Chapter 1

Hazel's Point of View

The afternoon sun casts a golden glow through the trees and over the ancient altar as I stand before it, ready to prove my coven wrong. My fingers brush over the smooth surface of the ritual stone, my heart pounding with anticipation. I silently run through the spell again, ensuring every word, every motion is precise. This is my moment.

Then, chaos erupts.

A blur of movement catches my eye as two massive wolves burst into the clearing, their snarls tearing through the silence. My breath hitches as my gaze locks onto the dark brown wolf. There’s something about him, something I can’t explain. But I don’t have time to dwell on the strange pull I feel towards him. More wolves emerge from the shadows, launching themselves into battle, teeth bared, claws slashing.

I hesitate, my mind racing. I always believed all werewolves wanted the curse broken, yet here they are, fighting to stop me. Why?

Before I can make sense of it, the brown wolf is suddenly in front of me, his green eyes burning into mine. He shifts, his form twisting, fur receding, bones cracking, until he stands tall in his human form. My breath catches in my throat. He is breathtakingly beautiful, his chiseled jaw tight with fury, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

He snarls at me and steps closer, but I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze head on, my fingers twitching towards the altar. If I’m going to break the curse, I need the stone.

Without hesitation my hand shoots out and I snatch the stone. My smirk widens as I see his body tense. The moment he lunges, I whisper the incantation, power surging through my veins. In the blink of an eye, the world bends around me, and I vanish, his furious gaze the last thing I see before I disappear into the forest.

I reappear in Zachary’s office, my pulse still racing from my narrow escape. The room is dimly lit, the scent of old parchment and burning incense lingering in the air. I don’t have time to waste. If I’m going to break the curse on my own, I need the spell Zachary has kept hidden away.

I stride over to his desk, my fingers curling around the drawer handle. With a quick tug, it slides open, revealing a stack of aged papers. My eyes scan the contents until I find it...the spell. The parchment is delicate beneath my fingertips, filled with intricate symbols and incantations. I roll it up carefully, securing it before murmuring another spell under my breath.

The world bends around me once more.

As the world sharpens into focus, I am no longer in the forest but standing at the edge of a small town. The air here is different, thick with the scent of salt and asphalt, tinged with the distant hum of civilization. A few feet away, a neon sign flickers against the dusky sky. A 24-hour gas station. Perfect.

Keeping my head down, I walk quickly across the pavement, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss as I step inside. The harsh fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the aisles stocked with snacks, drinks, and cheap trinkets. I make my way straight to the checkout counter, where a woman with kind eyes and a warm smile greets me.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice laced with concern.

I return her smile, slipping into the easy charm I’ve learned to wield like a weapon. “I seem to be turned around. Could you maybe help me?”

She nods her head without hesitation. “Of course! You’re in Cape Point.”

Cape Point. The name rings through my mind, a distant memory just out of reach. I repeat it in my head, testing its weight, until realization slams into me. A coven once thrived here... a coven that dabbled in dark magic.

My pulse quickens. This can’t be a coincidence.

My gaze lands on a rack of folded maps by the register. Without missing a beat, I walk over, pluck one from the stack, and return to the counter. The woman scans it, still smiling as I hand over the money.

“Will you be able to find your way now?” she asks.

I nod my head, slipping the map into my hands. “Yes, thank you.”

With that, I step back into the night, my heart hammering. I move swiftly towards the tree line, deeper into the cover of the forest.

When I’m certain no one can see me, I drop to my knees, spreading the map out across the damp earth.

I inhale deeply, centering myself as I murmur the spell under my breath. My fingers skim over the parchment, the power in my veins responding instantly.

A surge of energy ripples through my fingertips, and then...

Flames erupt across the map.

I don’t flinch. The fire is controlled, consuming only what it needs. I watch as the flames lick over the surface, revealing the secrets buried within. When the last ember dies out, I lean in, my breath shallow.

Two burned spots mark the map. One is small, insignificant. The other, jagged, scorched, unmistakably larger, stands out like a beacon. That has to be the place.

I don’t hesitate. Snatching up the map, I whisper the incantation once more.

The air around me hums with power. The ground shifts beneath me, the trees and sky bending, twisting, warping. My body is weightless, caught in the pull of magic as the world blurs out of existence once more.

The moment the world solidifies around me, I find myself standing at the entrance of a cave. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and something else, something ancient, something wrong. A shiver runs down my spine as I take in the jagged, yawning mouth of the cavern. Of course, they would choose a place like this.

The darkness beyond is absolute, swallowing any trace of light. My instincts scream at me to turn back, to leave this place untouched. But I can’t. I’ve come too far, and this may be my only chance to set things right.

I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. This was never how it was supposed to go. I thought breaking the werewolf curse would finally prove my worth to my coven. I thought all werewolves wanted to be freed from it. But now, an entire pack is hunting me.

Still, if I can find a way to break the curse without bloodshed, maybe they’ll leave me alone. Maybe I can slip back into my old life, pretend none of this ever happened.

I take a steadying breath and step forward. The darkness swallows me whole, pressing in from all sides like a living thing. I murmur, “Incendia.”

Flames flicker to life all at once, filling the cave with a warm, flickering glow. My breath catches in my throat as the cave is revealed before me.

The walls are lined with intricate markings, their meanings lost to time, but I can feel the raw power thrumming from them. Symbols of protection, of sacrifice, of forgotten magic pulse faintly beneath the grime. The air is thick with dust and the lingering scent of burnt herbs, as if the last ritual cast here still lingers, waiting.

My gaze sweeps over the space, taking in the remnants of a once thriving coven. Tattered scrolls and brittle pages lie scattered across stone tables, their ink faded but not yet lost. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling in brittle clusters, their colors long drained.

And then, I see them.

Grimoires. Spells. Stacked haphazardly on a worn wooden altar, untouched by time.

A thrill of triumph sparks in my chest. This is exactly what I need.

If I can decipher their work, I might be able to find another way to break the curse, one that doesn’t end with me torn apart by werewolves.

One that might get me out of this mess.

I step cautiously over the uneven stone floor, making my way to a small altar nestled against the far wall of the cave. A single wooden stool sits before it, its surface worn smooth by time. Dust and dried wax coat the altar, remnants of past rituals staining the stone. I swipe my hand over it, clearing a space big enough for what I need.

Settling onto the stool, I reach into my bag and pull out a pen and a worn notebook, the edges of its pages curled from use. Next, I unfold the delicate parchment I took from Zachary’s office, carefully smoothing it onto the altar. The ink is faded, but the script, written in a language long forgotten by most, remains sharp and precise. Beside it, I place the stone, the cold, smooth surface pulsing faintly beneath my fingertips.

I take a steadying breath and begin reading through the spell from start to finish, whispering the unfamiliar words under my breath.

The ancient symbols weave together in intricate patterns, each syllable carrying weight, a hum of power lingering in every phrase.

But I need to truly understand it.

Grabbing my pen, I start translating line by line. The language is complex, filled with double meanings and metaphors that twist and tangle like vines. Some words have no direct English equivalent, forcing me to interpret them through context. Others change their meaning depending on placement, one symbol could mean gift or sacrifice depending on what follows it.

I scribble furiously, my handwriting messier with each passing moment. My heart pounds as the spell unfolds before me, revealing its requirements piece by piece.

To perform the spell, five things are needed:

— The stone that binds the curse.

— The blood of a human.

— The blood of a werewolf.

— The blood of the gifted wolf.

— A celestial event to draw power from.

I pause, tapping my pen against the altar as I reread the words. My stomach sinks.

There’s nothing. No loophole, no hidden meaning, no alternative path. The spell is clear, this is what it demands, no exceptions.

But magic is rarely so rigid. There’s always a way to bend it, to twist its purpose without breaking it entirely.

I go back, dissecting each line, searching for inconsistencies. Could the blood of the gifted wolf be substituted? Could the celestial event be manipulated? Could the stone itself hold a secret I haven’t uncovered?

My fingers tighten around the pen as frustration coils in my chest. There has to be something. I refuse to believe this spell is absolute.

The flickering candlelight dances over the pages, the shadows shifting as if the cave itself is watching, waiting.

I won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not until I find a way out of this.

I take a deep breath, pressing my fingers to my temples as frustration gnaws at the edges of my thoughts. The spell in front of me is unyielding, its requirements absolute. But I refuse to accept that. There has to be another way. Magic is never as rigid as it seems. It bends, it shifts, it has loopholes. I just need to find one.

Slowly, I turn on the stool, my gaze locking onto the towering stack of grimoires and spell scrolls left behind by the coven that once called this cave their sanctuary. Dust clings to their cracked leather covers, their pages worn with time. Some are stacked neatly, others are haphazardly piled, as if their owners had left in a hurry or never expected to return.

My fingers twitch with anticipation.

This is where the real work begins.

Pushing to my feet, I step closer, reaching for the first book on the pile. Its spine creaks in protest as I pry it open, the scent of aged parchment and dried herbs rising to meet me. The text is written in the same ancient script as the spell I translated, its ink faded but still legible.

I scan the pages quickly, searching for anything that might reference the werewolf curse, dark magic, or alternative rituals. The words blur together in long, winding descriptions, spells of protection, curses of binding, invocations to gods long forgotten.

Not what I need.

I set the book aside and grab another.