He is without a pack,
He is without a mate,
And he is without a wolf,
He is the sanctuary of brutality, a slaughter that waits for its turn.
He is Killian, the beast built with strength, power, and chaos that yearns for a reign, not of an Alpha, but...
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○ Valerie ○
Eerie.
The strong ambiance of Maliha's property forced the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. Her property was dark and bleak, vines crawling up the wooden exterior of her home, withering trees were curved in such a way that it loomed over the house, as crows took their usual place on the branches to get the front row seats for the show of their new visitor.
Through the silence, the crunching sounds of dried leaves beneath my feet grated my ears, cold hands tucked inside my coat as I walked up the front porch of Maliha's house with the wooden floorboards creaking behind every step I took.
I raised a hand to knock on the door, but before I could make the first land, it had immediately opened to reveal the healer with a soft grin on her face; her actions oddly ahead of mine that I almost thought that she was expecting my arrival.
Maliha looked up at me to study my features, and my posture tensed beneath her white eyes as the weight of them forced every crevice of my being to stand transparent against her silent judgement; the burn of her unwavering attention made me feel like all the deceit were slowly being peeled away from my skin.
"Valerie," Maliha greeted with a welcoming smile.
"Maliha," I replied tersely.
"Come inside and take a seat," she stepped aside to make way for my entrance, and gave me the view of the darkened interior of her home. The smell of burnt papers and herbs hit hard on my nose as I walked past the healer with her eyes trailing heavily on my figure.
"Care for a drink?" Maliha suggested, gesturing for the small separate table that held various cups and a warm pot of tea as I took a seat on the wooden chair settled by the burning furnace.
I crossed my leg over the other, and my expression was quick to morph into something that displayed my own distaste.
I could never accept any work done by a healer. My trust in them was as little as my belief of the Moon.
"No, thank you. I won't be long," I told her, my eyes trailing up to the shelves that held jars of various flowers and concoctions.
The sight of them bothered me. How many werewolves relied on her ways of medication completely mocked my job as the doctor of the pack. We were two separate roads that bore the same purpose, but leaned on different ethics; she gave the baseless approach that depended on the Moon, while I did my work with the guidance of science.
The most pathetic of it all was that when werewolves lost all hope with my work, they would put their faith in the comfort of their Moon; following the advice of their good old healer in hopes of curing what's impossible to be cured.
