17. Flavia
Flavia
T he wolf-woman found me by a stream at dawn, trying to wash Ysu’s scent from my skin.
“Three days,” she observed, settling onto a boulder with lupine grace. “Longer than I expected. I thought you would have gone back by now.”
I scrubbed harder at my arms, watching dirt swirl away in the current. “I’m not crawling back.”
“No?” She tilted her head, golden eyes bright with amusement. “Yet you wear his mark like a collar, little sister. Pretty black scars for a pretty pet.”
I snarled at her. “He had no right?—”
“Rights?” Her laugh was wild as a winter storm. “You speak of rights in the old forest? Here there is only power and choice. You chose him. He chose to mark you. Now you choose whether to accept it or claw it off.” She leaned forward. “Though I should warn you—some scars are not so easily removed.”
I abandoned my futile washing, sitting back on my heels. The forest around us breathed differently than Ysu’s grove—older, less ordered, full of watchful shadows that held no loyalty.
“What do you want?” I asked, not bothering to temper my voice with kindness.
She leaned against a nearby tree, legs and arms crossed casually. “I came to make sure you were alright out here on your own. Not many things can survive in these old woods, even things like us.”
“Out of the kindness of your heart?” The sarcasm was thick.
She grinned, and it was completely wolf. “You are strong, sister. That much is apparent. The forest needs you, we need you. But I don’t come empty handed.”
“Maybe I’m tired of bargains.” I stood, facing her. I was surprised to find that I was taller than her.
Her grin didn’t falter. “Think of it as a gift then. There are abilities your spider never showed you. Magic your serpent gift grants you. To stare into the eyes of your prey, and control their mind.”
Her casual tone made my skin crawl. The way she spoke about Ysu, the dismissive ease of it all.
“Would he have known this?” My heart thumped, thinking that Ysu might have kept something away from me, withheld it to keep me weak.
I hated how much the revelation hurt. I shouldn’t have cared, that he had kept things from me.
He was a monster…and yet I had let myself think that perhaps he wasn’t what the stories always told.
That perhaps he had truly cared for me, in his own broken way.
The wolf-woman looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not. The spider has always kept to his domain, not interacting with us. He has never met another serpent before.”
Another serpent, someone like me. “But you have?”
“Yes.” Something devious came back into her eyes. “There is much I could show you.”
The glean in her eye made me realize the truth. “You knew this would happen,” I said suddenly. “When you spoke to Ysu. You knew he would react. That he might mark me.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her scent shifted slightly—amusement mixed with something sharper. “The spider has always been a romantic. A possessive creature. It took very little to remind him of what he feared most.” She was clearly unapologetic.
“And what was that?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Losing you, of course.”
Heat flared in my chest, and rage awakening the serpent within. “You manipulated him. Manipulated both of us.”
“I offered truth. What he chose to do with it was his own failing.” She shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “The forest needs you, serpent. Your spider’s attachments were... inconvenient.”
Inconvenient. Everything we’d shared, nothing more than an obstacle for her and whatever agenda she held.
Yes, he had marked me without permission.
Yes, he had claimed ownership in a way that echoed too closely my years with Tiberius.
But unlike my Roman captors, Ysu had also held me through nightmares.
Had taught me to see strength where I saw only scars.
Had looked at me not as something broken to be used, but as something powerful waiting to emerge.
“He always gave me a choice,” I said quietly, more to myself than to her. “Even when he was never given one.”
Her laugh was sharp. “How touching. But sentiment won’t serve you in what’s to come. The forest has plans, and you need proper instruction. Your spider taught you to wait and strike, but serpents are so much more than that. Let me show you how to truly hunt?—”
“No.” The word came out harder than I intended, surprising us both. I straightened, feeling something settle into place inside me. “I won’t be anyone’s tool again. Not Ysu’s, not the forests, and certainly not yours.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re being foolish. Alone, you’re vulnerable. Your transformation is incomplete, and there are abilities you don’t even know exist?—”
“Then I’ll learn them myself.” I turned toward the deeper woods, away from both her and the direction of Ysu’s grove. “I don’t need anyone telling me what I should become.”
“You’ll fail without guidance. The serpent’s call requires understanding, finesse?—”
“I said no.” I met her gaze directly. Then I stopped hiding.
Joints popped as I grew even taller, and my nails extended. Her features changed as my vision saw the heat of her, and I watched in delight as her heart started to race.
For a moment, I thought she might fight me, force me. But she grunted and turned away with a gesture that somehow managed to be both dismissive and approving.
“Your funeral, serpent. Don’t come crying to me when you’re starving and lost.”
She walked away without looking back.
My body shrank again, unable to hold the extended form. I shivered as scales sank back beneath skin. I rubbed my arms, cold and overwhelmed by the vast, open future before me.
Then my stomach growled, loudly. It had been days since I had eaten. My future could wait. For now, the hunt called.
The deeper woods were quieter, older. Here, the trees grew so thick that afternoon looked like twilight, and the very air felt heavy with ancient secrets. I found a small clearing where rabbits grazed and settled myself at the edge, trying to remember everything Ysu had taught me.
Patience , his voice echoed in my memory. Observe first. Understand your prey before you act.
I watched the rabbits for a long time, noting how they moved, where they felt safe, which ones were young and inexperienced.
Ysu had always emphasized this—the importance of reading a situation fully before committing to action.
He’d taught me to see patterns, to understand the subtle signs that meant the difference between success and failure.
Feel what you are , I remembered him saying during one of our lessons. Don’t fight the serpent. Let it guide you.
I let my breathing slow, let that coiled presence beneath my skin unfurl slightly. The world sharpened around me—scents became clearer, sounds more distinct, and I could sense the warm pulse of life from the rabbits across the clearing.
One young buck rabbit had wandered slightly apart from the others. I focused on him, trying to understand what the wolf-woman had meant about calling with my eyes. At first, nothing happened. The rabbit continued nibbling at tender shoots, oblivious to my presence.
Then I remembered something else Ysu had taught me—not about hunting, but about connection.
How he’d said the venom had recognized something in my blood, something that called to his own darkness.
Perhaps this calling wasn’t about force, but about finding that thread of recognition between predator and prey.
I thought of the rabbit’s warm blood, the quick flutter of his heart. I remembered what it felt like to be small and vulnerable, always listening for danger, always ready to run. And then I thought about the relief of not having to run anymore. The peace of surrender.
The rabbit’s head came up slowly. His dark eyes found mine across the clearing, and for a moment that stretched like cold honey, we simply looked at each other. I felt something pass between us—not magic exactly, but understanding. An acknowledgment of what we both were.
Come , I thought, not as a command but as an invitation. Come and find your rest.
The rabbit took one hesitant step toward me. Then another. His body trembled with the wrongness of it, but his eyes never left mine. Each step was a choice, even as some deeper part of him had already surrendered to the inevitable, to the cycle that would eventually consume us both.
When he was close enough to touch, I moved quickly and cleanly, the way Ysu had shown me. One swift motion, and it was over. The rabbit went limp in my hands, his suffering ended before it could truly begin. I hadn’t wanted him to feel fear, only surrender.
Respect your prey , Ysu had always said. And honor the life that sustains you.
I whispered a small thanks to the rabbit’s spirit before I fed. Taking life meant accepting responsibility for that sacrifice.
As I ate, I realized how much his patient instruction had shaped me.
Not just the techniques, but the philosophy behind them.
The idea that strength should be tempered with wisdom, that power required restraint.
He had never once pushed me beyond what I was ready for, had always waited for me to choose each step forward.
His marks ached, but the pain felt different now. Less like chains, more like... a reminder. A connection to someone who had seen the predator in me before I could see it myself, who had nurtured that darkness while teaching me to wield it.
I called two more rabbits that afternoon, growing more confident with each attempt.
The serpent’s call wasn’t about domination—it was about offering a kind of peace, a release from the constant vigilance that marked a prey animal’s existence.
I released one of them, still filled from the first. I had power, but I chose when to use it.
I was not a slave to the hunger within me.
As the sun began to set, I settled against a tree trunk, belly full but heart strangely empty.
The forest floor was hard without silk to cushion it, and every shadow could hold danger I didn’t know.
But I had done this. Had learned and succeeded, using the foundation Ysu had given me to build something new.
He had taught me all I needed. Tears rose in my eyes as I remembered how I thought he had kept things from me to keep me weak. He would have never done that. He had done everything he could to help me transform, to be what I was always meant to be.
As the sun set and the cold chill of winter and night settled over me, I found no warm arms to hold me.
The wind whipped the leaves, and I heard the forests call.
It was muffled, hidden beneath the thrum of Ysu’s venom, but I still heard it.
It offered purpose, but no comfort. It required strength, but it had never held me when I was frightened.
I had choices to make. But alone on the cold ground, missing him more than I cared to admit, I wondered if freedom was worth the price of solitude.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—lonely despite the pack that surrounded her. And from another direction, carried on the night wind, came the faint sound of webs singing in an empty grove.