Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

My cottage is not far, but the walk down the hills feels like it takes three times as long as normal. When I see that familiar thatched roof, the wattle and daub walls that were freshly patched last summer, I let out a heavy sigh of relief. We made it.

I open the latch with my elbow and enter the almost completely dark, one-room cottage. Behind me, I pull a crimson, silken rope over the door latch, draping it haphazardly. The silver bell at the end chimes softly—the sound of old, protective spells engaging once more, and a mechanical warning should anyone force entry.

My only light is the angry embers that still smolder in the hearth, waiting for me to return and stoke them into a flame. I settle my new companion on Grandma's old bed—mine is in the loft—and leave her there, heading to the fire. The first order of business is to get heat. She's not going to warm up if we're nearly able to see our breath, even indoors.

Crouching by the fire, I rest a palm on the mantle. "Folost?"

The flames perk up in response. They almost take the shape of a face, white-gold eyes shining at me before they flicker away.

"We have a guest." I tilt my head toward the bed.

One tongue of flame rises, swiveling over toward the bed. It seems to lean out from the hearth, as if trying to get a better look. The small lash of fire vibrates with excitement, or agitation… Grandma was always better at reading the moods of the little fire spirit than I was. Excitement was the correct assumption, it'd seem, as the embers spark to a roaring flame, enough that I rear back as the wave of heat that radiates out from it smacks me across the face.

"Glad you're excited for company." It's a bear when Folost is feeling moody. The whole cottage is freezing until he can be convinced to come around again. It made mourning Grandma's loss all the harder when the house was frigid each lonely night.

As I move away from the hearth, I swear I nearly hear a response: Special company, indeed. I halt, glancing back at the tiny spirit. Everything seems normal.

Shaking my head, I head to the wash basin in the opposite corner of the room, at the foot of Grandma's bed. I hear that many houses in town have a science called plumbing these days—running water on command. A novelty that seems almost as magical as living among the spirits of the woods. As for me, my mornings are spent gathering water from the well. Luckily, I didn't go through it all and don't have to venture outside. I'd rather not disturb my protective wards tonight.

My hands pause in the water, a cloth gripped tightly. The eyes of the lykin still bore into me. A chill drags its finger down my spine and I fight a shiver, looking to the door. The rope and bell are still in place. Undisturbed. If the lykin were able to find a weakness or break in my barrier, they would've by now.

I wring out the washcloth and return to the bedside. My fears are confirmed. My guest has gone from frozen to burning up.

"Folost, that's enough," I whisper with a glance to the hearth. Nothing can heat the cottage like Folost when he's determined.

Two golden eyes appear in the roaring flame, narrowing at me slightly. I narrow my eyes in return. The fire dims, but only slightly.

"It's all right," the woman says with a soft sigh. "I'll grow accustomed soon enough."

"Don't exert yourself. Rest." I finish dotting her brow with the cloth, removing the thin sheen of sweat from her cheeks and neck. The movement is all too familiar. It was only a week ago that Grandmother died. "You're safe here. The lykin didn't follow us from the woods."

"Safe." She says the word with disbelief as her eyes scan the cottage. They land on the chime slung over the door handle. On Folost with a warm little smile. "So it would seem."

"Are you…" I struggle to find the words. In my small area, everyone knows of me. And they're kind enough. But those from distant towns—even from the city—are wary of witches. Or even disbelieving of them entirely. The ancient magics are long forgotten from this land and those who keep their ways alive are growing more and more cloistered out of fear of misunderstanding. But she was in the woods, a place where regular humans shouldn't be able to venture. The wolf king was hunting her. She can clearly see the markers of a witch. It would be nice to not be so alone… "Are you a witch, too?" I ask, before fantasies of a companion can overtake me.

She brings her attention back to me. Those all-black eyes of hers are like hollow pits. Deep enough to swallow me whole.

"I am not."

"Then how were you in the woods?" If there is a weak point of the barrier somewhere, I should know and fix it quickly, before the wolf king can exploit it. Humans should grow more and more discomforted the closer they get to the woods—driven to turning around before they can enter.

"I am of a magical sort, though not a witch," she says softly.

"What?" She now has my sole focus. "Fae? Elf?" Perhaps the stories of their pointed ears were wrong.

She shakes her head.

"Vampir?"

More shaking.

"You said you were not a lykin," I remember.

"I am not." That rejection is firmer than all the others.

"Then…"

"My name is Aurora." She pats my hand gently, as if that is enough for me to know for now.

"Lovely to meet you, Aurora. I'm Faelyn," I say, though my mind is still trying to come up with what kind of creature she might be, if not a fae, elf, witch, vampir, or lykin. Surely not a siren…I thought they were confined to their seas.

"Faelyn," she repeats. "A good old name originating from the first tongue of your ancestors. Loved by magic, it means, I believe."

"Loved by the elves, I was always told." I am caught off guard by how seemingly normal this interaction is. As if we are just two friends chatting. As though she's not a magical stranger I found in the woods.

"Elves, magic, synonymous to early humans." She shrugs.

"Aurora…are you a spirit?" I whisper, fear and fascination fighting, suppressed by the improbability of the question. But my gut keeps pulling me toward that conclusion. However impossible. I can't let it go.

She brings her eyes back to mine. A slight, tired smile. "I am."

"How?" I shift to face her better, trying to see her in a new light. Her hair is a silver so pure it's platinum. Her eyes are darker than pitch. And her skin is nearly unnaturally pale… She is human at a glance, but the longer I inspect her, the more unsettling her appearance becomes. She's like a too-perfect version of human—an artist's representation, close, but not quite real. "All the spirits I've ever known keep the forms they represent." Like Folost in his hearth, or Mary in her pot on the windowsill. And, while they can communicate in their ways, they cannot speak the common tongue.

But the stories of ancient spirits did say they could take humanlike forms… Perhaps she is one of the last of that long-ago time? The mere notion of it has me in awe.

Aurora looks out the window, turning her gaze from everything within. When she speaks, the words are heavy, a little sad, and filled with so much longing it is a wonder that we don't both drown in it. "I made a request of an old god, long, long ago, for the body of a human…and my wish was granted."

I know better than to ask more, even though I'm burning with curiosity. It's not my place and there are things in my past that I would never want anyone to dredge forward again. Whatever history is wrapped up in Aurora's story, it clearly brings her great pain to even think about. Why a spirit would want to have the body of a human when their natural forms are nothing but power and the raw essence of nature itself is beyond me. But, for now, I leave it be.

"And you were being hunted by the wolf king?"

"He sees me as something to be possessed. I am little more than a token for him to bind himself with to validate his throne. So I fled. I was trying to free myself and, in the process, bound myself to you, instead." Her words are heavy with guilt, but all I feel is a rush of excitement.

All the spirits in the house were bonded to my grandma. She had told me of the processes involved, and the methods of doing so. But I have never found a spirit with which to bind myself.

Spirit binding is one of the oldest magics. One that Grandma always said was mostly forgotten by the other lingering witches of our age. When they lost their abilities to bind with spirits, they ultimately lost their magic. Which was another reason why she bound Folost and Mary to me just before her death. She'd tell me stories of long ago when our family had dozens of spirits who lived alongside us. But now, there are only two. And they are small and frail compared to the magics of old…not that I'd ever let either hear me say as much.

Binding a spirit allows a mortal to call upon them, trading his or her magic for a favor from the spirit. Like seeing in the dark, or forging a fire. Sometimes, the spirits decide to make their homes alongside the witches, forging a truly symbiotic relationship where power and safety are shared. A single spirit cannot be bound to more than one individual, so it's little wonder the king of the wolves abandoned his hunt when he laid eyes on us.

I wonder both what magics she will render me capable of and what I will be able to do for her in return.

"It is my honor to be bound with you." I rest my hand gently on the back of hers. "May I ask what you are the spirit of?"

She levels her gaze with mine. Her stare carries the weight of the coldest winter's night. My breath catches in my throat.

"No," she finally whispers.

I give a slight nod. There's the same sensation as when she mentioned the deal made to give her this human form. I can feel in my bones that it is not my place to ask, nor my need to know. At least…not yet.

So it shall be left at that.

"Aurora, may I ask one more thing?"

"You may certainly ask, but I might not feel inclined to answer," she says with a tired smile.

"Do you want to be bound to me?" For all my excitement over finally bringing a new spirit under my roof, of my own accord, the binding hardly went as Grandma said they would. And she speaks of being bound to the wolf king with such disdain.

"No." The word isn't cruel. A simple fact. "I was trying to find freedom. But fate seemed to have other plans."

"Then we shall undo this binding between us."

Her eyes shine with amusement and, dare I say, fondness. She does not appear as young as I first thought her in this light. If anything, she regards me with the same wisdom Grandma always did.

"I fear it might not be so simple as unraveling your binding with the other spirits, little weaver witch. The ring I destroyed held a part of my power. I had hoped to absorb it into myself. But, instead, it went into you." Aurora rests her hand on the center of my chest. "Separating my power from me was not an act done by mortal hands, but by the old gods far, far from here. I had been trying to call upon them at the foot of the redwood, but it seems I must stand before them once more at their great tree to have them pull it from you and properly return it to me."

"Then we shall go to them," I declare, taking her hand in both of mine.

"Faelyn?" Her pale brows furrow in confusion.

"If I do not have the power to free you, we shall go together to find the person—old god who does." I smile through the brief twinge of disappointment I feel at losing the first spirit I'm bound to. It is the right decision. I merely wish the circumstances were different. "I will not keep you and use your strength against your will. So, together we shall find the freedom you seek."

"The journey will be long, and difficult, if it can be done at all," she says softly.

"Then I will get supplies in the morning and we will ready ourselves to leave in the coming days."

"You have no idea what this journey would entail."

"I don't need to." I squeeze her fingers. "It is the right thing to do."

"You…would truly free me?" Her eyes are shining. "Even though you hardly know me? Even though I can grant you immense power should you choose to take it?"

Immense power…no wonder the forest seemed to heed me more than it ever had before… "‘Immense power' is worth little if taken by force. I only want what is freely offered, and won't have it any other way."

"Thank you, Faelyn." She squeezes my fingers and brings her forehead to my knuckles, drawing a shuddering breath. I rest my other hand on her quivering shoulders.

"Do you need to eat?" I ask, shifting the topic for her. Aurora has endured a great deal already tonight; we don't need to linger on subjects that give her turmoil.

She nods. "While I might be a spirit in essence, this form that I am trapped within is mortal enough that it requires sustenance to thrive."

"Can this physical form be?—"

She doesn't allow me to finish the question. Though it was a macabre one anyway.

"Killed? Yes. No," she answers enigmatically. "My immortality as a spirit did not entirely leave me, even though I took this form. This body cannot be killed by natural means—aging, starvation, cold, illness. Though I still know the pain of those things."

Something about the way she says those words, her bitter, tired, and grim expression that accompanies them, causes my heart to ache for all this woman has endured—all I barely understand.

"To kill me," she continues grimly, as if forcing the words, "it would take intent by a mortal hand in a magical act. Hunger cannot kill me, but a charmed stake driven through my heart could."

"Let's not linger on driving anything through your heart." I stand and cross back to my hutch, looking through the various baskets and jars, ready to leave the topic behind. I am going to keep her safe. "When I go to the market tomorrow, I will get enough supplies for both of us on the journey, then. I don't have enough food here for two people."

"I hope I will not be too much of an imposition." She sounds genuinely guilty. Looks it, too, with the way she picks at her nails.

"No, no!" I say hastily. "Not in the slightest. It's my honor that you're here. But the last time I went to market I was shopping for only one person." For the first time in my life, I shopped only for one. The memory sobers me. Of assessing how much less food I needed when it was only me to feed, even though Grandma ate like a bird those final months. You're all right, Faelyn , I tell myself, the pain fades a little more each day . Eventually there will come a day where the mere passing thought of her doesn't debilitate me.

Having the distraction—and a journey away from this place—might be just the balm I needed. Like always, the woods provided.

"Is there anything that you don't eat? Or any foods you particularly enjoy, should I be able to find them?" It occurs to me that if she is the spirit of some kind of animal or plant, she might have strong feelings about certain foods.

Aurora shakes her head. "Any food is fine with me." A pause, then, "Actually, were I to be honest, I would prefer vegetables over meat. And meat cooked well through, were we to eat it."

"Vegetables are a preference we share." I close the hutch with a smile. It will be easier to keep vegetables fresh on the road. Meat wouldn't last long and I don't have time to dry any. "Then we shall wake with the dawn to head to market."

She doesn't bother to even try to hide her cringe.

"What is it?"

A coy little smile slinks across her lips. "I am more of a night person than a daytime one. Dawn is when I might bed down and usually do not wake until dusk. Rarely, I'll be up in the afternoon…depending on the season, weather, and my moods."

I laugh. She has timeless eyes, but many mannerisms of a youthful woman. There was a time I, too, lamented early rising. "All right. I can go alone. And, before you can worry, know it'll be no trouble."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure and my honor." I cross the room to the loft ladder that's on the far wall from her bed—the opposite side of Folost's hearth. On the way, I grab a satchel off the wall, different from the leather one I took into the woods. "I sleep up in the loft, so if you need anything, you can shout and I'll hear without trouble. There are wards on this house and I've confirmed them to be in place, so you'll be safe." My hand pauses on a middle rung. "Oh, one more thing…our other house guests are Folost and Mary. Mary is the marigold in the small pot on the kitchen window. Folost is in his hearth.

"I don't know if you have a better way to communicate with them than I. But even if you don't, Folost can take direction in the common tongue. If he chooses to listen," I add with a pointed glare to the hearth. One golden eye swings my way and there's a huff as a log collapses. I roll my eyes. "So if you're too warm in the night, just let him know to relax a little."

She turns to the fire with a knowing glint in her eyes. Aurora tilts her head slightly and I swear I see a tongue of flame mirror the gesture as I climb up to the loft.

Before I sleep, I retrieve a small sewing kit from what was Grandma's satchel. Running my fingers over the rainbow of threads, I select one as pale as her hair, another as black as her eyes. With them, I stitch the shape of a ring with a pale moonstone flanked by crescents into the red cloak to commemorate our meeting.

The night passes without issue, despite my waking up twice to make sure Aurora is still there—that I didn't dream the night's surreal events. In the morning I wake when the stars are still burning the sky. I know every creaky board and slick rung of the ladder, so I'm able to descend and quietly gather my things without Aurora so much as stirring.

I take my leather satchel off its peg, adjusting it around the pin of my cloak. Opening the hutch, I relieve its shelf of bundles of sticks, dried flowers, herbs, and fruits, carefully placing them into the satchel. Then I take the silver chime in hand and slowly remove the silken cord off the door latch.

The sun has not yet crested the horizon and I am off to market.

The closest township is almost a two-hour walk away. The market is held each morning on the town green and goes until all the goods are sold. So departing early is crucial if I don't want to be left with table scraps and empty pots for dinner. If I can, I like to make it right when the stalls are opening and the farmers and tradespeople are setting out their wares. All the choices I could want are mine and I'm not bothered too much… It doesn't matter that I've lived here my entire life; being the town witch tends to attract stares.

I savor the slowly lifting fog off the tall grasses and give thanks to the last of the crickets and owls that are tucking in for the day. Perhaps that is what Aurora is: the spirit of an owl. She is quite noble like one. I imagine her natural form is that of a snowy, feathered creature. Regal and stoic.

Do wolves hunt owls? I suppose they could. Or perhaps there's a rivalry beyond their animal forms.

What if she is the ancient spirit of the wolf that first gave lykin their powers? The thought nearly has me tripping over my feet. No…such a creature wouldn't be at odds with the lykin, would they? I continue musing throughout my walk. Every theory seems as plausible and unlikely as the last.

The sun greets me as I arrive in town, shining off the roofs still glossy with dew. The market folk know me well and are surprised to see me again so soon. I usually make this walk only once every month. I give them enigmatic, half explanations about "needing more supplies," and "not having enough essential material." They are not lies. Nor is it my fault that the townsfolk presume me to be doing something more with the sweet corn and beans than putting them in a pot.

I do not pay with silver or gold. Money is a tricky thing—ill will clings to it more than the dirt in the stamped grooves of the coin. Instead, I pay in the bundles I've prepared. Most know already to hang the strung bunch of sticks and flowers over their door and burn it with the next full moon. Even though everyone saw me so recently, they're all eager to receive the little blessings of protection that will ward off the evils of the world—lykin included. For when the bundles burn every new moon, the smoke rises from their chimneys and sweeps across the hills to the forests. The ash sinks into the ground, and the barriers I maintain on this land are renewed once more.

Knowing I'll be gone for a bit longer than normal, I tell them how to make their blessings last longer. Hopefully the townsfolk will listen and will keep safe without me for a few weeks. One or two ask for an extra blessing—a small embroidery on the baker's favorite apron and the cobbler's shoe. It's a good thing I brought my weaver kit so I can accommodate, since I get quite good gifts for these. Aurora will need a decent pair of boots for our journey.

It's late afternoon when I finally begin to make my way back. I hum to myself, delighting in the warmer summer weather. I nearly have crested one of the last hills before home when the smell of smoke fills my nose.

It is a distinct aroma—woodsmoke, clear and pure. But there's something else in it. A stinging that makes my eyes water.

For a moment, I am back before my grandma's pyre. A fire so bright it nearly steals all the light from the sky. There's a sharp buzzing in the air that is magic escaping its worldly tethers.

Dread fills me. I know in my gut with horrible, sinking certainty what has transpired. Yet, I begin to run, as if I can somehow outpace this fate. It cannot be real. I refuse to hold this truth in my mind alone. My eyes must share the burden.

I crest the top of the hill, breezing past the thin, lonely trees that extend out from the dark forest of the lykin. There, in the distance, is my home—the home of my ancestors, the home I was born in, grew up in, and inherited. The only home I have ever known.

And it is ablaze.