Curse of Ferreus

15 - Conspiracy & Confession

When it's late enough, I dismiss myself and retreat back to the spare room, leaving the werewolves to their amiable chaos.

I lock the door behind me, feeling lighter but more conflicted than I have in days. Perhaps this alliance thing will work, after all.

Rowan and his pack certainly don't seem dangerous. They ate the same food as me and let me sit at their table without a fuss. They're letting me stay in their home and accepting my help to rid themselves of Duskland.

The ice of my legacy is beginning to thaw, and in its place, an idea surfaces that perhaps not all werewolves are monsters. Perhaps not all of them need to meet an untimely end at my hands— or at the hands of any hunter.

They are simply surviving and wishing for peace, just like me.

I think of turning my silver blades on them once Duskland is gone and it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel as necessary as it did before.

Vile creatures. Vermin. Monsters. Liliana. Orion. My mother.

You always have a choice.

I'm tearing along at the seams.

They're not hurting anyone— at least, no one innocent. They are merely retaliating to the ceaseless pursuits of the Duskland pack.

Perhaps my family's teachings aren't quite the absolute truth I believed them to be. They were wrong about Esme. She wasn't a monster, and they killed her like one. They moulded their hatred into a facade and shoved righteousness down my throat until I choked on it.

And I believed them for all my life.

But Rowan is a werewolf and he's not a beast. He's not a monster. He's kind and he's helping me even despite the markings on my arms and the silver in my blades and the fire of hatred in my eyes.

I fall onto the plush bed and sink into a world of warmth, my mind torn in two and my morals fighting dirty. I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know what's right and what's wrong.

I don't know if the markings on my skin are a trophy of my accomplishments or merely the chains to a legacy I do not align with.

With a heavy sigh, I force myself up to change, or else I'll fall asleep right here. The spare room is stocked with clothes that smell of musk and cinnamon, and I change into soft ones to sleep in.

I set my belt of throwing blades on the bedside table, close if I need them, but it doesn't feel quite enough.

Perhaps Ferreus hunters are too quick to raise their silver knives to werewolves, but I cannot shake those instincts so easily. It's in my blood to be wary of their kind, to be distrusting and uneasy in their company. I can't smother my nature, just like Rowan cannot smother the urge to shift into a wolf.

But perhaps in time, I can leave the silver behind.

All the same, I find myself tucking my knife beneath the pillows, and I fall asleep with the comforting hilt pressed into my waiting palm.

The night is a restful one, and I come awake to find a hazy dawn struggling its way through the thick curtains, casting a dull lilac glow over the room. The sheets are rumpled at my hips and my knife is still clutched in my fist. I didn't have to use it on any lurking werewolves. The lock held.

One day, I muse as I sit up and stretch, I'll have to accept that they really don't want to hurt me.

Hunger is quick to surface and coax me from the room. I dress and don my weapons by instinct, yawning and stretching and rubbing at my eyes as I wander out into the hallway. Mercifully, I find Rowan has kept his word. The house is quiet and empty. Outside, the trails are swathed in grey as eager winds send dark trees swaying. The sky is a haze of blues and corals and lilacs and speckled with clouds. It's peaceful.