Prophecy – Chapter 3 – The Cottage

Chapter 3
Two Years Ago

By fourteen, Freya had grown used to being hungry.

It was not something she thought about in the way she once might have. It was simply there, a quiet, constant thing that moved with her through the day. Some of the families did what they could, slipping her food when it could be spared, but it was never enough to change anything.

Until she shifted at 17, until she proved herself useful, she remained something the pack did not quite know what to do with.

The Alpha had made that clear without ever speaking directly to her. So she learned to manage.

Before dawn one morning, Freya gathered the few things she owned. An old blanket, worn thin in places. A chipped bowl. The small knife she had found near the forest’s edge more than a year earlier while scavenging for herbs.

There was not much to take.

She moved quietly, more from habit than necessity, stepping past sleeping houses and darkened windows. The pack still lay in that early stillness before the day began, and no one saw her go, no voice calling her back as she crossed the last stretch of ground and stepped into the trees.

Beyond the last of the houses, the ground opened briefly before the trees began. She crossed it without slowing, the familiar line of the forest drawing her forward.

She knew where she was going.

She had walked this way before, though never with the intention of not returning.

The path was not a true path, more the memory of one worn faintly into the ground through repeated use. The trees closed in gradually, their branches stretching overhead until the sky thinned to pale strips of light, and as she moved deeper the sounds shifted with her, the low hum of the pack fading behind her, voices and movement dissolving into the quieter, less certain sounds of the forest.

She noticed it all without slowing, the way the undergrowth stirred where nothing could be seen, the occasional crack of something moving further off, and the difference in the quiet now that there was no one close by.

Travellers passed through these woods from time to time, following routes that skirted the edge of the pack lands without ever fully entering them. Most kept to themselves, though not all did, and rogues moved where they pleased, appearing and disappearing without warning.

She was aware of that as she walked, but she did not turn back.

Six months earlier, while searching the woods for anything she could trade, she had found the cottage by chance.

It had stood as it did now, half hidden, tucked far enough into the trees that most would have no reason to come across it. Even then, she had known it had been abandoned for a long time. The smell had told her that first, damp wood, old dust, the sharp, unsettled movement of mice beneath the floor.

She had pushed the door open only a little that first time, just enough to look inside, and after that she found herself going back whenever she was close enough, not every day, not even every week, just when the woods brought her there or when there was nothing else waiting for her. She would stand in the clearing or sit on the low stone beside the building, looking at it as though time alone might change something.

Sometimes she carried herbs with her, sometimes nothing at all, and it had been easier then to imagine what it might be like, easier to stand there knowing she would leave again before nightfall and return to the edges of the pack where she understood how to exist.

Now she did not turn back as the trees began to thin, the ground opening just enough for the cottage to come into view, smaller than she remembered.
The roof had dipped further, the beams beneath it beginning to give way. One of the windows had lost more of its glass, leaving only jagged edges around the frame. The door shifted slightly as the wind moved through the clearing, tapping softly against the wood.

Freya slowed as she approached, taking it in properly this time.

There was no one here, no voices, no movement, no sign that anyone had passed this way recently.

She stepped closer, the grass brushing against her legs as she crossed the clearing, damp from the morning air. When she reached the door, she paused only long enough to place her hand against it. It swung open easily.

Inside, the air was cooler.

The smell settled around her, stronger now that she stood within it. Dust lay thick across the floor in places where it had not been disturbed, broken boards scattered near the far wall. Cobwebs stretched between the beams overhead, shifting slightly where the air moved through the gaps.

Freya stepped inside.

The floor creaked beneath her weight, the sound louder than she expected in the quiet. She moved further in, looking from one part of the room to another, taking in what was there and what was not.

There was nothing left of whoever had lived here before, no belongings, no sign of a hurried departure, just the shape of a place that had once been used and then quietly left behind.

She set her blanket down near the wall and placed the bowl beside it, then remained where she was for a moment, taking in the quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar. It was not the same as the quiet she knew within the pack, not the kind that came from being overlooked or set aside, but something wider that did not press in on her in the same way.

There was no one here to watch her, no one to decide whether she belonged, and no one who would step in if she could not manage it on her own. The thought settled slowly.

Freya looked toward the doorway where the light fell across the floor in a narrow strip, then back into the room, and moved again, gathering what she could reach first and pushing broken boards aside until there was enough space to sit without being surrounded by debris. The work was slow, but she did not rush it, moving steadily, taking what she could manage and leaving the rest for later.

Outside, the wind moved through the grass, brushing against the walls and slipping through the gaps in the wood, and she paused once, listening without meaning to, though nothing followed the sound and after a moment she returned to what she had been doing.

There was still more to clear, more to move, more to make useable, and she worked until her hands began to ache and the light shifted higher, the shadows inside the cottage changing their shape as the day moved on.

When she finally stopped, it was only to stand back for a moment and take in what she had managed so far, not much, but enough to begin.

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Freya had not expected him to come so soon.

She heard him before she saw him, the sound of someone moving through the grass without trying to hide it, steady in a way she knew well enough not to mistake. She glanced up from where she stood in the doorway, brushing dust from her hands as Liam stepped into view at the edge of the clearing.

He stopped there for a moment, looking over the cottage, the open door, the rough pile of wood she had dragged aside, his gaze moving from one thing to the next before settling on her.

“You weren’t there.”

Freya shifted her weight slightly, a hint of something lighter in her expression than she had worn the day before. “I am now.”

He watched her for a second longer, then crossed the clearing without hurry, pulling a small bundle from under his arm and holding it out to her as he reached the doorway.

“Take it.”

She looked at it, then at him. “What is it?”

“Food.”

There was a pause, just long enough for her to consider saying something else, but she didn’t. She took it instead, unwrapping the cloth as she stepped back to let him inside, the smell of fresh bread reaching her before she saw the sandwich, with a piece of fruit tucked beside it.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, though she was already taking a bite.

“I know.”

He moved past her into the cottage, ducking his head slightly, letting his eyes adjust as he looked around properly this time. Freya stayed near the doorway for a moment, finishing her mouthful before following him in, brushing past his shoulder as she went.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said, nudging a loose board aside with her foot. “Just needs sorting.”

Liam didn’t answer straight away. He stood there a moment longer, taking it in, the gaps in the walls, the sag in the roof, the way the light fell through the broken panes, then gave a small nod.

“It’ll hold.”

That seemed enough for both of them.

Freya moved further into the room, shifting another piece of wood out of the way, and Liam bent to pick up the heavier boards she had left, carrying them outside without comment. She followed him a second later, still eating, stepping around him as he came back in.

“There’s more by the wall,” she said, nodding towards it as she passed.

He glanced at the pile, then back at her, and though he said nothing, he went to it anyway.

Freya watched him for a moment before turning back to what she had been doing, a small, almost absent smile settling in without her noticing.

Outside, the clearing felt different with him there. Not safer in any obvious way, but steadier, as though the space had shifted slightly to accommodate him. He moved through it easily, already aware of where things were, where they would need to be, as though he had decided without saying it that this place now mattered.

Freya let him.

Chapter 2

Chapter 4