The full moon hung high in the sky, its spectral glow bathing the forest in an eerie silver light. The air was thick with tension, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Zaira, driven by instinct, crossed the forbidden boundary once more. But this time, she couldn't have imagined that the real wolf was walking among her own.
Ibrahim walked a few paces behind her, his expression as cold as the blade at his hip. Each step he took over dry leaves echoed in sync with Zaira's heartbeat—steady, unaware of the threat lurking behind her.
"What are you doing here, Ibrahim?" Zaira asked, stopping at the edge of the swollen river.
He gave her a calculated smile, replying with calm detachment, "Making sure everyone plays their part, Zaira."
Zaira thought, just for a second, that maybe—just maybe—Ibrahim still had a shred of honor. After all, they had fought side by side. They had seen the same comrades die. Perhaps... she wasn't completely alone.
And then—boom—he shoved her into the raging river.
The fall was swift and brutal. The cold bit into her skin as the current dragged her downstream, crashing her into rocks and branches that tore at her clothes and flesh.
From the riverbank, Ibrahim watched without a flicker of emotion as Zaira fought to stay afloat. A shadow of satisfaction crossed his face before he vanished into the trees.
"A necessary sacrifice," he muttered, disappearing into the dark.
She was Falco's favorite. The one protected by the werewolves. A threat to the balance Ibrahim sought to restore in his own way.
Zaira, on the brink of unconsciousness, was slammed against a jutting rock near the shore. Her fingers clung weakly to the edge, her strength fading fast. Just as her eyes began to close, a figure emerged through the mist.
An elderly woman stood wrapped in a tattered cloak, her face carved by time and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries.
"Come, child," the woman said, her voice echoing like a whisper woven into the forest.
Too weak to resist, Zaira accepted the outstretched hand. The woman led her to a hidden clearing, lit by a soft, crackling fire. Ancient symbols carved into wood and stone surrounded the place, giving it an air of sacred mystery. A thick, perfumed smoke curled into the star-filled sky.
The witch knelt beside the fire, pouring fresh blood into a stone bowl while murmuring in a forgotten tongue.
"The wolves feel your pain, Zaira. The triskele you see here—it represents who you are: the hunt, the loss, and the redemption," she said, drawing a symbol in the earth with a mixture of blood and herbs.
Zaira, still dazed, felt a chill crawl down her spine as she stared at the mark. The witch offered her the bowl.
"Look into the water. The answers you seek are there—but so are the questions you fear."
With a trembling hand, Zaira touched the surface.
In an instant, visions surged forward:Sanathiel holding a medallion that pulsed with light.A pack of feral werewolves unleashed.And at the heart of it all—Ibrahim, standing atop a mountain of corpses, his face twisted into a cruel smile.
"They die for a cleaner world," his voice echoed in the vision, venomous and cold. "One without monsters dressed as heroes."
The image shattered, leaving Zaira gasping for air.
"Sanathiel is more than just a man," the witch said solemnly. "He is a bridge between two worlds. But bridges... can burn."
Days passed in the witch's refuge, and Zaira regained her strength—and her clarity. The woman's words echoed alongside memories of Sanathiel and the truths she had begun to uncover.
When she finally left the clearing, she was no longer the same girl who had entered. Her steps were steady. Her eyes, sharpened with purpose.
"No more lies. No more betrayal," she murmured, fists clenched as she walked back into the forest.
Back at the camp, Zaira found Ibrahim leading a group of hunters. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the air between them was thick as an unspoken storm.
"You made it back? I thought you'd fallen in battle," Ibrahim said with a smile that never touched his eyes.
Zaira held his gaze, her voice calm—but laced with danger. "I don't fall that easily, Ibrahim. Someone has to make sure the real enemy is held accountable."
Ibrahim's smile faltered, but before he could speak, a deep roar echoed from the nearby woods. The werewolves were close. The battle was about to begin.
Zaira raised her bow, casting one last glance at Ibrahim before disappearing into the trees.
"You haven't paid yet, Ibrahim. But you will. I swear it—on every soul we buried believing it was justice."
As the forest shadows closed around her, Zaira felt the full weight of her decision—but also the spark of hope that carried her forward.
The battle ahead wasn't just against werewolves or hunters.It was against the chains of fate itself.And she was ready to break them.