The Galatea Oath

Eira woke before the light learned how to enter her room. The forest lodge was still half-swallowed in early cold, the kind that clung to timber and refused to leave even when the sun remembered it existed. Her breath moved steady beneath the thin blanket, already awake before her eyes opened. She lay still for a moment longer than necessary. Her shoulder reminded her why she rarely slept deeply. The ache was dull rather than sharp. It tightened when she stayed still too long, loosened when she moved, as if pain had learned her habits. She always ignored it.

Grey hair spilled across her face and pillow in uneven waves. Not silver, like the village women insisted when they tried to soften what they did not understand. It was unfinished and unnatural as though her body had refused its proper color and never corrected itself. Correction required care, and care was something she had long stopped offering freely. The world was more bitter than she thought. A hard knock on her door stopped her thoughts. She reached for the knife beside her and threw it. The blade struck wood with a heavy thunk.

“Who wakes me at this hour?” she asked, voice rough with sleep but not with surprise.

“C-come out!” She could tell whoever out there was terrified.

She exhaled slowly and sat up, unhurried, as though time itself waited for her permission. She crossed the room barefoot. Villagers stood clustered outside her lodge. Too many for a simple request. They scowled at her like dogs waiting for food but angry. She sighed, her gaze moved to the man who stood slightly ahead, holding a scroll.

“What?”

“Is that how you greet the king’s man?” One of the villagers asked.

She tilted her head slightly. “My lord,” she said, pulling her knife free from the door in a single motion. “As you can see, I was sleeping, thanks to the morons the king sent to hunt with me the other night.”

The villagers murmured with offense.

"We need you again tonight." Osric, the king's messenger added.

She turned back toward the lodge. “Fine, I need two men tonight.”

The crowd murmured again.

“Tell the king I want real men, not morons.”

“Y-you can tell him yourself.”

King Aldric's hall stood at the highest point of the village, where the morning mist still lingered among the rooftops and the carved wolf heads upon its gables watched over the settlement with weathered eyes. Years of wind and winter had darkened the great timbers, yet the hall remained the heart of Blackthorn, a place where feast were held, judgement passed and lives quietly altered without warning. She climbed the worn stone steps as two guards stationed at the entrance saw her approaching long before she reached them. Both men straightened instinctively, hands tightening around their spears. She snorted. They would run the minute they see real danger.

Warmth spilled out from the hall, carrying it with scents of burning pine, roasted venison, fresh bread, and damp wool drying beside the small fire. The familiar smell of wine, laughter and wooden cups rolled through the hall. It lasted only a heartbeat. The moment she crossed the threshold, the hall changed. Conversations unraveled in slow waves, as though each voice noticed the silence beside it before choosing to become a part of it. Heads turned one after another until every gaze settled upon the woman standing beneath the doorway.

Her hair fell in soft waves to the middle of her back, catching the light until it seemed almost silver before fading again to the deep grey that had followed her since childhood. No one in Blackthorn had never seen another born with such hair. Some claimed it was an omen. Others called it a curse spoken over an infants cradle. Whispers drifted across the hall, soft enough to pretend they were not meant for her, yet loud enough that everyone knew she could hear them.

“She looks younger every year.”

“My grandfather swore with winter hair belongs to the spirits.”

“I heard she spent three nights alone beyond Raven Ridge.”

“They say wolves walk beside her.”

Eira smiled as she walked. The whispers no longer had the power to wound. They had become part of the village itself, as ordinary as smoke rising from chimneys every morning. She had heard them since she was six years old with no horse, no family and no memories worth speaking of. Only a frightened little girl wrapped in clothes too torn for anyone to guess where she had come from. As she passed the nearest table, a woman quietly drew her daughter closer. The little girl, not older than seven, stared at her with wonder and admiration.

At the far end of the room, Captain Torvald watched her approach over the rim of his drinking horn. His eyes followed her with a familiar contempt that had remained unchanged for years. He had disliked her from the day she entered Blackwood as a nameless child. Some claimed the king should have banished her. Others believed his pride could never accept that an orphaned girl grew into the finest hunter in the kingdom while his own sons struggled to gain favor of the king. And judging by the hard line of his mouth as she approached, he had no intention of stopping today.

His smile widened, pleased that the hall had fallen silent enough for every word to be heard.

"Not just an ordinary woman," he said, his voice laced with hatred. "A woman whose bloodline no one knows. A nameless child who wandered out of the forest nearly twenty years ago. No family. No clan. No honor to inherit."

He turned slightly toward the king.

"And yet, she walks into your hall without so much as bending a knee." he looked back at Eira. "Have you ever discovered where you truly belong?"

She studied him.

"Have you?"

A crease formed between his brows. "I know exactly where I belong."

She took a step toward him and two nearby warriors instinctively rise from their benches.

"You've spent twenty years reminding this people that I arrived with nothing. Don't you think you love to hear the sound of your voice?"

His jaw tightened. "You mistake truth for something else."

Her eyes drifted briefly behind him. "You've trained your sons your entire life." she smiled. "But they still ask me how to track a stag."

His hands closed around the hilt of his sword.

"Enough." The single word carried more weight than a shouted command. "The matter is settled."

Several men exchanged relieved glances.

"The beast will be hunted." The king said, looking directly at Eira. "But before you kill it, find out why it has come.

Without another word, she turned to walk away but stopped and glanced at Torvald. "Your two sons will lead the hunt this time." she said and drew an hunting knife from her belt. With a single movement, she drove the blade into the thick timber beside him. Torvald gasped as his second son Soren held him in fear. The crack of steel biting oak echoed through the hall. She left it there and walked out. At last, one of the king guards approached the knife. He wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled. The blade did not move. Another guard joined them but all effort was useless.

The king watched the open doorway where Eira had disappeared. "I pity the beast." he said and smiled.

"No, my king." Torvald replied quietly. "I fear for our lives."

The cold struck her first.

It swept across the stone steps the moment she left the warmth of the great hall, carrying it with the scent of damp earth and pine resin. Above the village, a pale sun struggled through thick banks of cloud, its light spilling weakly over rooftops glazed with the night frost. Somewhere beyond the clustered cottages, an axe rang against timber, followed by the distance bark of a dog. Life had resumed almost as soon as the hall’s doors had closed behind her.

Or at least, it pretended to.

She crossed the village square at an unhurried pace, the spear resting easily across her shoulder. The weapon was the only thing she had to remind herself of her lost family. A pair of women who had been hanging damp linens between two posts lowered their voices the instant she approached. One avoided looking at her, while the other offered a strained smile. Children were less convincing. Two boys abandoned the wooden sword fight they had been playing with and watched openly as she passed. At the far end of the village, where the cottages gave way to towering pines and narrow hunting trails, stood the small timber lodge she called home. Smoke curled lazily from its stone chimney. She frowned. She had not lit the fie before leaving.

“Finn.”

A muffled crash answered her from inside. “I meant to fix that.”

She stepped through the doorway. Warmth greeted her at once, along with rich aroma of stew simmering above the hearth. A stack of freshy chopped firewood had been neatly arranged beside the fireplace. Her hunting cloaks, usually hanging wherever she happened to leave them, had been folded and placed across the end of her bed. He emerged from the corner carrying an armful of split logs. He was young, broad around the middle, with an honest face that never seemed capable of hiding what he thought. A lock chestnut hair she always recognized from childhood. Soot streaked one cheek where he had clearly wiped away with a dirty hand. He stopped when he saw her.

“I was hoping you’ll be a little longer.”

“I noticed.”

He glanced around the lodge. “I may have tidied.”

“You rearranged my traps.”

“They almost killed me.”

"They’re meant to.”

Finn rubbed the back of his neck, looking unconvinced. “I also made stew.”

“I can smell it.”

“I wasn’t sure when you’d eat next.”

Eira set the spear against the wall. “You assumed I wouldn’t.”

“I’ve known you for years, Eira.” his grin widened. "You eat like a bird."

She crossed the room to the hearth, lifted the lid from the iron pot, and inhaled the savory steam. “You used too much thyme, Finn.”

He laughed, neither of them noticed the enormous set of fresh paw prints pressed deep into the snow less than a hundred paces from the lodge. The wolf had already come.

The northern wilderness answered to no crown. Beyond the Blackthorn’s borders where the mountains rose like ancient giants draped in snow and the forests stretched father than any human had dared to trave. No roads let to it, no banners marked its territory. Men who wandered too deeply into those woods were never seen again, and those fortunate enough to return looses their minds and most dismissed them as fantasies of terrified men. A bitter wind swept through the towering pines, scattering loose snow across a valley hidden between jagged cliffs. Birds abandoned their branches in startled flocks, vanishing into the pale sky. From between the ancient pines emerged a wolf unlike any creature nature should have allowed to exist.

He was enormous.

His broad paws sank deep into the snow, leaving prints large enough to swallow a grown man’s hand. Thick black fur cloaked a body built for endless war, each powerful stride carrying effortless strength.

His eyes burned like molten gold. He climbed the great slab of black stone overlooking the valley and stopped. From that height, the northern wilderness unfolded before him, endless forests disappearing beneath veils of mist while distant peaks pierced the clouds like the teeth of forgotten ancestors. One by one, wolves emerged from every corner of the valley.

Grey wolves and all kinds marked with countless battles. Some carried fresh wounds. Others the confidence of seasoned warriors. Each was large enough to strike terror into any hunter unfortunate enough to cross their paths. They lowered their heads in submission. A silver-furred wolf broke away from the gathering and approached the stone until only a respected distance remained between them. He lowered himself completely, his muzzle touching the frozen earth.

“Alpha,” he said. “The Eastern Ridge Pack has surrendered. Their Alpha bent a knee before dawn. They have sworn loyalty to your reign.”

A younger scout burst through the trees, blood staining the snow beneath him with every desperate stride. His breathing came in ragged gasps. “Alpha...”

His voice trembled. “Blackthorn still remains.”

A low growl rolled through the gathering wolves. The scout swallowed hard. “Blackthorn refuses to surrender. Words has it that they have a dangerous huntress.”

No one moved as the great black wolf descended from the stone and stood in front of them. He howled first and the rest followed. The winter itself would bear witness to the price of defiance.