Chapter 52 – Whispers in the Smoke
The forest was silent as they moved, the witch walking a few steps ahead of Rowan and Beta Kalen, her bare feet gliding over moss and damp leaves without sound. Even the birds had gone still, as if wary of the dark energy pulsing from the trees. Rowan kept his senses stretched wide, his hand near the hilt of his blade—not because he didn’t trust the witch, but because the woods felt wrong.
Tainted.
“She masked it well,” the witch murmured, her silver braid swinging behind her as she stepped over a fallen log. “But not well enough.”
Kalen scanned the trail behind them. “You’re certain the spell originated here?”
The witch didn’t answer right away. She raised her hand and swept her fingers through the air. The energy shimmered faintly where her touch passed, like disturbed smoke. Rowan saw it too—the echo of power clinging to the atmosphere like a scar.
“Residual magic,” she finally said. “Fading fast. If we’d waited even a day longer, it would’ve been gone.”
They reached a narrow path veiled by dense bramble. The witch pressed forward, pushing through until the trees parted to reveal a crooked hut nearly consumed by the woods. The air here buzzed with old spells, layered so thick they coated Rowan’s lungs when he inhaled.
“You’ll be safe here,” she said, gesturing them inside.
The witch’s hut hadn’t changed since the last time he stood before it—weather-worn, crooked at the edges, half-consumed by twisting vines and thick moss that clung like secrets. The trees pressed in tightly around it, muffling the forest sounds like even the animals knew not to intrude. A crow croaked once from a high branch before taking off into the gray sky.
Rowan stood at the threshold, shoulders tense as he scanned the clearing. His Beta, Kalen, flanked his side, silent but coiled with alertness.
Inside, the air was thick with herbs, ash, and something sweet that clung to Rowan’s throat. The fire in the hearth burned low and blue, casting shifting shadows against the wooden walls etched with runes he couldn’t begin to decipher.
The hut was darker than Rowan remembered. Herbs hung from the beams above, swaying gently despite the still air. The table was already set with supplies—bones, feathers, a bowl of water, a black candle.
“You wanted to know who cast the spell,” the witch said as she lit the candle, her voice grave. “We begin now.”
Rowan watched the witch as she began arranging ingredients on a low table: dried leaves, crushed bone, and a vial of something he didn’t even want to guess at what it was.
Rowan stepped forward and placed a drop of his blood into the bowl at her instruction. The liquid shimmered crimson before blending with the water.
“This spell,” she said without looking at him, “is not for finding a person. It is for tracing the energy of the one who conjured. Blood remembers magic—it holds echoes. And your mate’s bond… it holds echoes too.”
He nodded once, jaw clenched. “We need to know who cast the magic that cloaked her trail.”
“I will summon the echo of the spell,” she said. “I cannot promise you a name, Alpha. But I can give you shape. Gender. A thread, if not a face.”
She lit a second candle, black as pitch, and began chanting in a language that made Rowan’s skin crawl. Her fingers danced over the items, tossing in powders and dried leaves. The air thickened. Smoke coiled from the candle in tendrils, wrapping around Rowan’s arms like unseen chains.
The flames flared.
The water in the bowl stirred.
And then the air shifted—cold and sharp, like a blade dragged across his neck.
The water in the bowl churned violently, then stilled. A ripple moved across the surface, and a figure began to take form—shimmering light in a vaguely humanoid shape. No face. No name. But…
“Feminine,” the witch whispered, eyes narrowed. “The energy is unmistakably female.”
Rowan’s breath hitched. He stepped closer to the bowl. “Can you see who?”
Vague, shifting outlines formed above the surface: a hand, slender and graceful, drawing a symbol in the dirt. A mouth moving in silence. Long hair falling forward like a curtain.
The witch shook her head slowly, disappointment written in the fine lines around her eyes. “No name… no face. But the magic was hers. A female. Young. Familiar with your lands. She used something to protect her identity—an amulet, or perhaps blood that was not her own. But her presence lingers in the residue.”
Kalen let out a breath behind him. “So she’s one of us.”
“She moved with purpose,” the witch continued, her voice laced with unease. “She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t question the terrain. She *knew* the paths. She knew where the wards were weakest.”
Rowan’s chest tightened. He’d suspected, of course. They all had. But hearing it spoken aloud made it real. “That confirms it. Someone from within.”
“There’s more,” the witch whispered. Her hands hovered over the bowl. “She wasn’t acting alone. There’s a second energy—faint. Distant. A presence she tied her magic to. A male. Older. Unstable.”
Kalen and Rowan exchanged a glance.
“The rogue leader,” Kalen muttered. “He’s working with someone inside the pack.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “We suspected that already. Now we have proof.”
The witch stirred the water one final time, then let it still.
“She used shifter blood to cast the veil over the clearing. That much is certain. The kind of blood matters—it has to be personal. Someone tied to the land. A betrayal, woven into every line of the spell.”
“Can you track her again?” Rowan asked.
The witch hesitated. “Not unless she casts again. The trail ends here, for now. But if she taps into her power again—if she so much as lights a spell—I’ll feel it.”
Rowan nodded, straightening. “Then stay alert. The moment you feel her again, you tell me.”
“I will.” Her tone turned somber. “But you must understand… if she is inside your walls, the next spell may not target the bond.”
A muscle jumped in Rowan’s jaw. “Then she’ll be targeting Giselle directly.”
Kalen shifted beside him. “That narrows it down. There aren’t many inside the pack with that level of power.”
Rowan’s mind flicked through the Luna candidates. Elia—missing. Rhea—by his side, trying to help. Sylah—disgraced but loyal now.
But someone had betrayed them. Someone had *helped* the rogues.
And it was a woman.
Rowan turned to the witch, his voice like steel. “When you find her… I want to be the one to end it.”
The witch gave a slight nod and began clearing the bowl.
Rowan nodded, turning toward the door, his body taut with frustration. “She’s still in our walls,” he said. “She has to be. And she’s waiting.”
“For what?” Kalen asked, following him out into the crisp forest air.
Rowan didn’t answer immediately. He looked up at the dark clouds rolling over the canopy, the scent of rain on the wind. “For the next full moon,” he finally said, voice grim. “Whatever she started, she’s not finished.”
The witch stepped out behind them, her eyes glassy and unfocused, as if seeing things neither of them could.
“Be careful, Alpha,” she warned. “The spell was violent… but incomplete. Whoever she is, she tried to sever something precious—and failed. People like that rarely try only once.”
Kalen laid a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. The sun was barely more than a dim glow behind the trees. “We’ll find her,” Kalen said.
Rowan glanced toward the horizon, his voice low. “We’d better. Because if we don’t… she’ll try again. And next time, I don’t know if the bond will survive.”
They rode back in silence, the wind howling between the trees.
And far behind them, the witch stood alone by her fire, eyes on the smoke curling upward, whispering warnings to the shadows that stirred.
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