The Cursed Wolf and the Forest Princess

The Ruins and the Silence

Dawn crawled slowly into the forest like a tired traveler, spreading pale gold across the treetops. Dew glittered on leaves, tiny silver jewels trembling at the slightest breath of wind. Somewhere far beyond the canopy, birds greeted the morning - not in chorus, but scattered, like a world waking uncertainly.

Jackline opened her eyes before the light fully reached her.

Her bed was not a bed - just old stone softened by layers of moss, hidden beneath a broken archway of the ruined castle she called home. A cold breeze slipped through the shattered windows and brushed her cheek. She pulled her thin fur wrap tighter around her shoulders and sat up, bones cracking lightly after another night on unyielding stone.

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind she sometimes imagined other people lived in - warm silence, maybe wrapped in laughter and human presence. No. This was the silence of emptiness. Of long corridors with no footsteps. Rooms that had forgotten voices. Walls that once knew music but remembered nothing now.

She breathed out slowly, watching the faint puff of mist vanish into the air.

Another morning alive.

Another morning alone.

Jackline stood, feet bare against the cold floor, the roughness of old stone familiar as skin. She moved through the corridor like someone who knew every crack, every place where the floor dipped, or stones had loosened. She had grown up here - grown into the castle like ivy clinging to its bones. It was broken, forgotten, half-swallowed by nature... ...but it was hers.

She pushed open the warped wooden door and stepped into the open courtyard. Grass choked the cracked tiles; vines draped over archways like sleeping serpents. The morning sun filtered down in soft streaks through the skeletal ribs of the collapsed roof.

Jackline paused, letting the wind brush her face - cool, sharp with the scent of pine, damp earth, and river water.

Another day of hunger, she thought.

The forest always gave, but never easily. She had learned to respect it, to listen to its rhythms. If she misread the silence of birds or misjudged the strength of a river, she would starve - or worse. Out here, mistakes were not lessons. Mistakes were endings.

But she did not fear the forest. It was the only companion she had ever known.

Jackline crouched and picked up her handmade spear - a sharpened metal shard she'd scavenged long ago, bound to wood with strips of hide. The weapon felt like an extension of her arm. With it, she had fought wolves, hunted boar, and brought down deer twice her weight. It was survival, but also identity. The castle may have shaped her, but the forest made sure she lived.

She stepped into the trees.

The forest swallowed her like it always did - silently, effortlessly.

Light flickered through branches, dappling her skin. She knew where mushrooms clustered under rotting logs, where berries ripened fastest, and where deer tracks cut through the underbrush. Today, she needed meat. Her stomach had been aching for two days; the rabbits she'd caught last week hadn't lasted.

She moved through ferns and shadow as she belonged to the woods. In many ways, she did. Her footsteps were soundless, her breath controlled, her senses open to every rustle, every shift of wind.

She paused - head turning slightly.

Something is off today.

The birdsong was scattered, unsure. The air held the faint metallic tang of blood. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the ground until she found it - a drop of dried red on a leaf. Then another. Then smears along a patch of soil torn by claws.

Jackline's pulse quickened, but not from fear.

From instinct.

Quietly, she followed the trail, heart steady, breath slow. A predator had been wounded - or a prey animal badly injured. Either way, it could mean food.

Or danger.

The scent grew stronger. Her grip tightened around her spear.

Branches thinned. Light brightened. The trail led her to a hollow between the exposed roots of a towering ancient tree - and she stopped breathing altogether.

Because there, curled like a dying shadow, lay the largest wolf she had ever seen.

Black as storm clouds. Blood soaked through its fur in dark patches. Its chest rose shallowly, each breath strained. One eye opened - silver-gray, sharp even through pain - and locked onto hers.

Jackline froze, breath trapped behind her teeth.

This creature was powerful even in weakness, muscles tight beneath its ragged fur, jaws capable of crushing bone. A wolf like this could kill her in a heartbeat - and part of her knew she should turn and run.

But she didn't.

Something in that eye - not beast, not entirely - held her there. Not rage. Not a threat.

Loneliness.

A loneliness she recognized like her own reflection in river water.

She slowly lowered her spear.

"It's alright," she whispered - voice rough from disuse, words small in the vast quiet of the forest.

The wolf blinked once. Not submission - but acknowledgment.

Jackline stepped closer.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Her heart hammered so loudly she feared it might fill the entire forest. Yet she knelt beside the great creature, and for the first time in her life, she wondered if helping meant risking everything.

Maybe survival wasn't only about fighting.

Maybe it was also about choosing not to leave something to die.

Jackline's fingers hovered over the wolf's fur, close enough to feel the faint heat of his body, but not touching yet.

Up close, he was even bigger than she'd thought. His head was the size of her chest, his paws heavy and thick, his claws dulled and cracked from struggle. Blood had dried stiff along his flank, dark against black fur. Flies buzzed faintly, drawn to the scent of iron and death clinging to him.

He should already be dead.

"You fought something," she murmured under her breath. "Or something fought you."

The wolf's ears twitched weakly.

Jackline swallowed, throat tight. She had seen bodies before-animals torn apart by predators, bones left pale against the soil. She knew what it looked like when life had gone out of a creature. But this wolf... he clung to it with a stubbornness she recognized as if he refused to let the forest take him yet.

She knew that feeling too.

Jackline set down her spear and slid the bundle from her back. It was a crude leather satchel she had stitched together herself, worn and patched. Inside, wrapped in leaves and cloth, were bits of dried herbs, strips of linen from old curtains, and a small skin of water.

Her hands shook slightly as she uncorked the skin.

"This is a bad idea," she muttered. "You know that, right?"

The wolf didn't respond, obviously, but his eye was still open-tired, dull, but watching.

It made her feel strange. Seen.

Jackline held the water near his muzzle. "Drink."

He didn't move.

She hesitated, then wet her fingers and carefully let a few drops fall onto his tongue. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his throat worked in a swallow.

Relief loosened the tight knot in her chest.

"That's it," she whispered, a faint, humorless smile tugging at her lips. "Come on, beast. Either bite me or let me help."

Slowly, he lapped weakly at the rim, just enough to wet his tongue. It wasn't much, but it was something.

When he turned his head away, exhausted, Jackline didn't push him. Instead, she set the water aside and reached for his side, close to the worst of the wounds.

"Don't kill me," she said quietly. "I'm your only chance."

His lips curled back in the faintest growl.

Jackline tensed, but she didn't pull back. The growl didn't feel like a promise of violence. More like... protest. Fear. Instinct.

She understood that language better than any human tongue.

"I know," she said. "I'd be scared of me too."

For a moment, she let herself just breathe. The forest rustled around them-leaves whispering, distant birds calling cautiously. Somewhere, water moved against stones, a nearby stream murmuring over its own path. Life continued, indifferent.

She was the only one stopping this moment from becoming an ending.

Jackline wiped her palms on her tunic, then leaned in and gently parted the fur around the wound.

It was worse than she'd hoped.

A long gash carved across his flank, deep but jagged, as if ripped rather than sliced. Another wound clawed its way down his shoulder. She could see where something-teeth, maybe-had sunk in, leaving punctures and torn flesh. The injuries were angry, inflamed, but not yet rotting.

Fresh enough to save. Maybe.

She'd treated smaller creatures before-foxes caught in traps, birds with broken wings, once even a wild dog-but never something this large, this dangerous.

Her hands moved carefully, mind slipping into a steady focus she had learned out of necessity. Fear could exist. Panic could not.

"Okay," she murmured, mostly to herself. "We need to stop the bleeding, clean it, keep you from tearing it open again."

The wolf's eye tracked her, heavy but deliberate.

"You're lucky I never had anyone else to talk to," she told him, reaching into her satchel for a strip of torn linen. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be talking to a half-dead monster right now."

She poured a trickle of water over the wound, washing away some of the blood. The wolf flinched, a sharp, pained breath rattling out of him. His muscles bunched, claws digging into the earth.

Jackline froze, one hand hovering over his side, the other clenched around the water skin.

"Easy," she whispered. "Easy. You move like that; you'll tear it worse."

The wolf's head shifted, teeth bared. His body trembled with effort-not an attempt to attack, but a battle against pain itself.

Jackline's heart squeezed.

She reached out with her free hand, voice low and soothing. "Hey. Look at me."

His eye flicked toward her. Silver met dark hazel.

"There you are," she murmured. "You can endure this. I know you can. I have."

For a heartbeat, she saw herself years ago-small, bruised, shivering in a corner of the castle after falling from a crumbling ledge. Blood on her knees, breath shallow, tears burning her eyes. No one came. No one knew. She had gritted her teeth and wrapped her own wounds with ripped fabric from a forgotten curtain, sobbing silently into the night.

She had survived.

So would he. If he let her.

She poured more water. This time, he didn't jerk as violently. His body quivered, but he stayed still, watching her with an intensity that made her feel as though she were the one under examination.

"I'm going to clean it more when we reach the castle," she said. "This will have to be enough for now."

She pressed the linen gently over the wound, applying pressure to slow the blood that still seeped. It stained the cloth deep red, warm against her fingers.

Her mind was already leaping ahead.

He couldn't stay here. Out in the open, weak and wounded, he'd be dead by nightfall-if not from blood loss, then from another predator, or from men, if any dared wander this deep. The forest could be merciless.

But moving him...

Jackline eyed the wolf's massive frame. He had to weigh at least three times as much as she did, maybe more. There was no way she could carry him.

"Of course," she muttered. "You couldn't be a small wolf. No, that would be too easy."

She sat back on her heels, thinking quickly. Dragging him alone would be slow and brutal on both of them. She needed a sled. Something flat, sturdy, that she could pull-if she could manage it over the uneven ground.

Her mind flicked through memories of the castle: fallen doors, broken shutters, bits of furniture half-rotted but still solid in places.

"I'll have to leave you," she said.

The wolf let out a low, warning sound. This time, it did sound like a threat.

Jackline raised her hands in surrender. "Just for a little while. If I don't, you're going to die here. I'll come back, I promise."

It felt strange, promising anything to a creature that couldn't even understand her words.

And yet, as she held his gaze, something in her chest tightened. It mattered whether he believed her.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and watching.

Finally, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, but she seized her spear and slung the satchel over her shoulder.

"Don't move," she said, as if that were a choice. "And don't die. That's an order."

The wolf's eye followed her as she slipped back into the trees.

The run back to the castle was a blur of speed and branches whipping against her skin.

Jackline moved quickly but carefully, using paths she knew by heart, leaping over roots and ducking under low-hanging limbs. Her breath came hard, chest tight, but she didn't slow. Every moment she wasted was another moment the wolf bled alone beneath that old tree.

The castle emerged slowly from between the trees: towering walls broken by age, ivy crawling up weathered stone, jagged silhouettes of collapsed towers cutting into the sky. To most eyes, it would look haunted.

To jackline, it was simply home.

She slipped through the half-fallen gate and into the main courtyard, eyes already scanning for what she needed. Her mind sorted possibilities: fallen doors, planks, anything wide and flat-

There. Against the far wall, half-buried in weeds, lay the remnants of a heavy wooden door that had once led to the stables. It was thick, solid, despite rot along the edges.

"Perfect," she breathed.

She grabbed one side and heaved. The door barely budged.

Jackline gritted her teeth, planted her feet, and pulled harder. Muscles in her arms burned, tendons straining as she dragged the door free from the grasping roots. It scraped along stone and dirt, leaving a scored trail.

Once she had it flat, she paused, chest heaving.

"Now ropes," she muttered.

Her gaze darted toward an old storage alcove beneath a crumbling stair. She sprinted over and dropped to her knees, rummaging through the pile of discarded items she'd collected over the years-bits of wood, rusted tools, scraps of leather, and rope.

She found three leather straps and a length of frayed rope.

Not ideal, but good enough.

Her hands worked quickly, fingers sure and practiced, threading, tying, looping. She lashed the rope and leather to the front of the makeshift sled, forming crude harnesses she could throw over her shoulders. Each knot was tested twice.

She was used to doing everything alone.

She was not used to doing something for someone else.

When she finished, sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, and her arms trembled from effort. But the sled was ready.

"Alright," she said quietly to the empty air. "I'm coming back."

The words surprised her.

She realized, with a hollow sort of ache, that she had never said that to anyone before. There had never been anyone to leave. No one is waiting for her return.

Until now.

She slipped the harness over her shoulders and started dragging.

The weight of the door fought her, stone scraping against wood as she hauled it across the courtyard and into the forest once more. It was twice as hard going back, the sled catching on roots and snagging on stones, but she dug her heels into the earth and refused to stop. Every time her body screamed to rest, the image of the wolf's silver eye flashed behind her eyes, and she leaned forward, pulling harder.

Pain became a distant thing. Fatigue turned into background noise.

There was only the path, the sled, and the knowledge that something depended on her.

By the time she reached the ancient tree again, Jackline's lungs burned, and her shoulders felt like they were on fire. Sweat trickled down her spine; her hands were blistered around the rope.

She dropped the harness and stumbled the last few steps toward the hollow.

The wolf was still there.

For a moment, terror seized her-what if he had stopped breathing? What if she had been too slow?

She knelt quickly, hand hovering just above his muzzle, feeling.

Warm air brushed her palm, faint but present.

Jackline sagged back in relief, her vision blurring for half a second.

"You listened," she whispered. "You didn't die. Good."

The linen she'd pressed to his wound was soaked through, now dark and sticky. Carefully, she peeled it away. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough.

"Okay," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Now for the hard part."

She dragged the sled closer, angling it beside his body. The effort made her muscles scream; the door was heavier now, weighed down by exhaustion as much as its own mass.

Once it was as close as she could get it, she took a breath and looked down at the wolf.

"I'm going to move you," she said softly. "It's going to hurt. I'm sorry."

His eye opened again, meeting her gaze. There was pain there. Weariness. But also, something like resignation.

Do what you must.

She could almost hear the words, though his mouth never shaped them.

Jackline slid her arms under his body as much as she could, fingers sinking into his thick fur. He was burning with fever. The heat of him soaked through her skin.

"On three," she told herself-or maybe him. "One... two... three-"

She heaved.

The wolf was impossibly heavy. Every muscle in her back and arms felt like it was tearing. Her legs quivered, boots sliding on damp earth. Slowly, inch by inch, she dragged his body onto the flat surface of the door.

He let out a sharp, strangled sound, teeth flashing as pain ripped through him.

Jackline flinched, nearly dropping him, but forced herself to keep going. "I know, I know, I'm sorry-just a little more-"

It felt like an eternity, but finally, his weight settled fully onto the makeshift sled. His sides rose and fell rapidly, breath rough and uneven. He trembled, every line of his body tight.

Jackline collapsed to her knees, panting, arms limp at her sides.

"That," she said between breaths, "was... awful."

The wolf's ear twitched faintly. To her surprise, a breath huffed from his nose in what sounded almost like a humorless snort.

Jackline blinked.

"You're welcome," she replied dryly.

She gave herself only a moment to recover before forcing herself back to her feet. This was only half the work. Getting him onto the sled meant nothing if she couldn't pull him back.

She slipped into the harness again. The leather bit into her shoulders, the rope rough against her palms.

When she leaned forward and pulled, the sled resisted, immovable.

For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought she wouldn't be able to move it at all.

Then, with a grinding, dragging scrape, it shifted.

Jackline gritted her teeth and pulled harder.

The forest did not make it easy for her. Roots rose like knotted fingers from the earth, rocks waited beneath the soil, and dips in the ground threatened to tip the sled. She had to weave carefully, adjusting her path with each step. Her body screamed in protest, but she locked her jaw and kept going.

Behind her, the wolf lay still except for the labored rise and fall of his chest. Every so often, he let out a low sound, half growl, half pained exhale, when the sled jolted.

"I know," she panted. "I'm not... enjoying this either."

Time lost all meaning.

There was only the next step.

And the next.

And the next.

At some point, sweat blurred her vision. The rope cut into her palms hard enough to tear skin. Her feet slipped more than once, knees hitting the ground, but she always dragged herself back up.

She did not stop.

She had no memory of anyone ever doing the same for her. No memory of being carried, protected, or saved. But she didn't need one.

She could be the person she had needed.

For a wolf with human eyes.

By the time the trees thinned and the castle loomed into view again, Jackline felt more like a ghost than a solid being. Her limbs were numb. Every breath burned.

But when she looked back and saw the wolf still there, still breathing, something fierce lit inside her chest.

She had done it.

Not yet all the way-but close.

"Almost home," she whispered to him and herself.

The sled scraped over the threshold of the broken gate and into the courtyard. The sound echoed faintly off stone walls. The castle, long silent, seemed to listen.

Jackline guided the sled toward a side corridor, one that remained intact enough to provide shelter. The ceiling was low but sturdy, the walls thick. She had cleared it long ago of debris and made it a place for herself when storms grew too harsh.

Now, it would be his den.

She stopped the sled in the center of the room and let the harness slip from her shoulders. The absence of weight was almost dizzying.

"Here we are," she breathed, voice cracked. "My... home. Such as it is."

The wolf's eyes were closed now. For a moment, fear spiked through her, but when she placed a hand near his muzzle, she still felt breath-shallow, but steady enough.

She allowed herself a single, shaky sigh of relief.

Then she went back to work.

She lit a small fire in the corner, careful to keep the smoke drifting out through a jagged gap in the high wall. As flames caught and warmth crept into the cold stone room, Jackline gathered her herbs, cloth, and water beside the wolf.

Her hands were no longer shaking from fear. Now, they trembled from exhaustion-but they moved with practiced precision.

She washed the wounds again, more thoroughly this time. The wolf flinched, low whimpers vibrating through his chest despite his size and strength. Jackline murmured whatever came to mind: half-comfort, half-distraction.

"I found you under that ugly tree," she said softly. "You should be grateful I didn't just decide to claim your fur for a blanket."

His ears flicked.

"That was a joke," she added.

She crushed pain-dulling herbs against a flat stone with the hilt of an old dagger. The smell rose strong and bitter, filling the air with a sharp scent that made her nose wrinkle. She mixed the herbs with a bit of water until they formed a thick paste, then carefully spread it over the wounds.

"Hold on," she whispered each time he shuddered. "Just a bit more."

When she wrapped the linen strips around his flank and shoulder, her fingers brushed the heat of his skin beneath the fur. His heartbeat thrummed faintly, but it was there.

Alive. For now.

Finally, when the last knot was tied, Jackline sat back heavily against the cold wall. The firelight painted everything in tones of orange and gold; shadows stretched along the ceiling like watchful shapes.

The wolf lay in the center of it all, a massive dark form on the wooden sled, bandages stark against his fur.

Her limbs ached, her head pounded, and every breath reminded her of what she had just done. Her body protested, but her mind hummed with something close to stunned disbelief.

She had brought a monster into her home.

She had chosen not to survive from him, but for him.

"Why did I do that?" she asked the empty room.

The wolf's ear twitched again, just barely.

Jackline's lips curved, tired and faint, as she answered her own question in a whisper.

"Because you were alone," she said. "And I know what that feels like."

She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The fire crackled softly. Outside, the forest sighed, wind moving through broken stone and ancient trees.

For the first time in as long as she could remember, the castle no longer felt empty.

There, under the flicker of the flames, Jackline watched over the wounded wolf. Her eyes grew heavy, and exhaustion pulled at her like an old friend. But before sleep finally took her, one thought circled in her mind and settled deep.

Don't die, she pleaded silently, not sure if she was speaking to him or to herself.

Not yet.

As the night crept in and the fire burned low, the girl of the ruined castle and the great wounded wolf lay together in the half-dark.

Two creatures the world had forgotten.

Neither of them knew that, from this moment on, neither of their lives would ever be the same.

Jackline woke to the sound of breathing.

For a moment, in that hazy place between dreaming and waking, she thought it might be another person. The warmth of the fire, the soft rise and fall of breath, the feeling that she wasn't alone-it all pressed around her in a way that didn't fit the life she knew.

Then her eyes opened, and reality settled back into place.

Stone ceiling. Cracked wall. Faint gray light edging its way through the broken gap high above. The dying embers of last night's fire.

And the wolf.

He was still there.

Jackline pushed herself up slowly, muscles stiff and protesting after the previous day's effort. Her entire body felt like it had been beaten with branches. Her shoulders burned, her palms stung, and her thighs ached from hours of hauling.

But pain meant she was still alive. That was all that had ever mattered.

Her gaze moved to the wolf's side, almost afraid of what she would find.

His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths-too fast, too shallow. The bandages she'd tied around his flank and shoulder were stained dark where blood had seeped through, but not nearly as badly as before. The wounds had stopped pouring.

That was good.

The heat rolling off his body was not.

Jackline shifted closer, extending a hand toward his neck. Her fingers barely brushed his fur before she snatched them back with a sharp inhale.

He was burning.

Not just warm-burning, like sun-heated stone in midsummer, like a fever raging wild beneath his skin.

"No," she whispered under her breath. "No, no, no..."

The wolf's eyes were closed, lids flickering faintly as if caught in dreams or nightmares. His ears twitched occasionally, but he didn't stir. Each breath came out in a rough, strained exhale.

Fever. Infection. His body was fighting hard.

If it won, he would live.

If it lost...

Jackline pressed her lips together, then opened her satchel again, fingers moving quickly through the small pouches inside. Dried leaves, crumbled roots, a few strips of bark-good for cleaning, for covering wounds, for numbing pain.

But for a fever like this? She didn't have enough.

Not here.

Her jaw tightened.

There was one plant she knew of-she'd only ever seen it twice. A stubborn, pale-leafed herb that grew near the deep pools where the forest thickened and the air turned strange and heavy. Her mind flicked to its shape: slender stems, narrow leaves with faint white veins, tiny budding flowers that glowed faintly in moonlight.

The elders in the village-back when there had been a village, back when she had watched from the trees-had called it frost root. Fever-bane. A plant that could cool a body burning from within.

The problem was where it grew.

Far.

Dangerously far.

Jackline sat back on her heels, staring at the wolf. He was a massive creature, lethal even in this state. She didn't have to do this. She had already nearly broken herself to drag him here, to tend his wounds, to sit awake and watch his chest rise and fall.

If she walked away now, no one would blame her.

There was no one to blame her.

He was just a beast. A stranger. A risk.

And yet.

The thought of him dying here, in the shelter she'd given him, alone in this quiet stone room, made something in her chest twist painfully. It placed a weight on her ribs heavier than exhaustion.

She knew too well what it felt like to be left to fend for herself when she could barely stand.

She had survived it.

She didn't want him to have to.

Jackline dragged a hand over her face, then leaned forward again, resting her fingers lightly against his muzzle. His breath pushed against her skin-hot, harsh, uneven.

"Don't make this a waste," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "I am not dragging a stupid giant wolf across half the forest just for you to die on my floor."

His eyelids twitched, just faintly, as if he'd heard.

She huffed out a weak breath that almost resembled a laugh.

"Fine," she said. "I'll go."

Her stomach clenched as she said it. The deep pools were far, and the path there was not one she walked often. The forest around that place whispered louder than usual. Shadows clung thicker. She had always felt watched there, even when she saw nothing.

But turning back had never fed her.

And turning back now would not save him.

"Stay alive," she said, voice quiet but fierce. "That's your only job."

She grabbed her spear, checked the small knife at her belt, and slung her satchel over her shoulder again. She hesitated only once at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder.

The wolf lay where she had left him, a dark shape in the dim room, bandages stark against his fur. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign he hadn't slipped away while she wasn't looking.

Jackline's throat tightened.

Then she turned and headed out into the morning.

The forest felt different today.

She'd grown up learning its moods: the lazy warmth of summer dawns, the wet chill of rainy days, the brittle sharpness of approaching winter. This wasn't any of those.

The air felt thick-as if the trees were holding their breath.

Colors seemed sharper somehow. The greens deeper, the shadows darker, the light slicing through the branches with a pale, watchful quality.

Jackline kept her steps light and deliberate, her spear moving with her like an extra limb. She wasn't here to hunt, but danger didn't care about her plans.

She angled her path toward the heart of the forest-toward the place the streams gathered into deeper pools and the moss grew thick enough to muffle even the sound of her steps.

As she walked, silence trailed behind her.

The usual chatter of birds was muted. No distant crack of branches from wandering deer. No rustle of small creatures in underbrush.

Her skin prickled.

"Comforting," she muttered to herself. "Everyone's either hiding or smart enough to have left."

She wasn't sure which category she fell into.

Branches brushed her shoulders, damp leaves brushing her cheeks. The deeper she went, the cooler the air became. Sunlight thinned, struggling to slip through the dense canopy above. The forest floor darkened, carpeted in moss and fallen leaves that whispered faintly under her feet.

Jackline knew this path. Not in the way she knew the routes to water, to game trails, to hiding places-but in the way you knew a scar. Once seen, never forgotten.

She'd first found the deep pools when she was smaller, chasing the fleeting glimpse of a silver fish she'd seen in a stream. The air there had felt wrong then, too, but the water had been clear, the plants plentiful. She'd cataloged it in her mind: a place to only visit when necessary.

Today was necessary.

She stepped over a fallen log and heard it: the soft trickling of water, deeper and fuller than the usual streams. A quiet, constant sound, like someone whispering under their breath.

The trees parted gradually, revealing a small clearing. Here, the canopy curved overhead like a woven ceiling, letting only a few thin shafts of light through. At the center lay a pool of dark, still water, its surface broken only where a narrow stream fed into it from one side.

The air was colder here. Not fresh-cold, but old-cold, like the inside of a cave.

Jackline stopped at the edge of the clearing and exhaled slowly.

"Alright," she said, voice barely louder than a murmur. "I'm here."

The forest didn't answer.

It rarely did.

But something watched.

She felt it. That prickling along the back of her neck, the weight between her shoulders, as if eyes pressed into her skin. She scanned the edges of the clearing, but saw only trees, moss, and shadows.

Nothing moved.

"Just nerves," she told herself. "You're tired. And talking to yourself."

Her gaze dropped to the edges of the pool.

There.

Nestled among the rocks and damp soil were slender green plants, their leaves long and narrow, with fine pale lines running along their lengths. No flowers yet-those only came when the moon was high-but the leaves were enough.

Frost root.

Relief moved through her like cool water.

Jackline approached the pool's edge carefully. The ground was slick with moisture, the moss sloping gently down. She crouched, testing it before putting her full weight forward. One slip, and she'd be in the water. She didn't know how deep it went, and she had no desire to find out.

She reached for the nearest frost root plant, fingers steady. You never ripped a plant carelessly. That was how you lost it for future use. She dug gently around its base, loosening the soil, then eased it free, making sure to keep the roots intact.

As she placed the plant into her satchel, something rippled across the surface of the pool.

Jackline's head snapped up.

The water, which had been still and dark moments before, now showed faint rings spreading outward from the center, as if something had disturbed it. But there was no wind. No stone thrown. No fish breaking the surface.

Her grip tightened on her spear.

The rings grew, one after another, softly, steadily.

Then, for half a heartbeat, she thought she saw something in the water. Not her reflection-the water was too dark and too still for that. Something pale and shifting, shapes that weren't quite there when she tried to focus on them. A smear of white like distant eyes. The brief curve of what might have been a face.

Her breath snagged.

The next blink, the surface was still again.

Jackline stayed crouched, every muscle poised to move, to run, to fight. The silence around her remained thick and heavy, but nothing lunged from the pool. No hand reached out. No creature emerged from the trees.

Slowly, her heartbeat began to ease away from panic.

"Don't be stupid," she whispered under her breath. "You're seeing things."

Still, she didn't take her eyes off the water as she harvested the rest of the frost root she needed. Every time the surface rippled-even with the tiniest breeze-her shoulders tensed.

Once her satchel held several plants, she stood and backed away from the pool.

The sense of being watched followed her until the trees thickened again and the sound of the water faded behind her.

The return trip felt longer.

Jackline's body was already exhausted from the previous day; now, every step sent aches through her muscles. But the weight in her satchel reminded her she was not walking for herself.

At one point, a branch snapped to her left.

She stopped instantly, spear raised, eyes scanning the undergrowth.

A pair of eyes stared back at her through the leaves.

For a heart-stopping second, she thought the wolf had somehow dragged himself out here. The eyes were bright, catching the weak light, shining pale-

Then the creature stepped forward, and she let out a slow breath.

A deer. Young. Its gaze was wide, alert. Its thin legs quivered slightly as it scented her, ready to bolt.

Jackline lowered her spear slightly.

She could bring it down. She knew the exact angle, the exact strength needed. Meat would be welcome. Her stomach growled in agreement.

But the thought of the wolf, burning with fever on her stone floor, pulled harder.

"Live," she said quietly.

The deer flicked its ears, then bounded away, vanishing between the trees.

Jackline shifted her grip on her spear and kept walking.

By the time she reached the castle, the light had changed. Afternoon shadows stretched long across the courtyard, and her legs felt like they might give out beneath her.

She didn't go to her usual corner. Didn't stop for water or food.

She went straight to him.

The room felt hotter now-not from the fire, which had gone to low coals, but from the heat radiating off the wolf's body. The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, like heat waves above stone.

Jackline dropped to her knees beside him and pressed her hand lightly to his neck again.

Still burning. Still struggling.

But his heart was still beating.

"Good," she whispered. "You waited."

Her movements took on a sharper urgency now, driven not by panic, but by focus. She laid the frost-root plants out on the floor, separating leaves from roots. The roots, she knew, held the most power, but the leaves helped too.

She chewed one piece experimentally, grimacing at the sharp, cold bitterness that spread across her tongue.

"Disgusting," she muttered. "Perfect."

She crushed the roots with the flat of her dagger hilt until they formed a pale pulp, then mixed it with a small amount of water to thin it. The smell that rose was strange-cool instead of sharp, almost like the air after snow.

Jackline scooped some up with her fingers and gently pried open the wolf's jaws.

His teeth were heavy and sharp against her skin. For a moment, a flicker of instinctive fear jolted through her-one clamp of those jaws, and her fingers would be gone.

But he didn't bite.

He let her press the paste against his tongue.

"Swallow," she urged softly.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then his throat worked in a weak swallow.

Encouraged, she repeated the process, giving him small amounts at a time. Some dribbled out the side of his mouth, staining his fur, but enough went down that she dared to hope it would help.

"You're not allowed to die now," she told him. "Not after frost root. That stuff is a nightmare to gather."

His ear twitched.

She sat back and waited, watching him.

Minutes blurred into longer stretches. The fire crackled softly as she fed it a few more small pieces of wood. The light from the high gap shifted as the day moved on, turning from pale to gold to the first hints of dimming gray.

Jackline dozed sometimes, her head drooping, body unable to stay fully awake for long after everything she'd done. Each time she caught herself, she jerked upright, eyes immediately going to the wolf.

Once, she woke with her hand resting on his side, fingers tangled in his fur, as if seeking reassurance that he was still there.

His breathing had changed.

Still rough, but... slower. Deeper.

Jackline's heart gave a cautious, shaky flutter.

She leaned closer, pressing her palm to his forehead. The heat was still high, but less like a furnace and more like a strong fever finally beginning to break.

Relief seeped into her bones, loosening muscles she hadn't even realized were clenched.

"That's it," she murmured. "You fight; I fight. Deal?"

The wolf didn't answer-not with words.

But his eyes opened.

They were unfocused at first, silver-gray clouded with pain and exhaustion. Then, slowly, they sharpened, finding her face.

For a span of heartbeats, Jackline held that gaze.

She had seen animal eyes all her life. Fearful, wild, curious, dead. Eyes that reflected light instead of understanding.

These were not like that.

They were tired, yes. Pained, yes. But in their depths, she saw something else. Something keen and aware, as if a mind behind them was taking in everything-her face, her expression, the room around them-and cataloguing it all with a clarity that felt almost human.

Her skin prickled.

"How are you still looking at me like that?" she whispered.

The wolf blinked slowly.

His gaze drifted, just for a moment, to her raw, blistered hands.

Then back to her eyes.

Jackline swallowed.

"You're welcome," she said, softer than before.

He let out a faint sound-not quite a while, not quite a breath. More like a low, rough exhale that carried a weight she couldn't translate. But it felt... close to gratitude.

Or maybe that was just her own hope, echoing in the quiet space between them.

Either way, something settled in that moment.

A thread, thin as spider silk, tugged taut between girl and wolf.

Not ownership. Not command.

Recognition.

"You rest," she said firmly, shifting away only to throw another piece of wood on the fire. "I'll watch."

This time, when she leaned back against the wall, exhaustion wrapped around her like a blanket-heavy, insistent. Her body, finally convinced the emergency had passed, demanded payment in sleep.

Her eyes drifted closed, her hand somehow finding its way to rest once more on his fur.

As she slid under, awareness fading, she felt his chest rise beneath her fingertips in a slow, steady breath.

Then another.

Then another.

The last thought that drifted through her mind before sleep claimed her was a quiet, stubborn promise.

I won't let you die.

Outside, the forest settled into twilight. Shadows lengthened. Somewhere in the distance, something howled-a high, thin sound carried by the wind.

But inside the ruined castle, beneath a cracked stone ceiling and beside a small, stubborn fire, a girl who had never known anyone stayed by the side of a wolf who should have died.

And the forest, older and wiser than either of them, listened.

Something had shifted.

It would remember.