Once Betrayed Never Forgotten

Chapter 39: The Binding

The dream, when it comes, is dark and foreboding but eerily beautiful.

In the dream, I’ve somehow escaped my cell, shedding my three–dimensional self to become two dimensional, I look down at my hands and body, realising that I am made of shimmering radiant ink on paper, rivers of colour and light flowing through me. My fingers, once flesh and bone, are now strokes of brilliant luminescence. I marvel at the rivers of colour that course through my veins, and then it hits me.

nan illustration I’m an

the pages of Mircea’s book. I’m literally trapped inside the Book of Silver Mist as part of the illuminated manuscript.

I drift effortlessly over the pages, and the world I once knew becomes but a distant memory. I settle finally in the margin of a familiar page, and I am thrust into the scene that had unfolded earlier. It’s the scene shown on the pages that I opened the book to, by random coincidence, something that Mircea had insisted was a blessing from the Moon Goddess.

In this shadowy forest, the darkness is kissed by the silver crescent moon, adorned with glistening silverleaf. The illustrated wolf pack materialises around me, a jumble of lines and strokes of ink, their fur a medley of white, brown, grey, and black. They bow to me in the snow, one by one, with reverence and respect.

A disembodied female voice is murmuring a chant or a prayer – so softly that I can barely hear the words, carried like the whispers of a ghost on the

odled fem Content property of NôvelDra/ma.Org.

wind.

The longer I listen, the more clearly I can hear – until I can make o

In the shadows where the moonlight gleams,

Two hearts now entwined, two fated dreams,

In the realm where night’s secrets creep,

I cast a spell, your souls to keep.

Beneath the silver moon’s soft glow,

The red thread of fate begins to flow,

Through the tapestry of destiny’s art,

I weave your love, never to depart.

From the depths of ancient lore,

I call upon the spirits of yore,

With strands of hair, entwined with care,

Two souls as one, beyond compare.

As I plait these locks so fair,

Intricately, with a witch’s flair,

Let your love be bound, never to sever,

Entangled souls, now and forever.

So mote it be, this spell is spun,

Two hearts as one, until life is done,

By the red thread of fate, forever bound,

In love’s embrace, you shall be found.

out the words of her strange incantation;

Chapter 39: The Binding

The last syllables of the incantation fade away into silence, replaced by the sound of howling from the forest.

Then, from the shadowy line of ink trees emerges a massive silver wolf, its heart a reservoir of crimson ink. A surge of energy propels a red line of ruby light, a spear of fate, from its heart toward me. I feel the searing connection as it pierces my own heart, binding us inextricably.

Above us, the crescent moon fills out, becoming engorged. It expands like a wine glass filled with radiant silver liquid, pregnant with light, until it is a shimmering full moon hanging heavy in the sky. The silver wolf begins to twitch and growl. His silver for shimmers in the moonlight as limbs stretch and reshape, there is the sickening crunch of bones breaking and reforming beneath the skin as the fur melts into nothingness. I watch as the majestic wolf becomes a man. The moonlight ki*ses his newly formed skin, revealing a vision of masculinity and raw beauty,

His bright silver eyes mirror the moon’s splendour, and his long silver hair cascades down broad shoulders. Every line of his body speaks of athleticism, of the life of a warrior and a hunter. He stands naked, not a scrap of clothing on his perfect body.

Muscles ripple beneath his lightly tanned skin, and I can’t help but be immediately captivated by his rugged beauty, his maleness. The red thread of ink that connects us remains, anchoring our hearts together as one.

“This can’t be real,” he says in a low voice, his disbelief mirroring my own.

“It’s not,” I reply. “I’m dreaming.”

His hand reaches out, placing his hand over my heart, and I fall into another dream.

Now I hover above a strange scene, suspended in the air, looking down.

In the heart of the dense and ancient forest below me, nestled beneath the sprawling canopy of towering trees, there is a house atop a hill. Not just any house – a vast sprawling cabin as large as a mansion, swathed in lush carpets of emerald ivy.

The exterior of the house is crafted from rugged, weathered timber, hewn from the surrounding forest and interwoven with moss–covered stones

Massive, ancient oak and birch trees rise around the house, their gnarled branches forming a natural canopy overhead. There are several smaller dwellings surrounding the house, at the foot of the hill below, and a fighting yard, with a bonfire at its centre. It is night time, a new moon, moonless night filled with stars,

I drift down through the air, drawn closer to the house. Through the massive glass window, I steal a glimpse of the interior. The walls are adorned with trophies of past hunts – stunning antlers and feral pelts adorn the walls and floors. The central hearth, a roaring fire pit, crackles with untamed flames.

Something about all of this feels familiar–like something I’ve read in a book, or seen in a movie. That’s when it hits me – werewolves. This place must be their pack house. But why on earth am I having random dreams about werewolves, at a time like this? I need to wake up.

I fight against the tide of sleep, my mind wrestling to stay lucid within the dream, and then my attention is distracted by the sight of the same silver- haired young man from earlier. There is no longer a red thread of shimmering ink binding our hearts, and although his hair is now brunette, and his eyes have shifted to a warm reddish–brown, the hue of cinnamon, I still recognise him. This is the silver wolf, in human form, but he appears younger, a teenager. It dawns on me that I’ve travelled back in time, witnessing a pivotal moment from the past.

He strides across the yard from one of the smaller houses, heading towards the large house on the hill. His handsome face is twisted with rage.

Another young man runs up behind him and attempts to restrain him, to reason with him. Their voices reach a crescendo in the night as they argue.

14 “Please, Beta Luka! Don’t throw away your future on a rumour! You don’t even know if it’s true, the blonde man implores,

“A rumour?!” Luka’s voice echoes through the night, a thunderclap of rage. “My sister herself confirmed it. Alpha Marko took her by force. He marked her and claimed her, she rejected him, and he had his way with her anyway. I will kill him.”

“Dammit Luka, he is your Alpha!” The blonde man says, his voice practically a growl. “You know our laws! He has chosen your sister as his mate, and she cannot deny him. She will be his Luna, as the Moon Goddess wills it.”

“Let me go, Kosta!” Luka shouts at his friend, showing him aside.

“Please!” Kosta begs. “No one will believe you. Who do you think the rest of the pack will side with? The Alpha, or a Beta? Think clearly, Luka! You’ll get yourself killed, or worse! Cast out, exiled, a muge…”

“Bring it on,” Luka says, shoving his friend away and continuing his march up the hill. The silhouette of a tall, muscular man comes into view in the open doorway of the packhouse at the top of the hill. He watches his adversary’s approach with an intensity that foreshadows an impending confrontation.

Chapter 35 The Blinding

The dream shifts and changes again, elusive and ever–shifting. The inky darkness of night gives way to the soft, gentle light of dawn. The landscape is bathed in a pale glow, heralding a new day. I hang suspended in the air, looking down at a frozen landscape.

In the unforgiving mountains, high on a craggy, frozen peak, a wounded wolf with reddish–brown fur lies amidst the pristine snow, its lifeblood turning to an icy slush beneath it as it bleeds out.

The wolf hears terrible injuries and emits a pitiful whimper, a cry that pierces the icy silence of the wilderness. A desolate howl follows, echoing through the mountains as if carrying the creature’s agony to the heavens.

Amid this haunting scene, a figure descends from the sky, graceful and powerful. My heart quickens with recognition – I’d recognise him anywhere. That handsome face, his dark hair framing piercing blue eyes. Enormous, leathery black wings unfold from his back as he lands on the snow, kneeling down to inspect the dying woll.

It’s Aleksandr

And with that realisation, I wake up screaming his name.

Chapter Comments

EJ

That was interesting.

I I think Alek saved the Beta after he fought the Alpha. I think that was the debt but the red strings normally can’t mean the is the silver wolf’s mate. I thought she was Aleks actually