Torn Between Destinies-Chapter 48 - Forty Eight

The Vale turned silver as I flew, the wind singing against my new-born wings. Each beat felt cleaner, steadier, as if the Guardian’s gift had rewritten the map of my very bones. Below, endless ridges of forest rolled away into a haze of gray vapor. The breath of the land rose in curls, wrapping trunks and branches in a pale glow. Somewhere beyond that curtain lay the hidden valley the Guardian had hinted at—a place older than any pack, older even than the curse I had come to break.

I kept my eyes on the horizon. A ridge of black stone parted the sky like a knife, and behind it, the mist stained the air the color of moon-washed milk. The sight tightened something inside me. That had to be it—the Valley Wrapped in Mist. The place the dreams never named aloud but always showed in flashes just before I woke.

As I descended, the air cooled, smelling faintly of cedar and snow. My bare feet touched moss so thick it swallowed the sound. I folded my wings. They dissolved into my skin with a low hum, leaving nothing but a tingle across my shoulder blades. For a heartbeat I simply breathed, grateful to feel solid ground again.

The valley was quiet—too quiet. No birdsong, no rustle of deer, not even the hush of wind against leaves. Mist drifted between the ancient trunks, coiling like soft ropes. The trees themselves were colossal, their bark pale silver, their roots wound through broken stone carved with forgotten runes. A chill crawled up my spine. The Guardian had said the Vale breathed; here it felt like the Vale *listened*.

I walked.

Every step stirred small eddies of mist that licked at my ankles before vanishing. My heartbeat echoed loud in my ears. Yet even my wolf, usually alert to every sound, was silent—watchful but unafraid. It was as if she, too, was waiting for something.

A stone archway emerged from the fog: two pillars so eroded that runic lines were little more than shallow scars. Vines crept through their cracks, blooming with tiny white flowers that glowed faintly in the half-light. Between the pillars, the mist thickened into a wall.

I took a breath.

And stepped through.

Cold rushed around me—sharp, immediate, like plunging into winter water. The world blurred, and for a heartbeat I saw nothing but white. Then the mist thinned. I found myself standing in a circle of giant stones surrounding a single evergreen. At its base sat a figure clad in gray robes, hair the color of frost. He seemed carved from twilight itself. Eyes closed, he breathed so slowly it was hard to tell if he breathed at all.

I froze.

He spoke without opening his eyes. "Welcome, Luciana of Thornridge."

His voice was deep, echoing despite how softly he spoke. It rolled through the valley like a gentle bell, vibrating in the roots under my feet.

"You know my name," I managed.

The man’s eyes opened: clear silver, shockingly bright, as if they held the reflections of countless moons. "I have carried it in silence for many years."

I stepped closer. "Who are you?"

"A keeper," he said. "A watcher of the breath between worlds. Once, long ago, I bore another name—Orrin Whitefang, first Alpha of Thornridge." He smiled, faint and solemn. "It has been centuries since anyone called me that."

My mouth went dry. I had heard the name in childhood stories: a myth, a legend. The founder who united scattered wolf clans, who vanished into spirit lands after forging the first bond between wolves and the old magic.

"You’re alive?"

"Alive is a simple word," he replied. "I remain." He lifted his hand; blue motes of light drifted from his fingers, brightening the air. "The Vale does not follow the same hours as the waking world. Here, time remembers but does not pass."

For a breath I could not speak. Then words stumbled out. "If you are Orrin, you must know why I’m here. You were there at the beginning—when the wizard was betrayed, when the curse was born."

His eyes dimmed, sadness threading his voice. "I was there. And I have borne that weight ever since." He gestured to the stone circle. "Sit, Luciana. The land kept you alive so you might hear, and choose."

I obeyed, settling on cool grass opposite him. When I sat, the mist stirred outward, forming a clear ring around us. The evergreen behind Orrin hummed softly, its needles trembling with each word he spoke.

"Long before Thornridge had a name," Orrin began, "wolves roamed this land in small bands, rival packs clashing while humans pressed west from the mountains. Among those first wolves walked a wizard named Elivas. He was human, yes, but of mixed blood: part spirit of river and root. He could bend the breath of earth into form—healing soil after fires, guiding floods from villages. The wolves—wild and proud—mistrusted him. They saw only a human meddling with magic they believed theirs alone." Orrin’s jaw tightened. "I was one of those wolves."

I listened in silence.

"Elivas forged a dream," Orrin continued. "A valley where all clans—human, wolf, beast—could drink from the same water, unafraid. He shaped that dream in this place, drawing power from the oldest lines beneath the mountains. Many followed him. Yet many more—wolves hungry for territory—feared they would lose dominance. They attacked on the night of the last eclipse, tearing at his sanctuary and drawing blood."

Orrin closed his eyes. "I tried to stop them. Too late. Elivas fell—wounded beyond healing. His blood spilled into the roots of the Vale, and with his final breath he spoke a curse: *’Let breath become blade; let war seed war. Until the child of breath and howl returns to forgive, the land shall hunger on wolf blood.’*"

I shivered. The words echoed the nightmares that had hunted me.

"He did not hate us," Orrin said quietly. "He grieved. His curse was not revenge alone; it was a tether, binding us to a reckoning we might survive. But as centuries turned, the tale warped. Wolves forgot the crime and remembered only wrath."

He met my gaze. "You, Luciana, carry the mark of river and root through your mother—and the howl of my line through your father. Breath and howl, woven. The Chosen Elivas spoke of."

The truth settled like a stone in my chest. "The prophecy said only the second-born could break the curse."

"Prophecy speaks in layers." Orrin touched the earth, and faint lines of light threaded from his fingers across the moss. "Your first child woke the Vale, proved you bear both rivers in your blood. A second birth will anchor peace—but only if you survive the trials."

My pulse raced. "Survive how?"

"Embrace your breath. Shape it." Orrin pointed to the mist. "The Vale will test you with fear, doubt, memory. If you master them, the land will bend. Your flight was the first shaping."

I grimaced, glancing at torn cloth on my shoulder. "I nearly died."

"True shaping walks the edge of death." Orrin’s eyes gleamed with strange light. "But you lived. That is the breath choosing."

I swallowed. "And if I fail?"

Orrin’s gaze turned distant. "Then the hunger returns. Silverglen, Thornridge—every pack tied to the river’s original dream—will fade into ash."

Silence stretched.

I thought of Erya’s sleeping face. Of Darius’s broken voice asking me to stay. Of Mayla’s dreams, the food spoiling, the forest whispering doom.

I breathed in—and out.

"What must I do now?" I asked.

"First," Orrin said, rising to his feet with an ease that belied his age, "you must heal." He extended a hand. When I took it, warmth flooded my arm, closing torn skin, knitting bruised muscle. "Second, you must learn to wield the breath, not just ride it. That is the training."

He led me to the pool at the circle’s center. Its surface was still, reflective, though no sky showed above—only mist swirling inside water like clouds trapped beneath glass.

"Touch it," Orrin instructed.

I knelt and pressed my fingers to the pool.

Cold bit my skin, yet beneath that chill pulsed a living warmth. Images flashed: Darius holding Erya; Mayla’s warning eyes; the Guardian’s silver wings; Elivas bleeding onto roots.

My hand trembled, but Orrin’s voice anchored me. "Breathe with it. Feel the rhythm between heartbeats. That is the Breath of the Vale."

I inhaled. The pool brightened. Mist spiraled upward, wrapping around my wrist like ribbon.

"Shape it," he murmured.

I pictured a simple form: a leaf, small and delicate, like the ones Erya loved to chase in the wind. The mist within the water shifted, rose, condensed—and in my palm formed a glowing leaf of white crystal.

I gasped.

"Again," Orrin said, calm but firm.

We practiced until my mind ached. Each attempt demanded focus, balance, humility. Some shapes failed, dissolving into droplets. Others solidified—tiny stars, feathers, a teardrop of light. Each success strengthened something nameless inside me.

When exhaustion dimmed my vision, Orrin guided me to a stone alcove within the circle. Moss lined the surface like a soft bed.

"Rest," he said. "Tomorrow the real trial begins. You will fly again—beyond the valley, into the storm of memories that guard the path to Elivas’s shrine."

I lay down, muscles trembling. The crystal leaf rested on my chest, pulsing faintly.

Orrin knelt once more. "Remember: breath is not wind alone. It is life—hope—choice. Hold to that, and no shadow can break you."

His words wrapped around me like the Guardian’s wings. My eyes closed.

Sleep came, deep and dreamless.

And in my final waking thought, I whispered to the Vale, to Erya, to Darius across all distance:

I will return. I promise.

The Vale’s breath answered—soft, steady, strong.

A promise in return.