Moonlit Prophecy: A Witchs Curse A Wolfs Redemption

He darted between two startled pack members, ignoring the burning pain of his injuries as he pushed his body to its limits. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of pursuit—paws pounding the earth, snarls of frustration as his former packmates gave chase.

Fenris ran as he had never run before, his powerful legs eating up the ground. He wove between trees, leaped over fallen logs, and splashed through icy streams in an attempt to throw off his pursuers. His lungs burned, and every muscle screamed for relief, but still he pushed on.

As he ran, Fenris’s mind whirled with the implications of what he’d learned. Ragnar’s ambitions had grown even more dangerous in his absence. If the alpha continued on this path, it would mean war—not just with humans, but with other werewolf packs as well. The thought chilled Fenris to his core.

After what felt like hours, the sounds of pursuit began to fade. Fenris didn’t slow his pace, determined to put as much distance between himself and the pack as possible. It wasn’t until the first light of dawn began to paint the sky that he finally allowed himself to stop.

Collapsing beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, Fenris shifted back to his human form. The transformation sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body, and he bit back a groan. In the gray light of early morning, he could see the extent of his injuries—deep gashes and bite marks covered his arms and torso, and his left leg was a mess of torn flesh.

“Damn you, Ragnar,” Fenris muttered, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing as he tried to center himself.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Fenris’s eyes snap open. He tensed, ready to shift again despite his exhaustion, but relaxed slightly when he recognized the figure emerging from the trees.

“Freya,” he breathed, a mix of relief and wariness in his voice.Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

The woman before him was tall and lithe, with long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Like Fenris, she bore the marks of their recent battle, though her injuries seemed less severe.

“You’re alive,” Freya said, her tone neutral. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

Fenris managed a wry smile. “Disappointed?”

Freya’s expression softened slightly. “No. Relieved, actually.” She knelt beside him, her eyes roving over his injuries. “You look terrible.”

“Feel terrible too,” Fenris admitted. “What are you doing here, Freya? If Ragnar finds out you followed me…”

“Ragnar doesn’t know,” she interrupted. “I slipped away once the others gave up the chase. I needed to talk to you.”

Fenris studied her face, noting the conflict in her eyes. “About what?”

Freya hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You were right, Fenris. About Ragnar, about what he’s doing to the pack. Things have gotten worse since you left.”

A mixture of vindication and sorrow washed over Fenris. “Tell me,” he said quietly.

Over the next hour, Freya painted a grim picture of life in the pack under Ragnar’s increasingly tyrannical rule. The alpha’s thirst for power had grown insatiable. He’d led attacks on two neighboring packs, absorbing their territories and forcing their members to submit or die. Those who showed any sign of dissent were brutally punished, often publicly, to serve as examples to the others.

“He’s obsessed with some old prophecy,” Freya explained. “Something about a time of great change coming, when the barriers between worlds will weaken. He believes that by expanding our territory and increasing our numbers, we’ll be poised to seize control when chaos erupts.”

Fenris frowned, a nagging sense of unease growing in his gut. “What kind of chaos?”

Freya shook her head. “I don’t know the details. Ragnar keeps the full prophecy to himself. But whatever it is, he’s convinced it will give him the opportunity to establish werewolf dominance over humans and other supernatural beings alike.”

“He’s delusional,” Fenris growled. “Even if such a prophecy exists, trying to control that kind of chaos is like trying to harness a wildfire. It will destroy everything in its path, including Ragnar and the pack.”

“I know,” Freya said softly. “That’s why I came to find you. We need your help, Fenris. There are others in the pack who see the madness in Ragnar’s actions, but we’re too afraid to stand against him openly. If you came back, rallied support…”

Fenris shook his head, cutting her off. “I can’t go back, Freya. Even if I wanted to, Ragnar would kill me on sight. And I’m not sure the others would be so quick to follow me after I abandoned them.”

“You didn’t abandon us,” Freya argued. “You stood up for what was right. Some of us remember that, even if we were too cowardly to stand with you then.”

Her words stirred something in Fenris—a sense of responsibility he’d tried to bury since his exile. He’d told himself that leaving was the only way, that he couldn’t change Ragnar’s mind or save the pack from his influence. But had he given up too easily?

“I don’t know, Freya,” he said finally. “Even if I wanted to help, I’m in no condition to challenge Ragnar. And there’s something else…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain the strange sense of urgency that had been growing within him for weeks.

Freya tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression. “What is it?”

Fenris sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair. “It’s going to sound crazy, but… I feel like I’m being pulled towards something. Some greater purpose. I’ve been having these dreams—visions, almost—of a dark future and a woman with eyes like emeralds. I think… I think I’m meant to find her.”

He expected Freya to laugh or dismiss his words as the ramblings of an exhausted, wounded wolf. Instead, her eyes widened in recognition.

“The prophecy,” she whispered. “Ragnar mentioned something about a chosen one—a witch with the power to either prevent or bring about the coming chaos. He’s been searching for her, convinced that controlling her is the key to his plans.”

Fenris felt a chill run down his spine. Could the woman in his dreams be this witch? And if so, what did it mean that he felt drawn to her?

“I need to find her before Ragnar does,” he said, his voice filled with newfound determination. “If she’s real, and if she has the power Ragnar believes she does, she could be in terrible danger.”

Freya nodded, her expression grave. “Go, then. Find this witch and uncover the truth about the prophecy. Maybe in doing so, you’ll find a way to save our pack as well.”

She reached into a pouch at her waist, pulling out a small vial filled with a greenish liquid. “Here, take this. It’s a healing potion—not enough to fully cure your wounds, but it should help you recover faster.”

Fenris accepted the vial gratefully. “Thank you, Freya. For everything. Be careful when you return to the pack. Don’t give Ragnar any reason to suspect your loyalty.”

Freya managed a small smile. “I’ve become quite adept at playing the obedient pack member. Just promise me you’ll be careful too. And Fenris?” Her expression turned serious. “If you do find this witch, protect her. Something tells me she may be our only hope.”

With those parting words, Freya shifted back into her wolf form and disappeared into the forest, leaving Fenris alone with his thoughts and the weight of his new mission.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Fenris pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pain that shot through his body. He uncorked the vial Freya had given him and downed its contents in one gulp, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Almost immediately, he felt a warmth spreading through his limbs. The pain in his wounds began to dull, and he could feel his strength slowly returning. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but it would be enough to get him moving again.

Fenris took a deep breath, centering himself. He didn’t know where this journey would lead him or what dangers lay ahead. But he knew, with a certainty that ran bone-deep, that finding the witch from his dreams was the key to everything—to saving the pack, to stopping Ragnar, and perhaps to preventing the very chaos that threatened to engulf the world.

With one last look in the direction Freya had gone, Fenris shifted back into his wolf form and set off into the unknown, guided only by the pull in his heart and the memory of emerald eyes.