerable to the coven.
If any of the sisters discovered a living, breathing enemy wolf hidden deep within our sacred borders, they would execute him on the spot, and condemn me right alongside him for treason.
Once across the threshold, I tore off my cloak, spread it across the damp sand, and eased his heavy frame onto it.
Immediately, I set to work anchoring heavy wards across the cave mouth.
The string of spells—the masking charm, the levitation, and the dense boundary ward—drained me to my bones.
I collapsed against the rock beside him, catching my breath and steadying my thudding heart.
His legs were battered as well, with a particularly vicious tear across his thigh.
He’s in terrible shape, I thought grimly. I would need to turn him later to inspect his back and flanks.
I exhaled, cursing myself for not abandoning him to the tide, and took in the damp stone walls.
A mental tally formed in my mind: everything I would need to smuggle down here—herbs, bandages, clothes, wool blankets, brewing herbalist tools...
I would also have to weave a hearth-ward into the stone itself, coaxing the rock to radiate heat without a flame.
A grueling toll of magic and time. For a wolf. A damned wolf.
I looked at his face. Even in the depths of unconsciousness, his features were taut with agony.
I knew wolves and shifters possessed a healing vigor far beyond human limits, yet it demanded immense strength; wounds this grievous would still claim him without aid.
I pressed my palm to his forehead. He burned beneath my touch, radiating fierce heat—and then, in an instant, it hit me.
A shock of white-hot, agonizing torment tore through my senses. I had felt empathetic resonance before, but never like this—unbidden, raw, and blinding.
I ripped my hand back, gasping for air as my vision spun, waiting for the wave to recede.
Trembling, I stared at him in sheer disbelief.
The agony was his—so how had I felt it tear through my own flesh and bone?
As if it were my own body lying battered, broken, and bleeding out on the stone.
Shaking off the daze, I pushed myself up.
The night was slipping away, and I needed every remaining shadow to gather supplies and prepare the cave.
Come dawn, the coven would expect me for my duties, and I would have no chance to return to him.
