CHAPTER THREE #2
"There's an Oracle," Vahyn said suddenly. "Three weeks south, deep in fae territory. She's ancient. Older than the courts, older than the Conclave. If anyone knows how to survive a claiming bond between incompatible species while simultaneously breaking a demon's death-curse, it's her."
Hope flickered, small and fragile. "You think she can help?"
"I think she's our only chance." He paused. "But reaching her means crossing fae lands. The Winter Court still remembers what your ancestor did to their queen."
Orlaith's hands clenched. Of course. The Blackbriar curse—born from the murder of the Fae Queen of Winter four hundred years ago. The fae courts had long memories and longer grudges.
"They'll kill me on sight," she said.
"Probably."
"And you think we should go anyway."
"Do you have a better idea?"
She didn't.
The claiming bond pulsed, and she felt his determination through it. He'd already decided. Already mapped the route, calculated the risks, accepted the probable cost.
He was going to die trying to reach this Oracle. And the bond meant she'd die with him.
"Three weeks travel," she said. "You don't have three weeks."
"Then we'd better find a way to make me last." His hand squeezed hers briefly. "Unless you'd rather we both die quietly in some forgotten corner of the wilderness?"
"No," she heard herself say. "No, I'd rather we die fighting."
"Good." And there was approval in his voice, warm and unexpected. "That's very Greymaw of you."
"I'm not—"
"You tried to murder a berserker alpha while he was cursed and dying.
Then you accidentally claimed him and agreed to cross fae territory to reach an Oracle who may or may not be able to save you.
" His shoulders shook with dark humor. "That's either Greymaw courage or Blackbriar madness. Possibly both."
"Definitely madness," Orlaith muttered.
But she didn't pull away.
The horse crested a ridge, and the forest opened up into a valley. A stream cut through the center, silver in the afternoon light. Good camping ground—water, defensible position, cover from above.
"We'll stop here," Vahyn said. "The horse needs rest, and you need to eat."
"What about you?"
"I'll hunt. The wolf needs to run."
She felt the truth of it through the bond: his wolf pacing inside him like a caged thing, desperate for release. The shift would ease some of the pressure, let him move and hunt and forget for a brief while that he was dying.
They dismounted, and Orlaith immediately felt the absence of his warmth. The claiming bond pulled, wanting them close, but the mile limit gave them enough space to function.
Barely.
Vahyn began unsaddling the horse with efficient movements. Orlaith watched him, cataloging the way he moved despite the pain, the rigid control he maintained even as the curse ate him from inside.
He was going to die. They both were.
But maybe—just maybe—they'd make it to the Oracle first.
And if not?
Well. At least they wouldn't die alone.
The claiming bond pulsed in agreement, and Orlaith felt Vahyn's grim satisfaction echo through it.
Disaster, she thought.
But for the first time in eleven years, she didn't feel quite so isolated in her curse.
She had company in her dying.
Strange, broken, impossible company.
But company nonetheless.
Night fell fast in the mountains.
Orlaith sat by the fire she'd built, watching the flames dance. Vahyn had shifted and disappeared into the forest an hour ago. She could feel him through the bond: running, hunting, reveling in the wolf's freedom.
The claiming mark on her arm—mirror to the one on his chest—pulsed in time with his heartbeat. She'd discovered it shortly after he left: a black mark, smaller than his but unmistakable, burned into her skin just above her wrist.
She was marked by him just as he was marked by her.
Bound. Claimed. Mated, if his wolf had its way.
She should hate it. Should be terrified.
Instead, she just felt... less alone.
A howl echoed through the forest. Not a threat. Just a wolf calling to the moon, to the night, to the wild magic that lived in ancient places.
Calling to her.
The claiming bond pulled tight, and Orlaith stood. She walked to the edge of the firelight, looking into the darkness.
Golden eyes gleamed back.
Vahyn's wolf was massive—easily twice the size of a normal wolf, with silver-white fur that caught the moonlight like frost. The curse-markings showed even in this form: black veins crawling across his muzzle, his blind eye clouded.
But he was beautiful. Primal and deadly and absolutely beautiful.
The wolf padded closer, stopping just outside the firelight. Its eyes—his eyes—fixed on her with unnerving intelligence.
Mate, she felt through the bond. Not words, but intent. Pure and absolute.
"I'm not your mate," she said quietly. "I'm your death sentence."
The wolf's ears flicked. It—he—moved closer still, until only a few feet separated them.
Orlaith's breath caught. "Don't. I'll hurt you."
The wolf sat. Waiting.
She understood: Trust me.
"This is insane," she whispered.
But she pulled off her glove.
Her bare hand extended, trembling slightly. The wolf leaned forward, pressing his massive head against her palm.
The Widow's Touch ignited. She felt her magic surge, seeking his life force, hungry to drain—
And the claiming bond caught it.
Her magic flowed into him, yes. But his magic flowed back. Wild magic, primal and ancient, pure as sunlight. It poured into her through the mark, through the bond, through the simple act of touch.
Give and take. Drain and fill. Death and life in perfect, impossible balance.
For the first time in her life, Orlaith touched a living thing without killing it.
She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face, her hand buried in silver-white fur.
The wolf—Vahyn—pressed closer, his warmth surrounding her, his presence steady through the bond.
And in the darkness of the forest, with death closing in from all sides, Orlaith Blackbriar let herself believe—just for a moment—that maybe they could survive this.
That maybe, against all odds, they could both live.
Together.