Chapter 2

Hazel's Point of View

I don't know how long I've been here, buried in ancient texts, my fingers stained with dust and ink. Time has lost all meaning in the flickering candlelight, my world reduced to the fragile pages before me. My back aches from hours hunched over these books, and my eyes burn with exhaustion, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

And then, I find it.

Not in a grimoire, not hidden within the pages of some elaborate tome, but on a single loose sheet, wedged between a stack of forgotten spells. The parchment is brittle, its edges frayed as if handled in a hurry, like whoever last held it knew its worth but had no time to use it.

I lift it carefully, my pulse thrumming as I scan the inked symbols and lines of ancient script. My breath catches.

The handwriting, it’s the same as the first spell. The curves of the letters, the way certain symbols are drawn, the unmistakable rhythm of the incantation, it all matches. And then, I see it.

It mentions the stone.

Excitement surges through me as I rush back to the altar, laying the newly found spell beside the one I stole from Zachary. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth both parchments against the altar’s surface and begin comparing them, line by line.

Both spells require the stone, the key to the werewolf curse. Both require a celestial event, the energy drawn from the heavens to fuel the ritual. But the difference… the difference is everything.

This spell... this one, doesn’t require blood.

No human sacrifice. No werewolf blood. No gifted wolf’s essence. The one thing that made the original spell so dangerous, so brutal, is missing from this one entirely.

My fingers trace the symbols, my mind racing to decipher the finer details. Could this be the loophole I’ve been searching for? A way to break the curse without shedding a single drop of blood?

The more I study it, the more certain I become. The structure is similar, almost identical in some places, but this version redirects the energy in a different way. Instead of binding itself to the life force of those involved, it channels raw celestial magic, using the stone as a conduit rather than a vessel for blood.

It’s risky.

It’s untested.

But it could work.

A breathless laugh escapes me as I lean back, running a hand through my hair. I did it. I finally found it.

Now, all I have to do is wait.

The celestial event will come, and when it does, I will be ready.

***

Tonight is the night.

I stand at the altar, the weight of the ancient stone pressing against my palm as I stare up at the sky. The lunar eclipse has begun, the moon bathed in an eerie red glow, casting long, shifting shadows across the cave walls. This is my moment, the culmination of all my research, all my desperate searching. If this spell works, I will finally be free.

No more werewolves hunting me. No more packs demanding my help. No more being tangled in a world I never truly belonged to.

I spent the entire day preparing, ensuring every detail was perfect. Candles encircle the altar, their flames flickering as the celestial energy in the air thickens. Symbols are drawn in careful, precise strokes across the cold stone floor, lines of power converging where I now stand. The stone, the key, rests in my hands, its surface impossibly smooth, humming faintly with the weight of the magic trapped within it.

I take a slow, steadying breath and begin.

My voice is strong, unwavering, as I chant the incantation. The ancient words roll off my tongue, each syllable thrumming with raw energy as the spell takes hold. The air crackles around me, the candles flaring higher, their light casting shifting shadows across the cave walls. A force builds beneath my skin, rising like a tide, seeping into my bones, rushing through my veins.

The moon above reaches its apex, the eclipse at its peak. The power surges.

The stone in my hand grows hot, too hot. A sharp, searing pain shoots through my palm, and I cry out, my fingers forced open as the stone drops to the floor with a dull thud.

Then, everything shifts.

A presence fills the cave, suffocating in its intensity.

A woman stands before me, her pitch black hair falling in thick waves over her shoulders, her crimson eyes burning like embers in the dim candlelight. She is unlike anything I have ever seen, beautiful and terrible, ancient beyond comprehension. Power radiates from her in waves, warping the air around her, and I know, instinctively, that I have made a mistake.

She stares at me, her lips curling slightly, as if she is amused by my fear. My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Every fiber of my being screams that she is dangerous, that she should not be here.

And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she is gone.

The air stills. The cave falls silent. The candles flicker weakly, their flames dimmed.

The stone no longer glows. Its surface, once burning hot, is now ice cold as I cautiously reach down and pick it up. I clutch it tightly, my mind racing, trying to understand what just happened.

I was supposed to break the werewolf curse. But deep in my gut, I know, whatever I just did… it wasn’t that.

***

Three months.

Three long, grueling months, and I am no closer to finding an answer.

I sit cross legged on the cold stone floor, a grimoire splayed open in front of me, its pages brittle beneath my fingertips. The candle beside me has burned low, wax pooling around its base, a reminder of just how long I’ve been at this. I drag my eyes across the inked symbols, searching, desperate, for something, anything that might explain what happened the night of the eclipse.

But it’s useless.

This book, like the dozens before it, holds nothing but half forgotten spells and fragments of magic lost to time. I’ve read through it twice now, and yet I keep flipping the pages as if the answer will suddenly appear. As if I somehow missed something.

I sigh, pushing the book away and rubbing my temples. My head pounds from hours of reading, my fingers are stiff from tracing old text, and exhaustion clings to me like a second skin.

I’ve scoured this cave, turning over every single scrap of magic these witches left behind. I’ve memorized their spells, studied their rituals, even visited the second location burned into the map, hoping for anything, but I found nothing.

Nothing that tells me who or what that woman was.

Nothing that explains what I really did that night.

Nothing about the werewolf curse, or why I can still feel something wrong lingering in the air around me.

I press my hands into my face, frustration bubbling in my chest. I can’t keep going in circles. I need a new approach.

And then, it hits me.

What if the answer isn’t buried in this place? What if it’s closer to home than I thought?

I glance toward my satchel, where tucked deep inside, I have a key, one that opens the trunk in my home, filled with generations of magical knowledge. My ancestors were powerful witches, collectors of lost spells and forgotten magic. Among them are grimoires from other bloodlines, stolen or gifted, bound in leather and inked in secrets.

If there are answers anywhere, they might be there.

I stand abruptly, the decision solidifying in my mind. I have wasted enough time here. It’s time to go home.

Moving quickly, I gather my things, stuffing the last grimoire back onto the stack and dousing the candles. The cave plunges into darkness, but I don’t hesitate. I whisper a teleportation spell, feeling the familiar pull of magic wrap around me.

The world bends, and then... I’m gone.

The world sharpens around me, and the scent of damp earth and pine fills my lungs as I blink into focus. My cottage stands before me, untouched, exactly as I left it. The wooden porch creaks beneath my boots as I take a step forward, the familiar sight of the worn door grounding me.

I murmur a soft incantation, and the lock clicks open in response. The door swings inward, revealing the dim, dust laced air of my home. It’s quiet, too quiet after months of pouring over ancient spells in the depths of forgotten caves.

I flick on the lights, golden warmth spilling across the room, chasing away the cold that has settled into my bones. I don’t pause, I move with purpose, heading straight for the large wooden chest nestled against the far wall.

Reaching behind my back, I pull out the small brass key, its edges worn smooth from years of use. My fingers tremble slightly as I slide it into the lock. A quick turn, a sharp click, and the lid creaks open, revealing stacks of aged grimoires, their spines cracked from years of study.

I sink to the floor, cross legged, and pull out the first book. Dust rises in thin, ghostly tendrils as I flip through the pages, my eyes scanning each carefully inked spell, each carefully preserved scrap of knowledge. My heart pounds with renewed determination. This time, I will find the answer.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I lose myself in the texts, fingers tracing symbols, eyes flicking over incantations in languages I barely remember.

And then...

A chill slithers down my spine.

The air in the room shifts, a subtle pressure change, a disturbance in the stillness. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my instincts screaming before my mind catches up.

I am not alone.

I snap the book shut and push to my feet, whirling around just as a figure steps through the doorway.

My breath catches.

He stands there, impossibly tall, framed by the dim light of the porch, his presence overwhelming the small space. His dark brown hair is tousled from the wind, his piercing green eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, everything about him radiates raw power, an untamed strength barely restrained beneath his calm exterior.

I know him.

The dark brown wolf from the clearing.

The one who tried to stop me.

The one I ran from.

My heart pounds against my ribs as we stare at each other in tense silence, his gaze burning into mine like wildfire. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

He’s found me.