Chapter 3 ECHOES OF FIRE

The fire in the lodge crackled low, its flames dancing shadows across the worn stone walls. The warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in Rowan's bones. Silas had long since vanished, retreating into the night with that uncanny, wolfish quiet of his-too silent, too swift, too knowing. The kind of silence that lingered long after he'd gone, leaving behind a ripple in the air like a breath held too long.

Now alone, Rowan sat at the long wooden table, the weight of his words still heavy in the room, heavy in her chest.

If we fail, there's no going back.

The sentence echoed in her mind, as final as a closing door.

Her fingers drifted toward the table's surface, brushing the worn carvings etched into the wood-ancient symbols of lineage, survival, pain, unity. Some were faded with age, others newly etched by the current generation. They were tokens of memory, marks of resilience. Her hand hovered over one in particular, a spiral interwoven with claw marks-jagged and brutal, yet precise. She traced it absently, her fingertips following its harsh angles. It reminded her of the runes in her grandmother's grimoire-symbols meant to guard and to punish.

So much of this place echoed her past. The structure, the scent of woodsmoke and pine, the silence that buzzed with unspoken history. And yet, despite all that felt familiar, it also felt alien. Like a house built from her memories, but lived in by strangers.

She rose from her seat and wandered toward the far corner of the lodge, where a narrow window opened to the night beyond. The trees stood in solemn stillness beneath the sky, their branches skeletal in the silver moonlight. Above them, the full moon hung high and merciless, its pale light flooding the clearing like a watchful eye.

It didn't just illuminate. It judged.

A soft scuff of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts.

"You shouldn't be here alone," came a voice from the doorway-low, firm, and unmistakably edged.

Rowan turned slowly. "Gage."

Of course it was him.

He stood at the threshold, arms crossed tightly, shoulders squared as if he expected a fight.

She leaned back against the window frame, crossing her arms in turn. "Why? Think I'll hex the furniture?"

Gage didn't take the bait. He stepped inside with deliberate calm, his eyes cold, jaw tight. "I think you'll bring more trouble than you're worth."

Rowan gave a thin smile. "Nice to see your charm's still intact."

"I'm serious," he said, voice cutting through the air like ice. "This place remembers what your kind did. So do I."

"I'm not here to repeat history," she said, the words sharp with restraint. "I came back to help fix it."

"Help," Gage scoffed. "Like your ancestors 'helped' by cursing our bloodline? You think we've forgotten that?"

Rowan's spine stiffened. "I didn't cast the curse."

"No. But you carry the blood of the ones who did."

"And with it, the power to undo it." Her voice rose slightly, the fire in her chest flickering to life. "So unless you have a better plan, get out of my way."

The flames in the hearth behind her flared suddenly, a gust of heat rushing up the chimney. The shadows in the room danced more violently for a moment, as if reacting to her pulse.

Gage stared at her for a long moment, the tension between them sharp enough to cut. Then, without a word, he turned and left, footsteps heavy with frustration.

Rowan let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her shoulders ached from the tension, the silence pressing down like another weight she had to carry.

She needed air.

Outside, the night was sharper, colder, biting at her skin as she stepped beyond the lodge. The wind whispered through the trees like old voices murmuring half-forgotten warnings. The moonlight silvered everything-branches, stones, her breath as it rose like smoke.

She walked past the boundary of the lodge grounds, her steps guided not by direction, but by instinct. The forest pulled at her like it always had-soft and familiar, even after all these years.

She passed landmarks of her childhood: a tree split by lightning, its bark blackened and curling; a ring of mushrooms where she and her sister had once tried to summon fae spirits; a shallow well that had long since gone dry. Each memory stirred like ash at the bottom of a long-cold fire.

Eventually, she found herself standing at the edge of what used to be the training field-now wild with overgrowth. The stone circle was still visible, though broken in places, weeds curling through cracks. She remembered watching the elders cast spells here when she was small, fire circling the perimeter like a living serpent. That was before everything fractured.

Before the blood.

Before Silas.

A low, guttural growl froze her.

Rowan turned slowly, heart leaping to her throat.

And there-emerging from the shadows-was him.

Not the man, but the wolf.

Silas's wolf form was massive. His fur shimmered like silver smoke, rippling with power. His eyes-those eyes-still held the same searing intelligence, molten steel under the moonlight.

He stepped forward slowly, muscles coiled, each movement deliberate.

Rowan didn't move. "Silas," she whispered, unsure if the beast or the man heard her.

The wolf paused at the edge of the circle, head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring as if catching her scent. Then, in one slow, fluid motion, he stepped into the moonlight-and began to change.

It wasn't a gentle transformation. Bones cracked and shifted. Fur receded. Flesh twisted. Magic surged in the air like a storm's approach. Rowan flinched at the sound, the rawness of it. She had forgotten how brutal the shift could be.

Then he was standing before her-bare-chested, skin glistening with sweat, breaths coming hard and fast.

"I told you not to wander," he said, voice rough.

"You didn't tell me anything," she replied, holding his gaze. "You warned me. There's a difference."

He gave a half-smile, barely there. "Fair."

"You're controlling it," she said, stepping closer.

"Barely." His smile faded. "The curse... it's changing. Stronger. Tonight, for a moment, I wasn't sure I could come back."

"But you did," she said softly.

He didn't answer. He only looked at her-really looked. The wind rustled around them, the world eerily quiet.

"For now," he murmured. Then, after a pause, "I don't know how much longer I can."

Without thinking, she placed a hand on his arm. His skin was burning hot, his muscles taut. He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

"Then we figure it out," she said. "Together."

Silas studied her, the weight in his eyes heavy with a thousand things left unsaid. Then something shifted-not softened, but steadied.

"I'm not used to witches standing beside us," he said.

She smiled faintly. "I'm not used to werewolves letting me."

That almost earned a real smile.

She let her hand drop, aware of the space between them again. "You should rest. The moon's only going to pull harder."

He nodded. "We'll start with the old texts tomorrow. There's something near the boundary stones... something my father once spoke of."

He didn't finish the thought.

She nodded. "I'll be ready."

They parted without ceremony, each retreating into their own thoughts. But even as she walked away, Rowan could feel his gaze on her back.

And for the first time since stepping into Ashbourne, she didn't feel entirely alone.