Chapter 5: Cracks in the Cycle

Weeks had passed since my capture, each day merging into an agonizing blur. Seth’s relentless torment became a grim routine, his fury like an unquenchable fire. His every action spoke of vengeance, each cruel act fuelled by a pain that had long since consumed him. Rumors whispered through the village that he had lost his family to werewolves. The tragedy had hollowed him out, leaving only hatred to fill the void. His anguish had twisted into something monstrous, something that sought to share its misery with others.

“I won’t kill you yet,” Seth hissed, his grin sharp and cruel. He leaned close, his breath hot against my face. Moments before, he’d nearly drowned me, holding my head underwater until darkness edged my vision. My body convulsed with exhaustion, water streaming from my lips as I gasped for air.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of my fear, I spat blood in his face. The defiance lit a fire in his eyes. His hand came down hard, slapping me with enough force to split my lip further. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me shaking and broken but not yet shattered.

My body was a patchwork of pain. Cuts stung with every movement, bruises painted my skin in dark, angry colors, and the ache in my bones felt permanent. Death no longer scared me; in fact, it almost seemed like a relief. Yet, despite it all, a stubborn ember of hope flickered in my chest. It was faint, but it was there. It always seemed to flare when Red entered the room.

“Sorry, this is all I can do,” Red said quietly, his voice heavy with regret. He knelt beside me, cleaning my wounds with a tenderness that felt out of place in this hell.

Red was an enigma. One of the few who had argued for my life, he seemed caught between the beliefs he was raised with and something deeper, something kinder. He brought me scraps of food and whispered apologies when no one else was around.

“I was born here,” he explained, catching the questioning look in my eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with everything. I can’t openly oppose them, but I won’t stand by and do nothing either.”

As he tended to my wounds, I asked the question that had lingered in my mind. “If I really am Harold’s granddaughter, will you hate me?”

Red paused, his hands stilling. He sat back on his heels, looking up at the ceiling as though searching for answers among the rough wooden beams. “I was raised to hate wolves,” he admitted. “It’s what I’ve been told my whole life—by my father, my grandfather. But… seeing you, hearing your voice… I don’t know. I don’t want the younger ones to grow up with this hate. Not if it’s as empty as it feels to me now.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the elder, whose arrival was marked by the slow, deliberate shuffle of his feet. Red immediately rose to assist him, but the elder brushed him aside and knelt before me.

“My grandson,” the elder began, his voice shaking with sorrow, “I cannot condone this. We should not have done this to you. I apologize, though I know my words mean little.”

Red and I both stared at him, stunned. Red moved forward to help him up, but the elder shouted at him, pulling him to kneel beside him instead.

“My son—Seth’s father—was killed in this war,” the elder continued, his voice breaking. “And what has that loss brought us? More death. More pain. Our ancestors are lessons, not shackles. Their stories should teach us how to be better, not bind us to endless cycles of hatred.”

Tears spilled down his weathered face, his words resonating with a raw truth that silenced the room. Red, trembling, clenched his fists. His silence spoke volumes.

The moment shattered as Seth burst into the room. His eyes, wild with fury, took in the scene. Without a word, he grabbed the elder and Red, yanking them to their feet. He dragged me out into the village square, where the setting sun cast the world in shades of crimson and gold. The villagers gathered, their faces etched with fear and uncertainty.

Seth snatched a spear from a nearby rack. “This ends now!” he roared, raising the weapon above his head.

Red lunged forward, grabbing Seth’s arm. “Stop, Seth! This won’t fix anything!”

“Get out of my way!” Seth snarled, shoving Red aside. The elder stepped between us, his voice steady despite the turmoil.

“Killing her will not bring them back!” the elder shouted, his words carrying over the murmuring crowd. “Will her death erase the grief? Will it give our children a future?”

The villagers hesitated, their gazes shifting uneasily. Some clung to their hatred, while others looked toward the elder with the beginnings of understanding.

Seth, unmoved, thrust the spear forward. Time seemed to freeze as the elder transformed in a flash of crimson light, his body contorting into the form of a massive red fox. He leaped in front of me, and the spear plunged into his side.

The elder’s blood stained my hands, sticky and warm as I pressed them desperately against the wound, trying to stanch the flow. “Red! What the fuck are you looking at? Tend to his wound now!” My voice cracked, sharp with panic.

Red’s eyes snapped into focus, the shock draining from his face as he dove into action. My shout had jolted not just him but the entire crowd. The villagers moved in a frenzy, their panic now a coordinated flurry of motion. Someone shoved a first aid kit into Red’s hands. Another brought a bucket of water, its surface trembling as it was set down hastily. The elder’s shallow breaths rasped in the tense silence.

Seth stood frozen, his eyes wide and filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—regret, guilt, horror, all fighting for dominance. He staggered back a step, then another, before turning and bolting into the forest. The rustle of branches and the snapping of twigs marked his retreat, but no one moved to follow him. All eyes were on the elder.

Red’s hands shook as he muttered a prayer under his breath, barely audible over the murmurs of the villagers. His focus was absolute as he applied pressure to the wound, the trembling in his hands a stark contrast to the determination in his eyes. But it wasn’t enough. I could see it in the way his expression tightened, his jaw clenching as panic crept back into his features.

And then, something shifted. Red stepped back, his hands falling away from the wound. His form shimmered, the air around him distorting. Bones cracked, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet, and his muscles twisted and contorted. The transformation was seamless, almost beautiful in its fluidity, as his human form gave way to a magnificent red fox. His fur gleamed like fire, and his movements were precise, deliberate. With a gentle motion, he slid beneath the elder, lifting him onto his back.

“Where are you going, Red?” a villager called, their voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope.

“We have to get Elder Ravenclaw to the hospital,” Red said, his voice clear despite the form he had taken. His amber eyes burned with resolve.

“But no one will help us there!” someone protested. “We don’t have money to pay them. And we can’t leave—we’re bound by the tribe’s laws.”

Red turned to the crowd, his voice rising with anger. “Then what? Should we let him die here? Should we watch him bleed out because of some rules?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with accusation. A suffocating silence followed, the villagers exchanging uneasy glances. They were trapped by their fear, their traditions, their grief.

I clenched my fists, my heart pounding as I watched their indecision. Despite everything I had suffered, a strange understanding began to take root. These people weren’t villains—they were victims of their own pain, their own history. And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I wanted to help them.

“I know someone who can help,” I said, stepping forward. My voice cut through the silence, steady and clear. “If someone has a phone, I can make a call.”

Suspicion flickered in their eyes, but so did something else—hope. I met their gazes head-on, refusing to let their doubt shake me. “I’m not asking you to trust me. But if you want to save him, this is your chance.”

The silence stretched, and for a moment, I thought they would refuse. Then, a young girl stepped forward, her hands trembling as she held out a small phone. “I bought this secretly,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My parents don’t know. But if it will save the elder, I don’t care.”

Her bravery sent a pang through my chest. I took the phone gently, squeezing her hand. “Thank you.”

With trembling fingers, I dialed my master’s number, relief washing over me when she picked up on the first ring. My words spilled out in a rush, explaining everything, pleading for her help. She promised to come, to track the call and find us. And then, all we could do was wait.

The hours dragged, every minute an eternity. The villagers sat in tense clusters, their whispers hushed and uncertain. Red stayed by the elder’s side, his fox form watchful and unmoving. I sat apart, my hands stained with the elder’s blood, my mind a storm of thoughts.

Finally, a distant hum broke the quiet, growing louder until it resolved into the sound of a car. My master stepped out, her presence commanding and calm. She moved with purpose, her gaze sharp as she assessed the situation.

“Move him carefully,” she instructed, her voice firm. The villagers obeyed without question, her authority cutting through their fear.

Her hands worked quickly, deftly treating the elder’s wound with a skill that left us all in awe. Minutes stretched into an hour, but when she finally stepped back, her expression was calm. “He’s stable now. He just needs rest.”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the crowd. Some villagers wept openly, their tears falling freely, while others clung to each other, their laughter tinged with disbelief.

“Thank you,” Red said, his voice thick with emotion. His fox form shimmered as he shifted back into a man, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his relief.

“You can cry, you know,” I said softly. “No one will judge you.”

The words broke something in him. Red’s face crumpled, and he sank to his knees, sobbing like a child. I knelt beside him, wrapping my arms around his trembling frame. Over his shoulder, I caught my master’s eye and mouthed a silent *thank you*. She responded with a small, warm smile, her eyes filled with a rare softness.

The village still had a long road ahead—a path filled with years of hatred to unlearn, of wounds to heal. But at that moment, there was hope. The elder’s survival was more than just a life saved—it was a chance for something new. For the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to believe in that possibility too.