Chapter Thirty-Four
Cassandra stood at the edge of the dense pine woods, the moonlight barely touching her skin as she stared down the winding forest path. Her eyes were sharp, restless, flickering like a flame on the brink of being snuffed out. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the cloak she wore, knuckles white. She hated the cold. She hated the quiet. And she hated the silence of the forest almost as much as she hated Isabelle.
She had been summoned here by someone she never thought she’d speak to again.
The trees creaked and shifted as wind slid between their trunks. Cassandra moved forward.
The hut wasn’t far now. Hidden away from the pack lands and protected by ancient magic, the small, crumbling stone dwelling had once belonged to the witch who had served Khalil’s grandfather—a woman whose loyalty was not so easily bought or defined.
Cassandra reached the door and hesitated. It smelled of old herbs, thick with dust and wood smoke. She raised her fist and knocked twice.
The door creaked open on its own.
She stepped inside.
The warmth of a small fire met her first, followed by the heavy scent of crushed yarrow and rosemary. Strange symbols had been scratched into the walls in faded chalk. Bones hung from threads near the ceiling, clacking gently as the door shut behind her.
And there, seated by the fire with milky-white eyes that seemed to look through time itself, was the old witch.
“You came,” the woman rasped, her voice dry as parchment.
“You summoned me,” Cassandra replied, lifting her chin. “I figured it must be important.”
The old woman smiled. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, but her face bore the marks of someone who had once been beautiful—and dangerous.
“You want to know how to sever the bond of a silver wolf,” the witch said, not asking but stating.
Cassandra stiffened. “So you’ve been watching.”
The old woman chuckled. “I don’t need to watch. The threads of fate hum when someone like her is born.”
“She’s ruining everything,” Cassandra hissed, stepping closer. “She’s not supposed to exist. Khalil was mine. I waited. I obeyed. I wore his mark with pride. And now this silver bitch has turned everything upside down.”
The witch turned her head slightly. “And yet, despite your hatred, you fear her. You fear what she might become.”
Cassandra didn’t reply.
“There is only one way to destroy a silver wolf’s connection to the moon,” the witch said slowly, as though every word cost her a year of life. “Betrayal. Either by blood—or by mate.”
Cassandra blinked. “You mean…”
“She must be broken from within. She must be made to question her own nature. Her trust must be severed. Her bond—fractured. If she believes herself betrayed by someone she loves… then and only then will the moon turn its back on her.”
Cassandra paced in front of the hearth, her mind spinning. “So, if Khalil betrays her—”
“It must be real,” the witch said. “It must wound her soul. Shatter her sense of purpose.”
“And blood?”
“A betrayal from her own bloodline. But you’ll find that difficult. Her lineage is rare. Sacred. There are few who share her blood.”
Cassandra’s jaw clenched. “I’ll find a way.”
The witch didn’t answer. She reached into a box beside her and withdrew a brittle, yellowed book. Its cover was cracked, the binding held together by threads of silver wire.
“This belonged to the Alpha before Khalil,” the witch said, handing it to her. “He understood the danger of the silver wolves. He studied them. Feared them. And tried to find ways to control them.”
Cassandra opened the book carefully. The pages were delicate, and most were covered in faded ink and symbols she couldn’t decipher. But then she turned to a page near the back—and her breath caught.
There, written in bold ink, was a passage titled: The Silver Curse.
She began to read.
“When the wolf born of moonlight awakens, her power shall threaten the earth and sky. But her soul bears a fault—one weakness that may break her. If the one she trusts most delivers the fatal wound, she will fall.”
Cassandra’s heart pounded as she flipped the page.
It was burned.
The rest of the passage was illegible. Torn and blackened from fire. The words that might have given her the final key were lost.
“No,” she whispered, fingers trembling.
The witch watched her silently.
“There has to be more. There has to be a way to finish this.”
“Perhaps,” the witch said cryptically. “But magic like hers is not undone by fire and force. It must be unraveled… from the inside.”
Cassandra slammed the book shut and stood.
“She trusts Khalil still. In some small way. I can feel it.”
“She was always soft,” the witch murmured. “Even silver cracks under the weight of sorrow.”
Cassandra nodded once. “Then I’ll make sure she drowns in it.”
Back at the estate, Cassandra’s game began.
She was calculated in her movements, subtle in her methods.
She smiled sweetly at Isabelle in the hallways. She offered to help with tea and sparring clothes. She watched her train from afar, her sharp eyes noting every new flicker of speed, every extra burst of strength. Her smile never reached her eyes.
And Khalil—he barely looked her way.
Cassandra stood in the doorway of his office one morning, dressed in a crimson gown that hugged every inch of her body. Her neck was exposed, the old bite mark from Khalil’s teeth gleaming like a trophy. She knew the color would drive him crazy—he used to love red.
He didn’t even glance up from his papers.
“You used to want me,” she said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.
He kept writing.
“You used to look at me like I was fire itself. Now you act like I’m nothing.
Still silence
She moved behind his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“She’ll never love you, Khalil. You know that, right? She looks at you like you’re the chains she’s waiting to break.”
He stiffened.
That was something.
Cassandra leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You marked me long before she came along. And we both know what marks mean.”
Finally, he stood.
But he didn’t touch her. His eyes, once dark with longing, were now stormy with something else.
“You were a convenience,” he said coldly. “A tool. Don’t mistake that for meaning.”
Cassandra’s face froze.
Khalil stepped away. “I made a mistake using you. I won’t make that mistake again.”
And just like that, he left the room.
Cassandra stood in the silence, trembling—not with grief, but with fury. The rejection was a burn she couldn’t tolerate. It was worse than the mark itself. It was confirmation that he would never come back. Not now. Not with Isabelle still breathing.
She turned on her heel and stormed toward the library.
The book she had taken from the witch still sat hidden beneath a floorboard there. She yanked it out, placed it on the table, and began again to pore through its pages. She searched for answers—anything that could help her destroy the silver wolf.
And finally, she found something else.
Near the front, in a forgotten passage, a single sentence etched in Latin.
She ran her fingers across it and whispered the translation aloud.
“Even silver can be corrupted… if it is made to drink its own reflection.”
She frowned.
It made little sense.
But something about it felt right. It echoed in her bones.
The reflection.
The mirror.
The betrayal from within.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
She had a new plan now. One that didn’t require Khalil to betray Isabelle. One that would use Isabelle’s own spirit, her own doubt, her own shadow against her.
Because even silver, Cassandra thought, could tarnish in time.
And she would be there to watch it.