The air was thick with the stillness of evening, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. The temple stood alone, its weathered stones bathed in the golden hue of the fading sunlight. Inside, an old woman knelt before a modest altar, her frail hands clasped together in prayer. The scent of incense, smoky and sweet, hung in the air as her whispered words mingled with the quiet murmur of the evening.
Suddenly, a low, mournful howl echoed through the trees. Her prayers faltered. The sound rose again, this time from another direction—closer, it seemed. A shiver crept up her spine. She lifted her head, heart pounding, and looked around the dimly lit temple. The wolves' howls seemed to surround her, echoing from the shadowed forest beyond the temple walls.
She stood, her hands shaking as she peered into the fading light beyond the open doorway, but the forest remained still. No wolves. Just the hollow sound of their cries on the wind. She hurried to the door, but saw nothing. Her breath quickened, and she backed away, the echoes of the howls fading into an uneasy silence.
Then, the heavy creak of the temple door broke the quiet. An old man, hunched but steady, entered. His face was weathered like the temple stones, his eyes calm beneath thick, white brows. The woman’s fear ebbed as she recognized him, her brother, though his presence carried a weight that unsettled her.
“I was so scared,” she said with a shaky breath, rushing to greet him. “There was howling—wolves, from every direction! But when I looked... I saw nothing.”
The old man glanced around the temple, then back at his sister. His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze distant.
“It must be the spirit of the wolves,” he said, his voice low, yet steady. “They’ve come to claim my soul.” He paused, his words hanging in the air like the scent of incense. “My time is near.”
The woman felt a pang of sorrow at his words. She had feared this moment would come, but hearing it aloud stirred a sadness deep within her. She grasped his hand tightly, her fingers trembling against his rough skin.
“Don’t speak like that,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind that had picked up again outside.
He gave her a faint smile, a soft exhale escaping his lips. “It is the way of things,” he said, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “The wolves... they know.”
Silence fell between them, thick with the unspoken truth. But the old man, sensing her grief, shifted the conversation.
“There will be visitors,” he said. “Someone has been bitten by a snake. They will come seeking help. Tell them to wait. Everything will be fine.”
She nodded, though her heart ached at the thought of what he had just said. The old man’s eyes grew distant once more, the lines of his face deepening as if he had already begun to drift away from this world.
“I must meditate,” he said softly, turning from her and moving deeper into the temple. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one echoing in the silence.
The woman watched him go, the heavy weight of his words settling over her. She turned back to the door, glancing once more at the darkened forest, but the howls had vanished, leaving only the quiet hum of the evening breeze.
The evening light had dimmed further, casting long shadows over the temple grounds as the group hurried past the stone entrance. The woman, now sitting in front of the manor, watched them approach with weary eyes, already knowing the reason for their arrival.
One of the men, younger than the others, broke away from the group and rushed to her side. His breath came in ragged gasps, his face slick with sweat. “Mother,” he began, using the respectful term they all addressed her with, “he was bitten... a red cobra. It struck him in the woods, and we—” His words tumbled out in a rush, fear sharpening his voice. “Is Lord Morven here? Can he save him?”
The woman’s gaze drifted to the figure lying on the stretcher, pale and unmoving except for the slight tremor of his fingers. The sight of the boy, barely a man, so close to death twisted her heart. But her brother’s words rang in her mind, steadying her as the panic threatened to take hold.
She stood slowly, her old bones creaking with the effort, and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Her voice, though quiet, carried a calm authority. “Everything will be all right,” she said, meeting his frantic gaze. “My brother is in meditation, but he will return soon.”
“But...” The man’s eyes darted toward the motionless figure. “The cobra... it was red. They say its venom kills within the hour!”
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She squeezed his shoulder, her grip firmer than her frail appearance suggested. “Trust me, child. Nothing will happen to him. Lord Morven knows.”
The group behind them shifted uneasily, exchanging worried glances. The fear was palpable, rising like smoke in the cool evening air. But the woman remained still, her face betraying none of the concern she felt deep inside. She could only wait now. Wait for her brother to finish his meditation and for the spirit of the wolves, if they truly had come to claim him, to stay their hand just a little longer.
The minutes stretched, long and heavy, as the men lay the stretcher down before the temple’s entrance, careful not to jostle the poisoned man. His breaths were shallow, each one weaker than the last, his skin growing paler as the venom worked its way through his veins.
“Please,” one of the other men pleaded, his voice raw with desperation. “There’s so little time left. Will he really come back in time?”
The woman didn’t answer, only gazed toward the inner chamber of the temple where her brother sat in meditation. Her hands, clasped tightly together, trembled slightly as she waited. She had to believe in him, in his power. She had no other choice.
Before long, the heavy silence was broken by the soft creak of the temple doors opening. Lord Morven emerged from the dim interior, his face calm but his steps swift and sure. Despite his age, there was a surprising energy in his movements, his long robes billowing behind him as he hurried towards the manor front where the group had gathered. His sharp gaze fell upon the man lying motionless on the ground, and without hesitation, he quickened his pace.
The people watched in awe as the old man approached with a vial in hand, moving with a speed that defied his years. The crowd parted instinctively, creating a wide path for Lord Morven as he knelt beside the afflicted man. His weathered hands moved swiftly, uncorking the vial with a practiced motion. The vial, small and unassuming, held a liquid that shimmered faintly in the fading light, catching the eye of those nearby.
Without a word, Lord Morven carefully poured some of the liquid onto the site of the snakebite, his hands steady and sure. The clear liquid glistened as it touched the swollen, discolored skin. Then, with quiet precision, he tilted the vial to the man’s lips, allowing the remaining drops to spill into his mouth.
As he did this, he began murmuring softly, his voice low and rhythmic. The words, ancient and unfamiliar, flowed from his lips in a strange incantation that none present recognized. The air around him seemed to hum with energy, and the tension among the group grew as they watched in anticipation, holding their breath.
The effect was almost immediate.
The man, who had moments ago seemed so close to death, suddenly stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and his chest, which had risen and fallen with labored effort, began to draw deeper, more natural breaths. His hand, limp at his side, twitched as life returned to his body. Slowly, he sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looked around, blinking in confusion.
The crowd gasped, astonished at the sight before them.
The man who had been at death’s door now sat upright, breathing steadily, his face no longer pale with venom. His gaze moved to Lord Morven, his expression filled with gratitude and awe.
“Thank you, my lord,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but full of life. “You’ve saved me... saved my life.”
Lord Morven simply nodded, his eyes calm as ever. He rose slowly, his work complete, and stepped back to give the man space to stand. The group, still stunned, helped the now-healed man to his feet. Their relief was palpable, the tension in the air dissipating as murmurs of astonishment spread through the crowd.
One of the men, the youngest of the group, quickly bent down and placed a small pouch of coins at Lord Morven’s feet. The gesture was one of deep respect, a token of their gratitude for the life he had saved. Lord Morven, however, barely glanced at it. His thoughts seemed elsewhere, his mind already drifting back to the quiet solace of the temple.
Without another word, the group turned to leave, supporting their friend as they made their way back through the open gate. The once-tense air was now calm, and as they disappeared into the evening shadows, the temple grounds felt still once more.
Lord Morven stood in front of the temple as the last of the group disappeared through the open gate, leaving behind only the lingering whispers of their astonishment.
"Meredith," he said quietly, his voice like the steady flow of a stream. "I have decided to gift the magic of the wolf spirit to Melvin."
For a moment, Meredith stood frozen, her weathered face betraying the disbelief she felt. She blinked rapidly, trying to process what her brother had just said. "Melvin?" she whispered, her voice thick with shock. "Our Melvin?"
Her question hung in the air, and her disbelief was palpable. Meredith knew her son well—too well. The boy, now a grown man, had caused her more heartache than she could count. A drunkard, a womanizer, with a reckless disregard for the traditions and honor of their family. The thought of him receiving the sacred power of the wolf spirit seemed beyond reason. It was as if Lord Morven had spoken the impossible.
Lord Morven met her gaze, unshaken by her disbelief. “Don’t worry about Melvin,” he said softly, but with a firm conviction that was impossible to ignore. “All his bad habits will be gone once he receives the gift. The wolf spirit will cleanse him. He will become greater than you ever imagined.”
Meredith frowned, shaking her head in disbelief. “How can you be so sure? Melvin has been nothing but trouble for years. His drinking, his... his women... he’s a disgrace to the Wulfkin name.” Her voice wavered, a mixture of frustration and deep-rooted sorrow. "You speak of him becoming a great shaman, but how can someone so lost—someone so... so irresponsible—carry such a burden?"
Lord Morven's expression softened, and for a moment, the weight of his age seemed to show. He stepped closer to his sister, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I understand your doubt, Meredith. You’ve seen him at his worst, but the wolf spirit does not choose lightly. It sees beyond what we see, beyond the flaws of men. The gift will change him—strip away the weakness, the indulgence. Melvin will rise above it all.”
His eyes, clear and unwavering, held a certainty that was difficult to argue with. "He will become more famous than myself, a shaman the likes of which the Wulfkin have never known. Our house will not lose its prestige for many years to come."
Meredith’s brow furrowed as she struggled to reconcile her brother’s words with the image of her son that was so firmly etched in her mind. Her heart ached at the thought of Melvin, squandering his potential, falling deeper into his vices. Could it really be true? Could the wolf spirit transform him?
“Melvin,” she said again, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “He’s... he's still just a man. He’s never had the discipline. He’s... he’s broken, Morven. How can he carry such power?”
“The wolf spirit will give him strength where he lacks it,” Lord Morven replied. “It will guide him, shape him. Trust in the spirit’s wisdom, Meredith. It has already chosen him.”
Meredith lowered her gaze, her mind swirling with uncertainty. She wanted to believe, but the years of disappointment had hardened her heart. Could her son truly change? Could he really become the man her brother envisioned?
Lord Morven saw the hesitation in her eyes and added gently, “You’ll see. The Melvin you know will be gone. The wolf spirit will claim him, and in its place will stand a man worthy of the Wulfkin name. Our family’s legacy will be secured.”
Meredith glanced up, still not fully convinced but unable to ignore the deep-rooted faith her brother carried. She sighed, her heart heavy with both hope and doubt. “I hope you’re right,” she whispered. “For his sake... and for ours.”
Lord Morven gave a small nod. “I am. The wolf spirit does not make mistakes.”
As the evening shadows grew longer, Meredith turned away, her thoughts still troubled. The wind stirred the trees around them, as if nature itself was bearing witness to the weight of Lord Morven’s decision. Only time would tell if his words would come to pass, and if Melvin could truly become the man his mother had always hoped he would be.