“Noted. I’ll try to appreciate the restraint they’re showing.”
Isla’s cottage appears at the edge of a clearing, tucked against a cliff face like it grew there naturally. The structure looks ancient—weathered wood and moss-covered stones that have stood for generations. Smoke rises from the chimney, and I catch the scent of herbs and something…
Magic, realize. Old magic that predates the curse and probably predates the packs themselves.
“Isla doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Sera climbs the steps to the porch. “Let me do most of the talking initially. She’ll warm up to you faster if I ask the questions.”
“Whatever works best.”
She knocks twice, and a voice like dry leaves rustling calls out permission to enter.
The cottage interior is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time. Books are everywhere, stacked on shelves and piled on tables, and scattered across the floor. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling beams, and crystals catch what little sunlight filters through the small windows. But underneath the clutter is an organizational system I recognize—the same way I organize my own research materials when I’m deep in a project.
Isla Moonwhisper sits in a rocking chair by the fire, and she looks every one of her rumored two hundred years. Silver hair falls past her waist in a single braid, and her eyes—so similar to Sera’s—watch us closely as we enter. Wrinkles map her face like the history she’s witnessed, and her hands, gnarled with age, rest on the arms of her chair with surprising steadiness.
“Sera. Child of my child’s child many times removed.” Isla’s voice carries more strength than her appearance suggests. “You’ve brought the Grayhide male. The one who saved you from Thornridge.”
“Yes, Elder. This is Reeyan Hale, Grayhide’s historian.” Sera bows slightly, a sign of respect I haven’t seen her show anyone else. “He’s helping me investigate the supernatural threat we discussed with Matriarch Lydia.”
Isla coughs out a laugh. “Supernatural threat. Is that what we’re calling it now? Come. Sit. Both of you. This old woman’s neck hurts from looking up.”
We take our seats in chairs across from her. The fire crackles in the hearth, and I resist the urge to pull out my journal and start taking notes. Something tells me Isla wouldn’t appreciate being documented while she speaks.
“You want to know about the time before.” Isla rocks slowly, eyes unfocused like she’s seeing into the past. “When Llewelyn women loved fiercely and fought beside their mates. When emotions ran hot instead of cold, and the pack was stronger for it.”
“The oral histories mention a change.” Sera prompts. “About three hundred years ago. What do you remember being passed down about that time?”
“Stories. Fragments. Pieces of truth wrapped in metaphor because the tellers didn’t fully understand what they were describing.” Isla continues rocking. “The matriarch of that time—my ancestor five generations removed—she kept a record. Not written, mind you. Llewelyn didn’t trust paper in those days. But she passed the story down through her daughter, who passed it to hers, and so on until it reached me.”
“What did the story say?” I ask carefully.
Isla’s rocking slows as she explains, “That the change came at our matriarch’s own request. She commissioned the work herself, thinking she was protecting future generations. But the oral histories speak of a woman present during the ritual. A witch who had personal reasons for wanting Llewelyn men to suffer. The matriarch thought she was hiring the Hysopp Coven’s magic. She didn’t realize one of their members had woven her own revenge into the binding.”
“The witch who was scorned,” Sera muses. “She convinced the matriarch that the curse was protection.”
“The matriarch never called it a curse. In the stories passed down, she believed until her death that she’d saved her daughters from the pain of loving males who would inevitably betray them. The oral histories say she died proud of what she’d done. Never understood that the magic did more than protect—it imprisoned.”
“The oral histories must contain more details.” Sera pulls out her folder of notes. “Names, dates, specific descriptions of what happened.”
“Names fade. Dates blur. What remains are stories told to teach lessons rather than preserve facts.” Isla waves a gnarled hand. “But there is one story. An old legend most dismiss as wishful thinking. It speaks of a Llewelyn woman with sightbeyond sight—what you moderns call psychic abilities. The legend says this woman will bond with her true mate, and through that bond, she’ll channel enough power to shatter what binds all Llewelyn women.”
My wolf perks up with interest. “A prophecy.”
“A story. A legend. Folklore that may or may not contain truth.” Isla fixes me with a look that sees too much. “I never put stock in it myself. Psychic abilities don’t run in Llewelyn bloodlines. Haven’t for generations. The protection that was given ensures our women stay grounded in reality rather than drifting into visions and prophecies.”
“Because the curse suppresses those abilities,” Sera argues. “Just like it suppresses emotions and deep bonds. The protection wasn’t protection at all. It was imprisonment.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was exactly what our ancestors asked for, and they simply didn’t understand what they were asking. Either way, the protection deepens with each generation. The stories say it will continue until Llewelyn women become untouchable even to themselves. Unable to feel or connect with their wolves. Living ice that cannot melt.”
The description makes my stomach turn. For a shifter, being disconnected from one’s wolf is unthinkable. “How long until that happens?”
“Who can say? Years. Decades. The magic works slowly enough that each generation doesn’t notice the change from their mothers. But compare a modern Llewelyn woman to her ancestor from three hundred years ago?” Isla shakes her head. “Night and day. Fire and ice. Everything that made us strong has been leached away in the name of protection. Or so the story goes. Legends are just stories we tell ourselves to feel less helpless. I’ve lived two hundred years and never seen a Llewelynwoman develop psychic abilities. Never seen evidence that this prophecy is anything more than wishful thinking.”
“Until now,” I say it quietly, but the words land like stones in still water.
Isla goes very still. Her rocking stops completely. “Until now?”
“Sera has visions.” The revelation feels like a betrayal, but she needs to know. “Started experiencing them right before Thornridge targeted her.”
