🌒 The Whisper at Hollowmere Gate

The fog crept through Hollowmere Gate, carrying secrets older than the forest itself.

Then came the knock—three slow raps that shattered the quiet and warned of something unnatural.

Eira Thornvale knew the forest’s whispers, but nothing could have prepared her for the stranger who knew her name.

I. The Knock

The fog that evening was thick enough to swallow the moon.

Eira Thornvale stood by the fire in her cottage, stirring nettle soup and humming a tune her grandmother used to sing when the night spirits wandered close.

Then came the knock.

Not gentle.

Three slow raps that echoed through her bones.

Her raven, Nox, tilted its head and croaked twice—its warning.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“Please,” came a man’s voice, ragged, desperate. “It’s freezing. I’ve lost my way.”

Eira hesitated. Her grandmother’s warning whispered through her mind:

> Never open your door after the fog finds its way down from Hollowmere.

But the voice cracked again, softer this time, almost pleading:

“Please, I’m wounded…”

Eira’s heart betrayed her caution. She unlatched the door.

---

II. The Stranger

The man staggered inside, cloak soaked with rain and blood. His eyes—silver, too bright—flashed like lightning in the dim firelight.

“Sit,” she said, motioning to the chair. “I’ll fetch clean water.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “You’re kind, Mistress Thornvale.”

Eira froze mid-step. “How do you know my name?”

He chuckled, low and smooth. “Names travel on the wind. Especially the names of witches.”

Her pulse quickened. “I’m no witch.”

He leaned closer, and she caught the faint scent of iron and pine. “Oh, but you are. The forest speaks of you. The last of the Thornvale line, keeper of the old flame.”

Her raven screeched and flapped to a rafter above.

Eira drew back. “What do you want?”

The man’s grin widened, showing teeth that were almost too sharp.

“To finish what your grandmother began.”

---

III. The Pact

His name was Lucien Vale, and he was no man—he was one of the Hollow Wolves, cursed generations ago for devouring the Moon Priestess. They were condemned to walk the earth as beasts, neither wolf nor man, until a witch of Thornvale blood bound them again.

“I am tired of the curse,” he said. “Tired of the hunger. Help me break it, Eira. One spell. One night.”

Eira crossed her arms. “And what does the spell require?”

He met her gaze. “Your blood.”

The raven croaked again—three harsh calls this time.

Eira smiled sadly. “I see.”

She stepped closer to the firelight. “You came here thinking I was my grandmother—old, frail, easy prey. But I am her successor.”

Lucien frowned. “You misunderstand—”

She raised her hand. The fire roared into a spiral of golden flame.

“No,” she said, eyes gleaming like molten amber. “You do.”

---

IV. The Awakening

Lucien lunged. His form rippled—skin stretching, bones twisting until the beast emerged: a massive wolf cloaked in shadow.

Eira whispered the binding words, her voice trembling with both power and pain. The room filled with the scent of burning pine and blood.

But Lucien was strong—stronger than she expected. He clawed through her barrier, struck her across the chest. She fell to the floor, the world spinning.

He loomed over her, jaws wide.

And then—Nox dove from the rafters, its feathers igniting in blue flame. The raven burst apart mid-air, transforming into a crown of burning runes that landed on Eira’s brow.

Lucien froze. “What—what are you?”

Eira rose, her voice no longer her own. “I am the Flame of Hollowmere. You knocked at the wrong door.”

The fire surged, swallowing them both.

---

V. The Morning After

At dawn, the fog lifted. The cottage was gone, replaced by a ring of ash and silver stones.

Travelers who passed that way said they sometimes saw a woman with hair like wildfire and a black wolf walking beside her—neither spirit nor mortal, both bound by flame.

At night, if you stand by the ruins of Hollowmere Gate, you can still hear it—

Three knocks.

And a whisper that says:

> “The curse never breaks. It only burns brighter.”

---

🩶 Epilogue

A century later, under a blood moon, a child with silver eyes and ember hair was born in Thornvale Village.

Her mother swore she heard a knock on the door the night before her labor began.

But when she opened it—

no one was there.

Only a raven feather, still warm to the touch.