Chapter 1 - Sera
I’m staring at the same sentence for the third time when I realize I haven’t absorbed a single word.
The ancient text sits open on my desk, its pages yellowed with age and threatening to crumble if I’m not careful. I should be cataloging this thing—making notes about which sections need preservation work and documenting the territorial agreements it contains. Instead, my brain keeps replaying last night’s nightmare on an endless loop.
Except it wasn’t a nightmare. Not really.
I don’t know what to call it.
My tea has gone cold in its cup. I reach for it anyway and take a sip before grimacing at the bitter taste. The archive room is freezing today, which is saying something considering I grew up in a tundra. I pull my fur-lined coat tighter around my shoulders and try to focus on the work in front of me.
It’s useless. All I can see are those women standing in a circle.
Their faces were blank, completely empty of anything that makes a person a person. And wrapped around each of their hearts was this dark, coiling thing that looked like chains made from shadow and ice. I could feel the cold coming off those bindings even though I was asleep. Could sense how they squeezed until nothing was left but hollow shells.
Then the vision changed.
The circle of women faded, and I was standing alone in darkness so complete I couldn’t see my own hands. A voice echoed through the void, neither male nor female, ancient andlayered like hundreds of people speaking at once. “Tell no one within these walls.”
The words reverberated through my bones, making my teeth ache. “Someone among them will stop you. Will keep you from the truth. Speak of what you’ve seen to anyone in Llewelyn, and you will never break free.”
The voice faded, but the warning remained, burning itself into my memory with the kind of certainty that comes from prophecy rather than dream.
I woke up drenched in sweat despite my bedroom being cold enough to see my breath.
That was twelve hours ago. I still feel sick.
The worst part is, I have no idea if what I saw was real or if I’m losing my mind. The Llewelyn pack doesn’t have psychics. We’ve got strength, independence, and enough emotional control to make ice look warm by comparison. But supernatural visions? That’s not our thing.
So either I’m experiencing something completely unprecedented, or I’ve finally cracked under the pressure of being a Llewelyn woman in a pack that’s more closed off than ever.
Neither option is great.
I’ve been digging through historical texts all morning, searching for anything about curses or magical bindings. The Llewelyn archives go back three centuries; there should be some clue that explains why I saw what I did.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I flip through another volume. This one documents pack rituals and ceremonies from two hundred years ago. The handwriting is cramped and difficult to read, faded in placeswhere time and handling have worn away the ink. Most of it is mundane stuff—seasonal celebrations, coming-of-age ceremonies, and territorial blessings. Nothing about curses or magical imprisonment.
Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. Or maybe there’s nothing to find because what I experienced was just my stressed-out brain making things up.
Except it felt real. Realer than any dream I’ve ever had.
The women in the circle looked like us—Llewelyn women—with our pale skin and characteristic reserve. But something fundamental was missing from their eyes. Some spark that should have been there but wasn’t. And those dark chains wrapped so tight around their hearts that I could barely breathe just watching it.
What if that’s us? What if we’re all walking around with those chains and we don’t even know it?
The thought makes me want to throw up.
I close the ritual volume and return it to its shelf, then pull down another one. This text focuses on the founding of the Llewelyn pack, documenting how our ancestors established territory in the harsh tundra and built a society based on female leadership.
But still nothing about curses or supernatural bindings.
The door opens, and Thora Silvermane walks in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she kind of does. Senior council member, decades of leadership experience, and silver-blonde hair pulled back so tight it probably gives her a headache. She’s wearing the traditional furs and royal blue that mark her status, and she looks at me the way everyone here looks at everyone—politely distant.
She nods in my direction and says, “I need the eastern border treaty documents. The ones from fifteen years ago.”
“Third shelf, section seven. Blue leather with gold embossing.” I don’t look up from my book.
