Time drifts differently here.
the woods, long and silent, are listening again...
In the shadowed depths of Hollowmere, the last of his tribe, Marcus Greymane, stumbles wounded into the ancient forest, unknowingly trespassing into the domain of a reclusive witch named Circe Alden. Against her better judgment, Circe chooses to save himโan act of mercy that binds their fates. What unfolds next is uncertain, as trust, secrets, and something far older than either of them begins to stir.
The plan had been simple. Marcus and his kinsband had tracked the southbound caravan from a distance for days. They had planned to ambush the traders when they reached the vast woods stretching along the coastline. They had counted the fires at night, certain they could overcome the few guards protecting the wagons. Marcus and his men had planned to offer no mercy. They had planned to cut down anyone who dared oppose them and pillage the wagons, fleeing to the highlands before the trade barons could muster a coherent response.
They considered their actions righteous โ the trade barons of Misthaven and their thuggish lackeys had sacked a vargar settlement earlier in the spring, establishing a trading post where a healthy kindred had once lived. Nearly fifty good men and women had died so the greedy Southerners could access the highland pines and ship them south to build their vast houses. In the eyes of the Southerners, Marcus and his kin were little better than animals. The edicts of faith forbade the Southerners from murdering their fellow men. These edicts had never applied to Marcus and his kind. In their eyes, the skinwalkers were not truly human. There was money to be made in the north for those willing to fight monsters.
Once the caravan reached a fording place, Marcus and his kin fell upon the Southerners. The guards turned to face the nomadic vargars, steel meeting steel as men fought and died. Soon, fresh blood covered the distant road running through the dark woods. The city-dwellers gave Marcus and his men a good fight. One of his strongest men had been cut down during the first few chaotic moments, Jurgen dying with bloody froth on his lips. Angered by the loss of his friend, Marcus allowed the spirits to take over him, his muscular frame twisting and warping as the tall chieftain took the shape of a varg โ a werewolf.
Seeing a man-wolf brandishing a large axe in his claws, the cowardly guardsmen faltered, and the raiders cut down two of them with relative ease. Just when Marcus thought his kinsband had won the day, a dozen or so guardsmen charged out of one of the wagons. The ambushers had become the ambushed, the well-disciplined soldiers slowly but surely surrounding Marcus and his men. The fight was fierce, and the vargars sold their lives dearly. For every vargar that fell, two guards lay lifeless on the ground. Yet Marcus found himself standing alone, the large werewolf surrounded by a dozen or so soldiers. He split a man's skull with his axe before a guardsman pierced his side with a spear. Another man snuck behind him, sinking his blade into Marcus' back and leaving him grievously injured.
Figuring that he could not win against ten armed men, the vargar chieftain fled with his tail between his legs, his inhuman stamina allowing him to push through the guards despite his wounds. Shaken and needing to tend to their comrades, the surviving Southerners did not pursue him. Marcus dashed into the woods, putting as much distance between him and the caravan as he could. He ran until nightfall, collapsing beneath a tall oak as the pale moon climbed in the sky, crimson staining his grey fur.
Slipping in and out of consciousness and too weak to maintain his wolf form, Marcus' flesh melted and warped, leaving him writhing in agony, his pained cries echoing in the dark woods. Eventually, unconsciousness claimed the badly injured vargar chieftain, his dreams filled with visions of bloodshed, the young man reliving the final moments of his last battle time and time again.
When Circe stumbled upon the scene, she saw a tall and muscular man leaning against a tree, his long, dark hair sticky with mud and filth. The stranger was almost seven feet tall, his shoulders as broad as an old aspen. Rather alarmingly, the man was also naked, seemingly without any possessions. His breath was uneven and raspy, his face pale, his lips purplish. She did not step much closer, seeing a large gaping wound on the right side of his chest, dried blood covering much of his belly and thighs.
She was born beneath a blood moon, in the stillness of a white ash grove, her first cry swallowed by wind and candlelight. Her mother, Elsinne, marked the omen in slice and named her Circeโa name passed down through the bloodline like a charm and a warning. In the Alden line, magic did not skip generations.
It bloomed early and ferociously...
She was a quiet child with eyes too old for her face. Raised among the coven of nineโher mother, her aunts, her cousinsโCirce knew no lullabies but the murmuring of incantations, no bedtime stories but the whispered lives of roots, stones, and spirits. The Alden Circle dwelt deep within the northern woods, beyond the edge of any map the villagers dared to draw. They lived by rhythm, not rule: the moon's pull, the ebb of winter, the way an herb might sing if gathered with the right chant and silence.
Their magic was not born of power, but of communion. They healed, they buried, they warded off sickness with bundles of dried sage and threads soaked in moonwater. They worshipped no god but the old forest and its unseen guardians. And though the people in the nearby settlements feared them, they came all the sameโby night, always by nightโto ask for healing, blessings, or favours.
Circe was the youngest of the coven, yet her power was the strongest. Even the trees turned to watch her when she passed, their limbs sighing with something like reverence. Her mother often said that Circe would carry the coven's legacy forwardโthat she was meant to become its high matron in time.
But time, it seemed, was a fragile thing...
The ruin began slowlyโwhispers, drought, then plague. When crops withered and children grew pale, the villagers no longer sough the Alden Circle for help. They sought someone to blame. Fear turned to fury, and fury to fire.
She remembered the night they came...
The torches.
The shouts.
The iron.
They struck before dawn, cowards cloaked in cold fog. Her coven had no time to scatter. Her mother shoved her through the veil of an old stone passage and told her to runโto remember. Circe obeyed. She hid among the gnarled roots of a hollow tree and watched the glade she loved turn to cinders.
She did not scream.
She never made a sound...
She wandered, after that, through the endless woods of Hollowmereโsilent, starved, half-shadowed. The forest did not reject her.
It watched.
It listened.
And it opened...
Circe found refuge in the ruins of a temple long forgotten, overgrown with ivy and heavy silence. She claimed it not with fire or chant, but with breath. She wove protections through the trees, etched sigils into stone, and carved out a sanctuary with nothing but grief and raw magic. She buried her name beneath the snow and let the forest shape her anew.
Years passed.
Seasons shifted.
The outside world forgot her, and she was glad of it...
Now, she is known only in whispersโthe White Witch of Hollowmere. Pale as frost, clothed in moon-spun silk, with eyes that catch the light like glass. She speaks rarely, but her silence bends the air. Her magic is quiet but vast: snow that does not melt, flames that flicker against the wind, roots that tangle beneath trespassers' feet. She is neither merciful nor cruel. She is simply what remains.
The forest is her companion.
It's hush is her hymn...
And deep in stillness, where no foot dares to tread, Circe Alden endures...
She had not intended to walk so far that evening. The aire was too sharp, the wind too still, the trees too loud with whispering. She had wandered west of her sanctum, where the pines thinned and the land sloped toward the saltwinds of the sea. Few ventured this wayโcertainly no humans, not since her wards had been setโbut the forest had begun to murmur with a new kind of disquiet.
The birds had gone quiet.
The small things that skittered under root and fern had buried themselves deeper than usual. And the moon, swollen and white above the canopy, bled just a little at the edges.
She followed her instinct, as she always had. Barefoot in the snow, her cloak trailing like mist behind her, Circe moved through the woods as though born of them. The trees did not impede her; they bent slightly, ever so slightly, to clear her path. The silence guided her, down an old deer track toward the scent of blood.
It wasn't freshโnot anymoreโbut it was wrong. Wild blood sang in different tones than man's.
This was both.
Neither...
She paused atop a rise of frost-rimed stone, breath forming a faint cloud before her lips, and peered through a tangle of bare branches.
He was slumped at the base of an ancient oak, limbs sprawled in a graceless heap. A man, at least, mostly. Tall beyond reason, with limbs corded in muscle and skin dirtied with blood, mud, and snowmelt. His long hair was plastered to his skull, dark with blood and tangled with bark and ice. He was naked, which gave her pause. Not just for decencyโshe had little use for such thingsโbut because no ordinary man survived, unclothed, in the forever winter of Hollowmere Forest.
The gash in his side told her more than his face ever could...
It had not been made by claw or fang.
Spear, perhaps.
Sword.
Something meant for war...
The wound had clotted in places, reopened in others, and his skin was flushed with fever, his breath a ragged rattle in the still air. More troubled than the wound was the faint shimmer of old, feral magic that clung to him, thin and brittle now, like a flame starved of air, still very much alive.
She did not step closer.
Not yet...
Her eyes narrowed, the faintest wrinkle forming between her brows as she extended a cautious thread of will outward, brushing along the edge of his aura.
It recoiled.
She stiffened...
Not quite human. That much was clear. The magic within him was oldโolder than the southern cities, older than the faiths their people burned witches for abandoning. It stank of wilderness, of things that should have gone extinct when the empires first rose. She tasted iron, pine sap, and the bitter tang of transformation on her tongue.
A skinwalker, then...
Or something near it.
She nearly left him. Nearly turned around and vanished back into the forest, as she had done a hundred times before. He would die soon, and the earth would reclaim him as it did all things.
It would be simple.
Clean.
But she didn't move.
Circe stared at him for a long time, her thoughts silent, her breath even.
The woods shifted behind her.
Branches creaked.
A crow, somewhere overhead, gave a short, warning cry.
There had once been a time when she believed in omens.
In signs...
Perhaps she still did.
With a quiet sigh, she lifted one hand. Her fingers traced a narrow sigil in the airโlightness, for nowโand then another. The runes shimmered faintly in the dark, then blinked out as the spell settled over the clearing. A ward against death.
Temporary.
Fragile...
But enough.
She stepped forward.
The snow barely crunched beneath her. Her pale hands reached for him, hesitating for only a moment before settling on his fever-warm skin. He was impossibly heavy, but she was not frail, not truly. Magic whispered through her bones, guiding her strength.
Circe Alden, once a daughter of the Alden Circle, once a healer beneath starlight, gathered the stranger in her arms and disappeared into the forest's deeper folds.
Oblivious to the fact that he had been discovered, Marcus remained lost in a wolf dream, reliving the past even as he lay at death's door. In the world that was, the old vargar chieftain was crippled and bleeding dry, a young witch eyeing hos body with suspicion. In his dreams Marcus was stalking an elk under the full moon, his breath steaming in the frigid winter air. His strong limbs carried him across the snow-covered forest, the scent of his prey lingering in the air. Another of his kind ran alongside him, Marcus turning to glance at Freya, his mate, offering her a bestial grin as they slowly gained on the magnificent beast. His inhuman blood sang with the joy of the hunt, his heart thrumming in his chest. The keen senses allowed by his wolf form made the world feel so alive around him, Marcus able to hear the hurried steps of the elk as they slowly, but certainly gained on it. He could smell the elk's despair in his mouth, his mind brimming with excitement.
That night his kin had feasted on the elk.
In the present, Marcus groaned softly, his expression pained. Yet his eyes remained closed, his body limp. Circe could tell that the grievously wounded shapeshifter was far too weak to be a threat to anyone. He stank of blood and death, his breath shallow and uneven as she walked him to the cart.
In his dreams, the old chieftain chased Freya across the moors, her playful yelps causing something to stir within him. Marcus could feel bestial hunger burn within his loins, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he dropped down on all fours to run a little faster. The sweet scent of his mate filled his mind. The coming of spring had left them both needy and craving for a release. He could tell she was fertile, her musk tickling his snout. They both knew how the makeshift chase would end, Marcus catching up with Freya and tackling her down, the two werewolves nipping and clawing at each other.
Circe could hear the man groan in pain as she moved to help him up, his skin cold and clammy against his. In Marcus' dreams, Freya would feign resistance, allowing him to pry her legs apart and bury his head between her thighs. Dreaming, he recalled lapping her sex, the varg running his long tongue against her folds as he devoured her hungrily, his manhood aching hard. Driven by the all-consuming urge to mate and breed, he kept licking Freya until she groaned wildly, orgasm causing her insides to cramp violently. In his dreams he could not hold himself back, Marcus forcing his swollen manhood deep into her pussy, his wide knot pushing against her folds. Despite the pain, Freya had welcomed him. She needed him just as badly as he needed her, her body craving to be filled.
Nature had little use for empty wombs.
"Freya," Marcus murmured, feeling someone touch him. Slipping in and out of wolf dream, he was quite not sure of what was real. Stirring into consciousness, he reached to touch the young woman, the naked man resting his large hand on her cheek for a moment. His fingers felt eerily sweaty and cool on her skin. "What are you doing here?" He sounded dumbfounded, confusion ringing in his voice. Grunting in pain, Marcus tried to prop himself up, only to slump down. Much to Circe's dismay, the tall man slipped into unconsciousness once more.
She stepped lightly over the roots hidden in the snow, her gaze locked on the motionless figure beneath the tree. The man groaned, his body twitching faintly in the grip of fevered dreaming. She could sense his mind was elsewhereโcaught in some vision, some echo of blood and memoryโbut when he moved, it was sudden.
A hand shot upward.
Though sluggish and weak, it grazed her cheek with surprising precision, rough and clammy against her pale skin. His eyes did not open.
"Freyaโฆ"
His voice was ragged and low, confused.
Her entire frame tensed, and in the span of a breath, her stance had shifted. Her weight now balanced on the balls of her feet, her left hand sweeping behind her back while her right lifted palm-forward, fingers curling as if gripping a length of invisible rope. Magic, ancient and cold surged to her fingertips.
For a moment, she stood motionless, every nerve alive with caution.
But he did not rise. The strange warmth of his touch fell away as his hand dropped heavily into the snow. His eyes never opened.
He slumped, fully unconscious once more.
Her stance relaxed, only slightly, and Circe slowly exhaled. She stood over him for a time, the quiet between them marked only by the hiss of the wind and the faint rattle of his breath. Then, setting her jaw, she moved.
Two long, straight branches were pulled from beneath heavy snow where the pines grew thickest. She tested their weight, brushed off the ice, and cut them to length with a flick of her fingers and a word spoken in the tongue of the old grove. They fell cleanly. Removing her cloak, dark and heavy with enchantments, she knelt and began typing it to the branches with braided lengths of root and sinew pulled from the soil with another whispered command.
The makeshift gurney was crude, but strong.
With careful precision, she rolled the unconscious man onto it. His body, though massive, yielded to her spell-strengthened limbs. She did not look at his face. She did not think of his words. When he was secured, she stood, lifting her hand to the heavens.
A low thrumming filled the air, like the sound of antlers raking against bark.
From the trees beyond came the soft sound of hoofbeats.
The creature that emerged was ancient by the forest's measureโa great elk, its coat a mixture of slate and silver, its antlers vast and moss-hung. Its eyes, dark and clever, fixed on her, then on the figure bound to the gurney.
It stopped.
Stared...
"I know what he is," Circe murmured into the stillness. Her voice was soft, but the magic laced within it thrummed with meaning. "But he is not a threat. Not now..."
The elk pawed the snow, head low, the forest itself seeming to hush around him.
She stepped closer.
"You've carried worse burdens for me."
The elk let out a deep exhale, and for a long moment, she feared it would turn away. But thenโslowly, almost grudginglyโit dipped its great head in agreement.
She stepped forward, touching its flank gently as she guided the harness of vines and root-straps around its chest. The gurney lifted behind it, dragging smoothly through the snow.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They turned togetherโwitch, beast, and wounded strangerโvanishing into the dark woods, toward the place where no men came and even the stars dared not pry...
The journey back to her sanctuary was long and silent, save for the creak of the gurney and the slow, patient breath of the great elk that pulled it. Circe walked beside them, her steps barely touching the snow. The forest watched her pass, not with suspicion it once had, but with the wariness it reserved for old things touched by power.
They reached the heart of Hollowmere at the waning edge of night.
To the untrained eye, her refuge might have seemed like a place long forgotten that it had been: broken columns slumbered beneath frost-heavy boughs, and the shattered remnants of ancient stone were half-swallowed by earth and ivy. Yet, the trees bowed here, unnaturally curved as though trying to listen. The air faintly glowed, woven through with enchantments that turned the curious away, dulled scent, and stilled sound. This had once been a templeโolder than most would remember, a sanctuary to a goddess no longer named.
She had claimed it.
The forest had never truly ended hereโit wound through the broken hallways, rooted in collapsed stairwells, and climbed the walls of what remained. A glassless dome overhead had long since shattered, and in its place, the branches of a vast pine arched skyward, cloaked in glistening snow. Yet, here, within the circle of Circe's spellwork, the cold lost its bite. The wind, which keened mercilessly just beyond the outer wards, fell silent as it crossed the threshold. Snow did not settle here. The air was cool, but never frigid. It felt like the breath of a winter morning just before the thaw.
She led the elk to a low antechamber once meant for worshipers. It was the warmest part of the ruinโits floors reinforced with smooth stone, its walls draped with thick hides and charmed branches that breathed a slow, golden glow. No fire burned in the open hearths throughout the ruin. She rarely lit them. But here, in this small room, a single flame crackled gently in a carved braizer, casting amber light across the walls.
She knelt beside the gurney and worked quickly to untie it from the vines still strapped to the elk's shoulders. The elk shifted with a groan and stepped back once the makeshift rope had loosened, its task done. She gave him a nod of gratitude, and then he turned and vanished back into the snow like a shadow departing from candlelight.
Then, she turned to the man.
He was heavy in his sleep, limbs slack, and his brow furrowed. Even now, unconscious, he looked uneasy, like something inside him still hunted. She unwrapped him carefullyโmud-caked limbs, blood-dried skin, and a wound that split his side from hip to rib. She exhaled through her nose, lips pursing into a thin line.
"What did this to you?" she murmured, half to herself. A wound like that was made for killing. It had failed in that task, just barely.
With delicate hands and whispered spells, she cleansed the grime and filth from his body. A wash of warm water lifted the dirt from his skin, the blood melting away beneath glowing runes that hovered above her palm. Her slaves were bitter-smelling, thick with crushed winterroot and painthorn, but she applied them with practised precision. When she finished stitching the worst of the wound, she laid her hand upon his chest and closed her eyes.
A pulse of warmth passed from her into him.
A tether.
Temporary, but binding.
Her eyes lingered on his face as she sat back on her haunches.
He looked older than he truly wasโscarred, worn, with the kind of strength built not in peace but survival. And there was something else beneath the surface. Magic, yesโbut not the kind she knew.
It had weight to it.
History.
She didn't speak often to strangers, not that she had come across many. Over the years, she hadnt spoken much at all. But after a moment, she reached out and touched his browโnot urgently.
"I don't know who you are," she said quietly. "And I don't care what dreams you chase."
Her voice echoed slightly, carried by old stone.
"But I am no Freya,"
She paused, her fingers still resting above his temple.
"My name is Circe Alden..."
With that, she rose, pulling a thick fur up over his naked body. She took a seat in the corner, arms folded around her knees, and watched him as the fire cast slow-dancing shadows across the walls. Outside, the storm had risen again, but here, beneath the broken dome of the forgotten temple, it was warm.
"Nhnhng," Marcus groaned, feeling his body stir, pushing himself into a half-sitting position. Feeling a wave of nausea wash over him, the wolfman gagged and coughed, the barely healed wounds on his chest opening anew. Rivulets of his lifeblood dribbled down his bare chest. "You are no valkyrja," he managed to grunt, his grey eyes unable to focus on Circe sitting by his side. Still, he could tell that she was not blond enough to be one of the Allfather's brides. The Chooser of the Slain were said to have all hair of gold. The woman by his side had raven hair, her frame far too small for one of the Allfather's ownโthe legends had it that the valkyrja were tall as grown men.
All this allowed Marcus to deduce that he was, in fact, alive.
Much to his chagrin.
"I was certain I'd be dining with gods," Circe could tell Marcus was disappointed, his voice weak and weary. He had wanted to die and join his men in the vaunted meadhalls of the gods. They had all died in battle. The men he had known for decades were all already with the gods themselves. "Who are you?" he managed to stammer, slowly shaking his head. "Nnhgh... fucking hell," Marcus pressed his hand to his side, grimacing as he did so. "I feel like a she-bear took a liking to me." A soft chuckle escaped his lips, only for the tall man to wince with pain. Coughing, the tall man collapsed on the bed once more. She could see he detested his fate, his expression telling.
"My name is Marcus," he introduced himself, sighing.
"I suppose I should thank you. Saving me." Feeling her magic lingering in his body, Marcus seemed confident about his chances. Still, Circe would know that the wounds he had suffered should have been lethal. "I am in your debt." Mumbling curses, Marcus pressed his hand to his forehead, tendrils of pain running through his ravaged and worn body. He was slowly coming to his senses, his keen smell picking up the scent of herbs. He could also smell the dark-haired woman sitting close to his bed, his nose wiggling as her scent clung to him. She was young, he could tell. Not too young. Fertile. Perhaps not on this day, but soon. He had always had a good nose.
"You... it smells nice here," he muttered, slowly slipping into unconsciousness.
Marcus dreamed of war, his mind filled with blood and death. The beast within him raged without bounds. His soul craved for blood. In his feverish dream, he tore apart another tribesman, the werewolf screaming in pain as Marcus dismembered him. Hakon had broken the law. He had slain his kinsman. Marcus's kinsman. Hakon had had to pay for his transgression with his life. Such was the old way. Gods above expected no less, and Marcus had never been a man to turn his back on the very gods that protected his tribe. The same laws stipulated that Hakon was allowed to defend himself to prove his innocence. The smaller man had stood no chance. Their bout had been short and bloody.
Marcus had torn the poor man into shreds.
Even as the beast dreamed, his flesh began slowly knitting itself together, his scars melting into his skin as if they had never been there. Having brought Marcus back from the death's door, she could see his skin warp and twist as his body began to heal, the man gurgling with pain, his eyes flaring open. Yellow motes flickered in his irises as if the fires of the underworld were burning right behind his eyes. Sinew bound with bone, flesh grew anew as dark energies ran through his body. Stretching his aching limbs, Marcus pushed himself up and turned to face the young with.
She could see him scowling, primal hunger gleaming in his eyes.
She had not slept. The fire had dulled to embers, casting the chamber in a soft, flickering half-light. Outside, the wind whispered through the stone bones of the ruin, yet non of it touched the sanctum within. Circe sat cross-legged beside the cot, silent as a shadow, her eyes reflecting the low flame's glow.
The first sound from him was a guttural groan, thick with pain and defence. She rose at once.
Crossing to him, she moved with swift precision, every motion efficient but quiet. Her bare feet barely disturbed the floor as she knelt by the cot's edge, her robes pooling around her like dark water. When he stirred further, struggling into a half-sit, she reached instinctively, steadying his shoulder just as he gagged and coughed, blood spilling fresh down his chest.
Circe hissed through her teeth, eyes narrowing. "Fool," she whispered under her breath, more breath than sound.
His wounds had barely held. And now, they wept anew.
With her free hand, she pressed lightly to his chest, fingers skimming the edge of torn skin, checking the suturesโstill warm, still holding, but fragile. Too fragile for a man of his nature. Then she reached for his brow.
The moment her palm met his skin, a ripple passed through herโa pulse not of fever, but of heat, unnatural and low, like banked embers beneath flesh. A skinchanger's heat. Not a mortal's fever. Her hand lingered there for a moment longer than it should have, not in concern but awareness.
The hairs on her arms lifted.
She felt the beast sleeping in him from the start. It breathed just beneath the skin, slumbering but watchful. And now, as his heart stuttered with effort and pain, she felt it. Not awake. Not fully. But stirring.
She withdrew her hand and sat back on her heels, watching him with a stillness that seemed carved from stone.
His scent filled the airโblood, sweat, smoke, and something older.
Something wild.
Her senses drank it in despite herself. He spoke, muttering through the haze of half-consciousness, but she did not respond. Not at first. His words were weightless to the thrum beneath his skin, the slow, sinewed knitting of flesh that even now began to twist and pull together, guided not by her magic, but something far more ancient.
The old powers were awake in him.
She stared as his scars melted into a new skin, the torn seam of his side binding itself together. The muscles beneath bulged and contracted, reshaping. His face twisted in painโmouth parting in a silent screamโyet his eyes flared open, yellow light burning within.
The light struck her cold.
She did not flinch, but her body stilled as if answering some primal memory. Those eyes... lit from within by something inhuman, spoke not of gratitude or confusion, but... hunger.
And she had known hunger in a beast's gaze before.
Still kneeling, she met his stare without blinking. She did not cower, but her posture shifted subtlyโweight ready to spring, arms loose at her sides, magic already pooling once more in her fingertips. The air around her thrummed, responding to her will.
She leaned slightly closer, voice low... steady.
"I am no Freya," she said again, her tone flat but unmistakably clear. "I am Circe Ardent."
It was not a correction. It was a warning.
She rose slowly, eyes never leaving his. Her fingers twitched faintly at her sides, the way one might twitch the leash of a dangerous hound.
He was healing faster than she had expected. Faster than even the old legends spoke of.
She stepped back into the edge of the firelight, the flickering glow painting sharp shadows across her face. There was no fear in her gaze.
"Nggh," Marcus groaned again, the guttural sounds escaping his throat sounding more bestial than human. "Anghh." Circe could tell that the man was in pain, his arms twitching and spasming as he slowly, but surely, forced himself into a sitting position. Shaking his head, Marcus pushed his legs off the cot, his toes curling at an unnatural angle. His long hair clung to his skin, the bones under his cheeks slowly stretching and warping. His flesh melted and reshaped itself, the spirit of the wilds taking over Marcus.
The man-beast stumbled as he gingerly stood up, his mangled feet wobbly. Trying to take careful steps toward the small woman, Marcus collapsed on the floor, his twisted legs unable to carry his weight. The man who had spoken to Circe was gone, his already clouded mind having melded with that of the beast.
When Marcus stood up again, his ankles were bent backward, his feet far longer than they should have been. His sinewy arms dangled limp from his shoulders, the bones of his spine popping and crunching as his bloodline made itself manifest. His rugged, handsome features were twisted into a bestial shape, drool dripping from his misshapen lips. Hunger older than mankind itself gleamed in the beast's baleful eyes.
Groaning with both pain and hunger, Marcus fumbled against the wall, his claws scraping the stone.
Driven by its instincts, the beast stumbled forward, only to fall on its warped knees. His expression was pained as his body grew, his muscles swelling into grotesque proportions. A sinewy tail pushed out from the base of his spine, thick fur sprouting to cover the newly grown flesh. His joints popped as they warped, his very bones swelling and crackling beneath his flesh as he allowed the beast to take over. The two were the same; Marcus had never been ashamed of his bestial side. Among his kin, lycanthropy was considered a gift from the gods. Among his kin, he was blessed.
"Circe," Marcus mouthed her name, almost as if he was trying to make sense of her. Taste her. Feel her. The tall man wiggled his nose, grinning like a beast. In his eyes, the small woman was nothing but prey. He could smell her doubt, the beast finding himself slowly becoming aroused.
Inhaling deeply, he savored her scent, Circe tasting sweet on his tongue. In the back of his mind, Marcus knew he wanted her for himself. She smelled so very good. It had been months since he had last lain with a woman, leaving him aching for release. Despite his injuries, he could feel how pent-up he was. The beast could feel his cock harden even as he stepped into the skin of a wolf, Marcus now standing almost two and a half feet taller than the terrified witch. His manhood dripped with thick precum, the sticky fluid splattering on the floor as he walked toward Circe. She could hear the beast growl with unabashed need.
"You smell delicious," the werewolf told Circe, flexing his long wrists, his wicked claws touching the floor as he crouched down. If the young witch were to drop her gaze, she could see his manhood erect between his legs, precum running down along his shaft.
"So, so delicious," Marcus chortled, saliva glistening on his chin. "Worry not, child, I will not take your life." He felt that the gods might have punished him for slaying his savior. Besides, he rather felt like playing with his prey. For brave as the witching was, she was but a prey in the eyes of the beast.
"I want to taste you," he growled, his claws missing her small body as he tried to snatch her into his arms. The beast was still slightly disoriented, his movements slow and clumsy. "Or maybe I should fuck your brains out," Marcus gloated, his tongue lolling out of his bestial snout. "You would like that, wouldn't you, sweetie?" In reality, he well knew just how scared Circe was. He could smell her perfectly fine, her terror tasting like sweet mead in his mouth. The beast merely wanted to stroke her fear, to see her crumble before his eyes.
He knew well she wanted nothing to do with him. She had merely been kind to him, saving him from almost certain death. The beast could understand as much. Yet the monster that dwelt in Marcus could not help itself. The beast within him was nature's fury made flesh, primordial hunger burning in his veins. He ached to mate and breed. To mark Circe as his own.
She had felt it before she saw itโthe shift in the air, the invisible thrum that signalled when the man began to lose his grip. Her breath had stilled, her body quieting, limbs softening into readiness. She moved closer with the care of a seasoned herbalist approaching a fevered bear, silent as snowfall.
Then came the soundโwet and gutturalโa sound no man should ever make.
"Nggh..."
She knelt, watching as his body convulsed, twitching like a marionette caught between two puppeteers: man and monster. His skin shimmered under the low light, pulled taut as if some unseen hand beneath it were reshaping the clay of him. Cheekbones elongated. Toes cracked and curled into unnatural arches. The wet sound of shifting bones filled the chamber like the crackle of green wood in fire.
She did not move.
She hardly breathed...
She had seen many kinds of beasts in her timeโbears in a fury, hawks driven mad by hunger, old stags staggering in rut. She had even faced spirits of the ancient wilds, torn between rage and memory.
But this was something... other.
Something not of the natural world...
She exhaled slowly, letting her magic slip like mist from the weave of her thoughts into the stone and soil of the ruin around her. She didn't summon it with fire or force. Instead, she called the old way... by presence. By intention. Her breath slowed to match the pulse of the earth, her thoughts grounding in root and water, stone and silence.
The beast before her was no ordinary predator.
She had felt its kind only once before. It carried the weight of divine ancestryโwarped and wild, blood-bound by ancient pacts and old moonlit rites. A shifter touched not by instinct alone, but by god-curse or divine favourโwhichever name his people gave it.
His legs broke and reformed. His spine arched unnaturally, vertebrae popping like kernels in hot oil. His handsโno, clawsโscraped across stone.
And still she did not flinch.
Not yet...
Her stillness was not fear, but calculation.
Any sudden move would be seen. Not by the manโhe was practically gone nowโbut by the beast.
And the beast watched with instincts older than speech.
She breathed in deeply through her nose, pressing her palm to the earth beneath her knee. The ruin respondedโbarely.
The stone whispered its old song. Her magic, tied to the natural rhythms of the living world, coiled outward like vines, reaching toward light. But even now, she knew: it would only go so far...
Had he been a true beastโboar, bear, or wolfโher will could have subdued him. Bent his path with command, with grace, with threat. But this was no beast born of nature.
This was a beast born of something else...
A chill brushed her spine despite the warmth of the sanctuary.
And yet, she held firm.
She was not prey.
She would not be prey.
Then, she saw it... through the jagged opening high in the ruin's dome, where a cracked arch had given way to the sky above. The clouds parted.
The moon revealed itself in full...
Its silver light poured in like a holy blade, cutting across the floor and casting the shifter's shadow long across the stone. Circe followed its path with her eyes, her heart sinking.
The third night...
Of course.
The last breath of the full moon's cycleโthe most dangerous...
The beast was reaching its peak.
Marcus staggered again, growling low in his throat, his form now fully shiftedโhalf-man, half-wolf. A monstrous thing, powerful and broad, fur bristling like dark fire along his limbs. His head swivelled, sniffing, unblinking. Circe could feel its awareness wash over her like cold rain.
And yet, she remained still. Her posture lowered, head bowed ever so slightlyโnot in submission, but in calculation.
'Let the beast look,' she thought. 'Let it see no threat...'
But that was when she saw it...
The beasts dripping phallus...
She knew in that moment the beast's intent. The member stood erect, veins visibly throbbing through the sheen of velvet skin.
She exhaled once more, slow as frost forming on a branch. Her magic wrapped around her like a thin veil.
A protection, not an attack.
She had no desire to draw his full attention, not yet. Not while his mind was still a battleground.
'Let the tide pass,' she thought.
The beast stumbled again, claws dragging against the wall, muscles still uncertain in their new shape. The transformation had been fast, violent.
He was disoriented....
For now.
She could use that.
Eyes still on the creature, Circe eased back one step, then another, toward the far edge of the hearth's light. She did not run. She did not scream. She would never give the beast the scent of panic.
If there was still a sliver of the man left, it would know her not as prey, but as the one who pulled him from death.
Muttering curses under his breath, Marcus circled the young witch. He could smell Circe's defiance, her scent assailing his senses. The beast stumbled, his sense of balance still off. Frustrated, Marcus growled with sheer frustration. Drool dripped from his open mouth, the viscous fluid splattering on the stone. There was no escape, the beast now standing between Circe and her escape. "We are going to play, you and I," Marcus gloated, his voice brimming with mockery. A feral smile flickered on his inhuman lips, the fiend visibly enjoying himself. Growling, he feigned to lunge at the witch, chortling when she shied away from him.
"Oh yes," Marcus grunted, reaching to wrap his fingers around his manhood, giving it a few soft strokes as if to make sure his preyโhis plaything would understand what he had on his mind. As the beast touched himself, more of his essence dribbled on the floor, his inhuman, sickly reddish length already rock hard. The beast felt the need to relieve the ache in his loins, the all-consuming urge to mate clouding his judgment.
Circe was all he had on his mind, her scent drawing him in like a moth to flame. No force could have stayed him.
"I'll feast on you," the beast growled, his voice brimming with hunger. "I've feasted on your kith before, hag," Marcus taunted Circe, pausing to lick his lips. He could remember chasing a young hex-weaver and her mate through the woods. He could remember gutting the young man as he tried to fend him off. He had fallen, grasping his intestines as they slipped through his fingers. The brave man had died a slow, painful death. Drunk on the scent of blood, Marcus had ravaged the witch, the small woman far too weak to defend herself.
"She was so very tasty," the beast guffawed, mocking Circe. "I poured my seed into her and tore her belly open." Marcus chuckled dryly, his eyes resting on his prey as he spoke. "I ate her womb. She kept screaming until the very end." Circe could hear the mirth in the beast's voice, his mouth curled into a bestial smile. "How about you, hag? Are you a maiden? Have you lain with a man?" Marcus didn't expect her to answer; his words were meant to taunt her.
Freeing his hands, the beast lunged at the young witch, his wicked claws striking against the barrier she had summoned, the glancing blow shaking Circe. "You look a lot like her," the beast snarled, taking his time with his prey. Her magic did little to deter him.
There was nowhere to run. Strong as Circe was, she was at his mercy. The wolfman was determined to play with her to his heart's content.
The beast pounced without a warning, knocking Circe down, her magic breaking her fall. The beast struck again, shattering the protective spell the young witch had woven around her frame. The beast's wicked claws got caught in the cloth of her dress. Snarling, Marcus tore the garment asunder, drawing blood as he unveiled her bosom. He pinned her down with contemptuous ease, holding her hands in one of his claws. Stronger than any mortal had right to be, the beast dragged Circe around as if she were but a ragdoll. Snarling, he swung her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her, leaving her gasping for air.
With his prey unable to fight back, Marcus dug his claws into what remained of her clothes, tearing the sturdy cloth apart with ease. The beast paused for a moment to admire the small creature, pressing his hand on her chest. "Soft. Just as she was," he growled softly, ignoring her meager protests. He grasped one of her breasts with his hand, feeling her out, wondering if she was an untried maiden.
None could remain untouched forever.
Close as the beast was, the scent of his musk washed over Circe, overwhelming her senses. Grunting, Marcus forced his knee between her legs, prying them wide apart. "You are mine now," he snarled, mocking his prey. As the beast leaned closer, his swollen manhood brushed against her thighs, his sticky precum staining her bare skin. His hunger was palpable, the way he touched her making it painfully evident how he craved her. Needed her. Lust burned brighter than a thousand suns back in his mind. The brutish monster was determined to spill his seed into the small woman, allowing nothing to get in its way.
Panting softly with arousal, the beast leaned closer, pressing his muzzle between Circe's breasts, tasting her. He licked her bosom, his long tongue rough against her nipples, Marcus murmuring happily as his prey squirmed beneath his weight. He allowed her no chance to escape, the poor young faun having to come to terms with her mortality. The beast played with her, teasing and tormenting her. "I'll make you mine, girl," Marcus grunted, his large hand finding its way to her undergarments, his claws digging into the soft cloth. Tugging hard, he pulled her panties down, the waistband digging into her flesh before coming apart, the beast discarding the torn garment with a satisfied grin on his canine lips.
With her pussy exposed, Marcus eased himself between her legs, his coarse fur brushing against her thighs. "Stay still," he snarled, trying to thrust his swollen cock into her, his length pressing into her folds. His manhood was hot and slick against her pussy, his precum clinging to the thin fuzz covering her sex. "Spread your legs," the beast commanded, growling as he did so, hoping that his prey would obey him, making it easier for him to ravage her. Much to her dismay, Circe could both hear and feel his growl, his chest pressed against hers as he kept grinding his hips against hers.
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