1. Stella
1
STELLA
TEN YEARS LATER
W orking nights at the Wolf’s Fang isn’t too bad.
The patrons—humble farmers looking to spend their coins on a few mugs of ale after a long day—usually behave themselves. Not to mention, a single woman has very few job prospects in a village as small as this one.
Working at the tavern suits me, and the pay is decent. I've settled into a comfortable routine since landing in this farming town over five years ago.
It took me a while to find my way here. When the ship I escaped my old life on made its final port, I journeyed from town to town, exploring what each one had to offer. It was nice being able to pick up and leave whenever I wanted. It was the freedom I desired so much as a young girl.
But then, five years ago, I craved routine—acceptance—so I decided to settle down in this small town and lead a quiet, solitary life.
During the day, I spend most of my time inside the tiny cottage I bought with the last of the gold coins gifted to me all those years ago. I have a small garden I tend to before the winter freezes all my sweet-smelling plants and herbs. A few creatures from the neighboring forest will stumble onto my lawn, and I always leave out little treats for them. I’ll never forget the baby deer that ate half my herb garden and was sick for nearly a week.
The poor darling did pull through after I spent many nights hand-feeding her.
The doe’s mother had come to collect her from The Woods, and I watched the pair trot off happily. The vastness of that sprawling tangle of trees and overgrown grass doesn’t scare me—not as it once did. All my visitors from there are sweet animals—if they can survive there, surely nothing too evil lurks within.
After spending my day toiling away in my garden or reading one of the countless novels I’ve collected over my travels, I can be found here at the Wolf’s Fang once the sun sets. For being the only tavern in Moon’s Hollow, it is a relatively peaceful establishment. We rarely get visitors from other settlements this far north, which I am grateful for.
Old Bill, who runs this tavern, is a kind man with warm brown eyes and a graying beard. He let me rent out a room above the Wolf’s Fang before I purchased my cottage. He’s kept my pay consistent over these five years. The concept of having my own money is still new to me. As a princess, the idea of working for money was an insult. Now, it’s become my biggest blessing.
It’s given me my autonomy, and I’m grateful for it.
Yet, even as I delight in all the freedom I’ve experienced, something has shifted in me recently: a desire to belong to someone—not in the way I belonged to my parents or as a prisoner to the loveless marriage they would’ve forced me into—but to make a life with someone of my choosing.
I rarely think about the past these days. I had become so absorbed in my new, fast-paced life that I seldom had the chance to. The last time I heard anything about my former life was a few whispered rumors shortly after I arrived about some royal guards being spotted to the south. They were still looking for a missing princess, but after five years, no one had much hope she would be found.
I had nodded at the patrons who brought the gossip, refilled their cups, and spent the night wide awake, thinking it wouldn’t be long until I was found. However, they never came. No one has mentioned even a passing whisper of my parents. This far out of their kingdom, I am far beyond their reach.
Shaking myself from the dark turn of my thoughts, I pick up a discarded silver mug and polish it with a clean rag. The past will drown me if I let it. I am safe here—life is simple. Tonight is a testament to that.
A few patrons are sipping mugs of ale along the polished wooden bar. Their crumpled clothes and the dirt caked under their nails indicate they spent all day tending to the fields. An older couple plays a game of cards at one of the small tables near the roaring fireplace. The red bricks glow from the crackling hearth. Above it sits the stuffed head of a stag, its proud horns nearly brushing the low beams of the ceiling.
I wrinkle my nose at the decor before returning to the mug in my hand.
A smattering of voices can be heard just beyond the tavern door. I look up just in time to see the creaky door fly open and bang against the stone wall. My stomach sinks when I realize who’s walked in.
Timson’s dark eyes find me in an instant. Licking his lips, he gives me a saccharine grin before advancing towards the bar. Tonight, he’s flanked by six of his lackeys, each staring at him like he is a god. They worship him as one, as do most of the people in this town. Being the most proficient hunter in the county will inspire that sort of treatment.
Me, on the other hand? I can’t stand the man.
He is the one sore spot in my otherwise idyllic, if mundane, life. His wandering eyes and hands are well-known amongst the women here. Since working in the Wolf’s Fang, I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of catching his eye and being extremely accessible.
A fact he’s well aware of as he stalks toward me. His dark hair is pulled back in a low bun. His temples are beginning to gray—the scar running from his left brow to his cheek glints in the low candlelight. Timson would be handsome if his eyes didn’t betray the malice simmering within his soul.
They are unkind—ruthless—just like the man himself.
His well-made clothes are wrinkled and covered in dark stains, indicating that he and the others have just returned from a hunt. One of the other men has a white bandage tied around his lower leg and walks with a distinct limp. The others seem in much better condition by comparison.
He comes to stand on the other side of the bar, and I’ve never been more grateful for the old wooden beam. Timson bangs his meaty fist on the bar before dropping a fist full of gold coins onto the polished surface. They hit with soft thuds and sparkle brilliantly. His thin lips pull into a grin that makes my skin crawl.
“A round of ale for me and my hunting party, beauty.”
I try not to recoil at the nickname as I scoop up the coins. Somehow, I keep my hands steady as I ready their drinks. The thick foam atop their mugs glistens as I set them before the group. Each one is snatched and drunk down almost instantly—except Timson, who looks at me expectantly. Suppressing my urge to groan, I know what he’s waiting for.
Looking at each man more closely, I see how disheveled they are. Sweat still clings to their brows, and a few have fresh-looking scratches along their hands and cheeks. Holes decorate a few of their trousers and coats. My eyes return to Timson, whose grin deepens. Picking up my rag and discarded mug, I go back to polishing while trying to keep my voice as casual as possible.
“Good hunting?”
Timson nods, taking a large gulp of his ale.
“You could say that,” he says, pining me with a look as he licks the foam from his unkempt beard. “Killing is when a man is most in control—the state in which we were meant to show our unparalleled prowess. That is why you should accompany me as requested—it is a privilege to bear witness to one as exceptional as myself in that state, I’m told.”
I smile politely and avert my gaze to the mug in my hand. It’s a wonder I haven’t rubbed off its silver coating.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for such things, sir. I barely eat meat as it is. Therefore, I don’t think?—”
“I am well aware of your peculiar tastes, Stella.”
My name upon his lips causes my stomach to churn. I don’t have to look up to know his eyes have narrowed. Clearly, he is recalling the times he’s left boar meat at my door, and I let it go rotten before some other predator drug it away. You would think after the tenth time, a man would get the hint that his gifts were not wanted.
“Well,” I say, hoping to end this interaction for the evening. “I am pleased you all returned safely from your excursion.”
The lie tastes like bile, but I swallow it down.
“He’s being modest,” one of Timson’s lackeys—Jaq—says and claps him on the back.
I somehow manage not to roll my eyes—modest is one of the last words I’d use to describe Timson. This tavern and the one time I had the unfortunate pleasure of glimpsing his home are littered with his hunting trophies. How can one live surrounded by so much death?
“We captured a demon,” Jaq continues.
“A beast—you wouldn’t believe the size of,” another voice chimes in—Henri.
“Men,” Timson says, “I’m sure the lady isn’t interested in the extraordinary details of our hunt. We nearly lost our lives out there when I stared down the muzzle of that creature.”
My brows lower, but Timson clasps his mug in his hand and turns to his hunting party.
“To the devils that walk upright like men. May their heads always find themselves mounted on my walls.”
The group of men bang their mugs together in a hearty cheer. Frothy ale slips over the sides and splatters onto the top of the bar. Setting down my clean mug, I push up on my toes to wipe up the mess they’ve made on the wooden top. Timson stares at me over the lip of his mug—I can feel his eyes like a caress.
Before I register his movements, his hand comes down atop mine, trapping me. My head snaps up as the ale-soaked rag wets my palm. His dark eyes rove over me, openly appraising the curve of my waist and the neckline of my gown. It is modest, and yet his stare makes me feel naked—I itch to find another layer to cover myself so there is no skin for his eyes to behold.
“You know,” he purrs, loud enough for his hunting party to hear, “I’ve been thinking about how unsafe your cottage is. All alone in The Woods —it’s not a place for a lone woman.”
I give him my most gracious smile—an expression I’ve mastered during interactions such as these. Gently, I pull my hand back, wanting to scrub the skin raw and remove the feel of his calloused fingers atop mine.
“Thank you for your concern, sir, but I like my cottage.”
Timson’s lips tighten.
“Something awful could happen to you, and no one is there to help.” He takes a sip from his mug, setting it with a thud atop the bar. “You should come live with me.”
His offer rips breath from his lungs. He has been forward before, but this is something new. The room feels too small as if the walls are pressing in on me.
Timson seems not to notice my rigid posture as he continues.
“After my wife’s death, I need someone tending to my children. Childbirth fever took her before she could give me the ten that I wanted.” He grins, showing me his yellowed teeth. Clearly, the memory of his deceased wife is not a sad one. “Besides, a woman as pretty as you shouldn’t work. I can provide for you.”
My mouth goes dry. It feels as if I’ve swallowed poison. Beyond my churning stomach, my hands tremble as they ring in front of my white apron. Children with Timson? I couldn’t think of a worse fate. No, I won’t even consider such a thing.
I have not come this far only to end up in a loveless pairing with a man I despise. My lips part as if to tell him as much—summoning all the courage I have to do so—when, as if by magic, Old Bill appears next to me behind the bar. Dropping off a fresh set of mugs, his wrinkled fingers gently push them toward me. His brown eyes sparkle behind the thick rims of his round glasses.
“What is this I hear about devils?” he asks, the wrinkles on his face pulling tight as he raises a gray brow.
I sigh and try not to sag with relief as Old Bill stands before me, partially blocking me from the other man.
Timson’s eyes narrow, but he steps back from the bar. This unfortunate conversation has been put to rest, at least for tonight. However, I know it won’t be long before he broaches the topic again, and I’ll have to give my answer.
“A few farmers have reported their sheep being slaughtered,” Timson explains. “Reports of them waking up in the morning to find the half-eaten corpses of their flock rotting in their yards.”
My stomach twists, but Old Bill merely nods.
“I’ve heard a few complaining about such things these past few weeks. Wolf?”
“A demon,” Jaq interrupts, slamming his mug down on the bar.
Sliding me a gold coin, I quickly refill his ale.
“A demon?” Old Bill's lips pull into a frown.
“A demon,” Jaq repeats. “Without Timson, we’d surely be dead.”
The praise brings a self-indulgent smile to Timson’s face. It’s as if I can see his ego expand and fill the room—sucking the air from it and choking us all with his self-importance.
“Our tale is interesting, Old Bill,” Timson sighs. “Three days and nights, we scoured the land for any hints of the creature killing the sheep. Now we know we weren’t dealing with any simple beast. A tricky demon it was, but ultimately no match for a hunter such as myself.”
A round of cheers goes up as Timson lavishes another heated look at me. I couldn’t be any less impressed if I tried.
“There were no tracks to follow—even the dogs couldn’t get a proper scent that didn’t lead us to a dead end. We thought all was lost until I finally found something that put us on its trail.”
“No one but Timson would’ve spotted it,” chirps Henri.
“Just near the edge of The Woods , I found it. A few drops of red blood clinging to the grass lead us directly to it—holding the quivering body of a tawny-colored doe to its mouth.”
My head snaps up.
“Holding it?” I ask. Old Bill throws me a perplexed look.
Timson nods. “Yes, holding it. It stood upright like a man—bigger than any bear I’ve seen. It was a creature from legend and nightmare. When I finally trained my rifle on it, the creature dropped the deer and turned its glowing eyes on us. There was no warning before it pounced and sank his claw in Bron’s leg.”
The man I noticed earlier with the limp raises his mug and pats the stained bandage around his calf.
“Saved my life—Timson did.”
Timson shrugs, but the dismissive movement is just for show. He delights in their praise and attention. Indeed, the whole tavern has stopped its chatter to listen to his tale.
“I only came prepared for the hunt. My daddy always told me never to leave the house without his sacred bullets—ones made of pure silver.”
The mug Old Bill is polishing falls onto the bartop.
“You don’t mean what I think you do—surely not Timson? And you’ve captured such a creature? A?—”
“A wolfman,” Timson answers for him. “It’s chained up with heavy metal shackles behind the old mill at the edge of town. The beast is riddled with enough silver to keep it weak. The bear trap through its back leg will also stop any escape attempts.”
A wolfman? Of course, I’ve heard the legends of such creatures since I arrived in this town. I assumed they were merely stories—tales used on naughty children to get them to behave. Now Timson claims he’s captured one and is keeping it tied up? Whatever poor creature he’s taken is undoubtedly suffering in the dark—cold and alone.
The thought makes my chest ache.
“In the morning, we’ll skin him. His pelt should fetch a nice price.”
The wooden floor feels unstable beneath my feet. Dizziness washes over me as I grip the bar's edge for support. Nausea swims up from my stomach and dampens my brow.
“I’ll bring you its head, Old Bill. Mount it here as another trophy in my honor.”
“A wolfman, truly?” Old Bill’s voice is soft. “There hasn’t been a sighting of one in decades—most of us believe them to be just myths.”
Timson waves a dismissive hand.
“You can investigate it for yourself, old man. For now, I want to celebrate being alive with another pint of ale.”
He produces another gold coin and pushes his empty mug towards me. My clammy hand extends toward it, but Old Bill intercepts me. He pushes back Timson’s coin before reaching beneath the bar and pulling out an entire bottle of whiskey. The amber liquid swishes behind the thick glass.
Handing it to Timson, Old Bill says, “For keeping the town safe, why don’t you and your hunters treat yourselves? On the house.”
Timson nods his thanks as Old Bill turns towards me.
“Stella, get our friends here some glasses.”
My hands feel numb as I reach below the bartop to locate them. The other hunters have gathered at a far table, and soon, only Old Bill, Timson, and I are gathered around the bar. Most of the other patrons have left for the evening, having had their fill of the hunters’ tale.
“Don’t forget a glass for yourself, beauty. We should all celebrate that this beast didn’t get the chance to eat us.”
I nod, unable to even form one of my fake smiles. My hands knock into a few glasses beneath the bar. I’m afraid I’ll drop them due to my sweaty palms.
There’s a creature out there confined and scared—suffering. Its death is looming at the hands of such cruel captors. Perhaps it is misplaced, but I can’t help but feel a kinship towards the chained beast. Was I not once just like it? Kept against my will as my future was torn away?
The thought of any creature suffering has never sat well with me, but this feels different. It is as if my very soul is compelling me to act. But what would I do? What could I do?
I set the glasses in front of Timson, who fills one up partially with amber liquid and pushes it towards me. I stare at the glass, my reflection faint in the sparkling liquid. Leaning over the bar to collect the rest of the glasses, Timson’s voice is a low caress.
“Join us by the fire, Stella. We didn’t get to finish our earlier conversation.”
Taking the glass, I try a sip of the whiskey. It burns down my throat before settling in my riotous stomach. The pain allows me to refocus and kindle my resolve. I am not as helpless as I once was. An act of kindness saved me, and I will be damned if I do not repay it to another in need.
“I’m sorry, Timson,” I say, knowing how much he likes it when I use his name. “The washing up still needs to be done.”
The hunter looks displeased, but remembering the free whiskey in his arms, he turns on a booted heel toward his men. They pat him on the back and cheer; soon, they are lost to their cups. Timson throws me one final look over his shoulder.
“You cannot avoid me or this conversation forever, Stella.”
Icy nails drag up my spine as I collect discarded mugs from the top of the bar. Old Bill lingers behind me as I gather a soapy water basin and begin cleaning.
“There are worse husbands than Timson, Stella. Someone like him could keep you safe—especially alone in that cottage.”
I barely glance up from my washing, my voice a whisper.
“But who would keep me safe from Timson?”
Old Bill huffs humorlessly and begins drying the clean mugs beside me.
“I just worry about you—I have since you started here. Stella, you’re a hard worker, but this is no life for a young woman.”
His statement is from a place of concern, but it stings just the same. It seems that no matter how you are born in life—a princess or a peasant—women are constantly forced into roles that men believe are fitting for us.
Do I want a family? Yes, I always have. However, I want one with someone of my choosing. I will not bind myself to a man because this village believes I must. I will not marry or have children with anyone I do not love.
“I can take care of myself, Old Bill. I have been doing so for a very long time.” I hand him the final clean mug and wipe off the bar's surface. “It is not my plan to work here forever—I want a family—but not with someone like Timson.”
Old Bill raises a brow. “Well, we don’t get many handsome strangers passing through. I fear, my dear, your options here are becoming slim.”
I merely shrug. “It’ll work out—somehow, things in my life always do.”
Old Bill chuckles as he asks, “Magic?”
A secret smile curls my lips. “Maybe.”
Old Bill laughs again and settles the final mug below the bar. My eyes drift to the hunters around the fire. The orange light paints them in jagged shadows. The bottle is half empty, and they’ll be severely drunk by the time they are done. It is usually up to me to close up, and I don’t have a particular interest in being around here once they run out of liquor.
Old Bill follows my stare.
“Why don’t you head home early,” he says as if reading my thoughts. “I have a feeling those hunters will want to sleep here, and they won’t take too kindly to you trying to kick them out.”
“Thank you,” I say, kissing his old, wrinkled cheek.
Hanging up my apron behind the bar, I quickly collect my simple cloak and leather satchel before taking one final look at the hunters. The cruel gleam in their eyes as they dramatically reenact their hunt makes my blood boil. I decide immediately what I must do, and there is no time to waste.
I hope I can get it done while they’re all still nursing their sore heads in the morning. Snagging something I need from the bartop unnoticed, I head to the door quickly and plunge into the night.