David stood barefoot in a wide, open field. Smoke hung heavy in the air, acrid and clinging to his throat. In the distance, a bonfire raged, its orange light casting long, flickering shadows across dirt, fences, and thatched rooftops.

  On a bare tree branch next to him perched a raven, its gaze fixed on him with unsettling familiarity—as if it knew him from somewhere beyond this moment. It tilted its head slowly, feathers ruffling in the heat, the faint shift carrying a silent question he felt more than heard.

  Around the fire, villagers screamed. Faces contorted with zeal. Eyes gleamed wild in the firelight. They waved rough-hewn crosses like weapons. A few laughed. One or two spat.

  “Burn the witch!”

  “Send her back to hell!”

  David looked down—black satin clung to his skin, his nightdress a warm, grounding weight against the cold dread in his gut. In this chaos, it was more than clothing; it was his, a piece of self he could hold onto.

  In the middle of the inferno was a post with a woman bound to it, standing upright.

  Nothing was left of her clothes. Her skin was scorched and peeling, hair already reduced to ash. Her body writhed, but her head remained high—eyes locked not on the flames but on specific people in the crowd.

  On a man, and two children.

  The man stood stone-faced, arms folded. The girl beside him—maybe ten—chanted gleefully with the others. The boy laughed, clapping like it was a puppet show.

  Even through the shimmer, David saw it—the resemblance.

  Her family.

  Just as cruel as the rest.

  His stomach twisted.

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  Then her gaze shifted.

  “Raven… help me…”

  David froze.

  He heard it, carried on the wind. Her voice, cracked and straining, cutting softly through the jeering.

  His breath hitched.

  “Please… don’t leave me… it burns…”

  He took a step toward her. Then another.

  Out loud, he said, “Oh man, what am I doing?” He flexed his hands, feeling sweat and soot slick against his palms—the words felt out of place here, but they were his, an anchor from a world gone mad.

  His mind screamed at him to stop, but he kept going, legs pumping.

  He bellowed an oath in ancient Celtic—a language his waking mind had never touched—and lowered his shoulder for the charge.

  The stake’s base was half-eaten by fire. The soil beneath it cracked and blackened. One hard hit and it might fall.

  If this was a dream, it wouldn’t hurt.

  But deep down, he already knew better.

  The satin tangled at his knees, but he didn’t stop. Scalding air slammed into him, stealing his breath. Smoke tore at his lungs. He burst through the edge of the blaze and hit the post with all his strength.

  It groaned. Shifted.

  She gasped.

  Flames surged higher, catching his gown. It flared, the blaze consuming him. His cries of agony blended with hers. His face was driven toward hers.

  He leaned in closer, choking on smoke, tears stinging his eyes. Her face—cracked, blackened—was only inches from his.

  Her green eyes brimmed with tears and something else—recognition, steady and unshaken.

  “This is how we begin,” she rasped. “From wolfkin to Raven… we are bound.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t understand, not fully—but she clearly did.

  “M’chroi,” she whispered, the word soft and sacred.

  Tears cut through soot on her cheeks.

  “Mother’s plan—”

  A howl rolled across the field, long and haunting, slicing through the fire’s roar with eerie clarity. For a breath, the column of smoke hung motionless, and the blistering heat fell away.

  The crowd froze, shouts cut mid-breath, as if the howl had stolen the moment itself. Silence pressed in, the world holding still to listen.

  David’s breath caught, every nerve waiting.

  From beyond the firelight, something silver and vast broke into a run—luminous fur rippling, eyes locked on him. The earth trembled under its charge.

  David barely had time to turn before the wolf leapt—

  —and slammed into his back, driving him forward into the burning woman. Their lips met—her mouth brittle with ash, the taste of charred flakes catching on his tongue.

  Crack!

  The post gave way, plunging them both into a rush of cold night air that swallowed the fire’s heat.

  The raucous call of a raven replaced the echoing wolf howl, carrying through the dark—then, faint and jarring, the scent of stale beer slipped in where smoke and scorched flesh had been. It lingered just long enough to tilt the world sideways before a sharp chime split the air.

  —The doorbell, real and insistent.