Chapter 7 THE ASHBOURNE WARNING

Ashbourne had always held its secrets close.

The village didn't offer them freely. It whispered them through the trees, buried them beneath stone, tucked them into shadows that stretched too long at dusk. Even in daylight, Ashbourne wore its history like a veil-thin enough to see through, thick enough to obscure the truth.

Rowan stood at the edge of the forest, where the trees thickened and the air grew unnaturally cold. Morning sunlight filtered through the spindly branches above, but it held no warmth. Frost clung to the moss despite the hour. Her fingertips grazed a sigil carved into the bark of an ancient elm-an old protection rune, etched in the style used by witches during the Great Rift. A time when wards were more than precaution-they were survival.

But this one was freshly carved.

Her breath curled in the chilled air.

She wasn't alone.

"You found it too," Elara's voice came from behind, soft but certain.

Rowan didn't turn. "Someone marked the wards. Someone who still knows how."

"It wasn't any of us," Elara said. "I asked Willow. The coven hasn't crossed this perimeter in years-not since your mother's time."

A frown crept across Rowan's face. "Then someone's lying... or someone's come back."

Elara shifted uneasily. "Do you believe what you saw in the ritual? About Elandra anchoring the curse?"

"I didn't just see it," Rowan murmured. "I felt it. Her pain. Her sacrifice. She thought she was protecting us. All of us."

Elara's brow furrowed. "Then maybe someone's trying to finish what she started."

Before Rowan could answer, the air changed.

A cold draft swirled around them, not wind exactly-something quieter, more insidious. The space just beyond the trees shimmered. It bent and twisted, like heatwaves in reverse. A figure emerged in the distortion, cloaked and still, standing half-shrouded in fog. Just watching.

Rowan stepped forward, heart pounding. "Hey-!"

But the figure vanished, dissipating like mist before her voice had fully left her lips.

Elara's breath caught. "What the hell was that?"

Rowan didn't respond right away. Her eyes scanned the trees, searching for the impossible. "Something's stirring in the Hollow," she said at last.

-

Back at the lodge, Silas wasn't alone.

Willow sat across from him, her posture stiff, arms folded across her chest like a barrier. Her face was calm, but tension hummed just beneath her skin.

"I didn't come to curse you," she said flatly. "But I won't pretend I'm not worried."

Silas leaned back in the chair, one brow raised. "Worried about what?"

"Rowan." Her tone dropped. "She's walking a dangerous path. And you're pushing her closer to it."

"She made her choice."

"No," Willow said, eyes narrowing. "She was born into it. That's not the same."

Silas didn't flinch. "Then maybe it's time she decides who she wants to become-not who your coven expects her to be."

Willow's lips thinned, her voice barely above a whisper. "Be careful, Alpha. The deeper she binds to you, the more you both have to lose."

Before Silas could reply, the door creaked open behind her.

Rowan stood in the threshold, winded, a faint flush on her cheeks. Her eyes were sharp with urgency.

"Someone's been near the Hollow," she said. "They're using magic."

Willow's gaze sharpened instantly. "What kind of magic?"

"Old," Rowan said, stepping inside. "Blood-marked. Like mine."

Color drained from Willow's face. "You need to stay away from there, Rowan."

"I'm done running from where I came from," Rowan snapped, fire edging her voice. "You of all people should understand that."

Willow hesitated, something flickering in her expression-fear, perhaps, or memory. "Then be ready for what you find. The Hollow doesn't just hold ghosts. It holds choices. And none of them are kind."

-

Later that night, the world had gone still.

Rowan sat alone near the hearth, watching the fire burn low. The room was wrapped in a hush, shadows dancing softly against the lodge walls. The only light came from the dying embers and a single flickering candle on the table beside her.

She turned her hand palm-up, tracing the mark etched into her skin-the one created during the ritual with Silas. It hadn't faded like the others. If anything, it had grown darker, clearer. A tether more than a sigil. A connection not just bound by spellwork, but by something deeper.

She heard the creak of floorboards before she saw him. Silas stepped into the room, his movements heavier than usual. His shoulders were tense, jaw set, a shadow under his eyes.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer at first. He dropped into the chair opposite her and rubbed his hands over his face.

"I'm losing them," he said finally.

Rowan tilted her head. "The pack?"

He nodded once. "Gage is stirring things up. His words spread like mold. They think I'm bewitched. That you're... dangerous."

Rowan's voice was low. "Are they wrong?"

Silas looked at her, really looked. There was no accusation in his expression. Only quiet worry.

"You're powerful, Rowan. But power and danger aren't the same."

She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. "They're close, though. Sometimes you can't tell one from the other."

Silas reached out, fingers brushing hers gently. "Not in your case."

Rowan opened her mouth to speak, but a soft knock interrupted her. Not urgent. Not loud. Just... strange.

They exchanged a glance. Silas stood cautiously, every muscle alert. He walked to the door and opened it slowly.

No one was there.

Only the wind.

But something had been left behind. Placed deliberately on the stone doorstep.

A dagger. Bone-handled. Ancient. Its blade was engraved with runes that pulsed faintly even in the dark.

Rowan's breath caught. "That was my mother's."

Silas looked at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said. "Because I buried it with her."

He crouched down and reached for it, but the moment his fingers made contact with the blade, the runes flared-bright crimson, as if lit by blood itself.

He hissed in pain and recoiled, the dagger clattering to the floor.

The runes didn't fade.

They pulsed steadily.

Alive.

Rowan knelt, her hand hovering above the weapon as she examined the markings. The symbols shimmered, twisting into a shape she could read. A message, written in a language older than Ashbourne.

"It's a warning," she said, voice hollow.

Silas stepped closer, his hand still smarting. "What does it say?"

Rowan lifted her gaze to meet his.

Her heart pounded.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"It says: Choose the wolf... and lose the witch."