Chapter 3. Quiet Ashes

Six years later…

"Careful, Mira, don’t overheat that batch!"

The warning carried from the back room in Martha’s familiar voice—half stern, half affectionate—like a mother scolding a child who’d tracked mud across freshly mopped floors. It was the kind of reprimand delivered out of habit, not anger.

Mira blinked, glancing down at the small pot simmering over the flame. Thick, fragrant steam curled up from the mixture inside—comfrey leaves soaked in beeswax and oil, its sharp green scent drifting lazily through the shop. She grimaced, realizing the paste was already beginning to thicken too quickly.

“I’ve got it under control,” she called back, though her stirring grew noticeably faster. She leaned in, trying to will the potion into balance through sheer force of will.

It was comical, really. After six years under Martha’s roof—six years of salvaged identity and slow healing—Mira still couldn’t brew salve without nearly ruining it. She could organize ledgers, mix tinctures with precision, and memorize entire shelves of dried herbs by scent alone. But give her a cauldron and an open flame, and she somehow managed to conjure disaster.

Still, it was better than chains. Better than the screams echoing inside stone halls, or the distant, painful howl of a wolf she no longer dared to remember.

She exhaled slowly, willing herself to focus on the task. Then smiled faintly to herself.

Mira.

That was her name now.

Mira Lane.

Martha had chosen it without ceremony, plucking the surname from her maiden name and offering it to the broken girl she’d found half-dead under an oak tree.

“You’ll need a name, if you’re to stay,” she’d said, not unkindly. “You can borrow one of mine, for now.”

Mira hadn’t argued. She couldn’t have, even if she wanted to. Her tongue had barely remembered how to move then. Her limbs were too weak to carry weight, her soul too fractured to resist. Names were for people who belonged somewhere. And Ismeria Elowen—daughter of the Beta, bride given by the Moon Goddess—had been buried under chains of light, her wolf locked beneath spells of silence.

That girl had died in the grove.

And yet, sometimes—in the quiet moments between candlelight and sleep—hearing Martha call her “Mira” felt like a balm, gently rubbed into a wound no one else could see.

She stirred the pot, the thick paste darkening, and her thoughts wandered. To Martha’s kindness—how the woman had carried her half-dead body home from the woods that night, tended her wounds, and never asked the questions that burned on her tongue. How Martha, on discovering the way her veins shimmered faintly when she cried or grew angry, had only tutted and handed her long-sleeved dresses.

“Best not to spook anyone until you learn control,” she’d said with a gentle smile.

Mira hadn’t minded. She had worn long sleeves most of her life anyway, hiding the silver no one was supposed to see. Back in her pack.

Her pack.

No. Not hers anymore.

Life here was different—quiet, steady, almost peaceful. The town was small, tucked against the sea, too far from any real roads to attract wanderers or busybodies. Martha was right—God had forgotten this place, but people still found their way to the herbal shop, buying ointments for burns, teas for sleep, and poultices for aching joints. Enough to keep them busy, but never enough to pry.

Over time, Mira had grown strong again. She’d learned from Martha—the cuts and bruises of careless fishermen, the fevers of children, the tinctures for restless minds. She was clumsy with potions, often burning or curdling them, but she had a knack for order. She kept the shop tidy, the shelves neat, the ledger balanced. Customers liked her quiet smile at the counter, even if they could never quite draw her into easy chatter.

At first, she had feared discovery. That her scent would give her away. That someone from the pack would storm in and drag her back to the dungeon. But as the years passed and the wolf inside her remained silent, she realized the truth—she had no scent anymore. No wolf. The Goddess’s bride was gone. Forgotten.

She exhaled softly, stirring the pot. The comfrey paste clung thick to the spoon, and for a moment she let herself feel the relief of that truth. The woods and the sea, Martha’s sharp scolding and gentle laughter—these were enough.

“Mira!”

Martha’s voice jolted her back. She blinked down at the pot—the paste had turned too dark, the acrid scent of scorched herbs curling upward.

She winced.

“Oh no…”

As if summoned by the smell alone, Martha bustled in from the back, skirts rustling like wind through dry grass. Her eyes narrowed at the scorched contents of the pot.

“What did I tell you?” she sighed, snatching the pot from the flame with the practiced ease of a woman who had dealt with dozens of such mishaps.

Mira smiled sheepishly, setting the spoon aside. “That I still manage to ruin it, no matter how many times I try.”

“You’ve a good head for books and people,” Martha replied, pouring the failed salve into a bowl and washing it down the drain. “Leave the brews to me before you poison someone’s grandmother.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mira said, ducking her head, though a laugh tugged at her lips. “I’ll stick to sweeping, then,” she added, already reaching for the broom with mock solemnity. “At least the broom hasn’t caught fire.”

“Yet,” Martha muttered, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

As Mira swept the wide-planked floors, the scent of burnt comfrey still lingering in the air, the moment passed—ordinary, safe, wrapped in the gentle domestic chaos of the herbal shop. The world outside felt distant. The past, further still.

***

The veranda creaked softly beneath their chairs, the worn boards bending and sighing as the night settled in. The sea’s breath floated up from the cliffs, salt-tinged and cool, threading through Mira’s hair as she poured tea from a chipped clay pot into two mismatched mugs. Across from her, Martha rustled the pages of the local paper, squinting at the ink in the low light, her spectacles slipping down her nose.

Summer nights were Mira’s favorite here—the hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint roar of waves below, and the stars smeared across the sky in careless handfuls.

Mira curled her legs beneath her and opened her book, the worn pages soft against her fingers. She often read the same lines over and over without truly absorbing them—the act of reading more comforting than the content.

“Ha!” Martha exclaimed, tapping the paper with a crooked finger. “You’ll like this one. Some farmer claims his cow won best in show because his wife fed it leftover pie. Apple, no less.” She snorted. “Honestly—men will make a story out of anything.”

Mira smiled faintly, the image of the pie-fed cow flickering across her mind. “Maybe the cow just wanted dessert,” she offered dryly.

Martha chuckled and flipped another page, muttering under her breath. It was the same every evening—silly news, strange headlines, and always, always Martha’s commentary. Mira liked it that way. It was background music by now, a rhythm as familiar as the sea.

Until Martha gasped louder than usual.

“Oh…”

Mira glanced up. “What is it?”

The older woman adjusted her glasses, squinting harder. “Some woman gone missing. Disappeared just outside town. The paper doesn’t say much—no details, just strange circumstances. Found her car by the woods, but no sign of her.” She shook her head. “Could be nothing. Could be… something.”

Mira’s stomach gave a faint twist.

“Another baited headline?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Perhaps,” Martha murmured. Her eyes lingered on Mira a moment longer than necessary. “But you be careful, girl. Full moon tonight. You know how it stirs up all sorts of monsters.”

Mira tried to laugh, though it sounded brittle to her own ears. “You’ve told me that a hundred times.”

“And I’ll tell you a hundred more,” Martha sniffed, folding the paper into her lap. Then, softer, “Tell me the truth, Mira. Do you believe in such things? Supernatural beings, I mean.”

Mira paused, her fingers tightening around her teacup. The warmth seeped into her palms, grounding her.

“I think you read too many novels, Martha” she said, managing a smile.

“I do not.”

“You do.” Mira teased. Then, with a small shrug, she added, “I doubt they exist. And even if they do, why would they bother mingling with people? What would they want from us?”

The words caught in her throat. She glanced down at her hands. The candlelight danced across her skin, and beneath it, barely visible, the faint silver shimmer of her veins pulsed like moonlight beneath water. She stared at it too long.

Then, with a forced chuckle, she lifted her hands. “Maybe I’m some kind of supernatural thing myself. Who knows?”

Martha’s eyes narrowed, but her tone remained steady. “You are perfectly normal, Mira Lane. Don’t let me hear otherwise.”

Mira’s smile softened, and for a moment, the heaviness in her chest eased. “If you say so.”

She reached for the teapot to refill their cups but hesitated as a thought surfaced—quiet and persistent.

“I might go to the grove later,” she said. “Some of the herbs grow best under the full moon. It would be a waste not to pick them.”

Martha looked up sharply. “Mira…”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised quickly. “I always am.”

The older woman said nothing at first. Then she nodded, lips pressed tight. “Just don’t wander too deep. Old things live in those woods. Things that don’t forget.”

Mira stepped away from the veranda rail, her fingers brushing the cool metal as she looked out toward the distant treeline. The moon was already rising—pale and swollen, cloaked in a thin veil of clouds. A beautiful thing. A dangerous thing.

“I won’t stay long,” she said softly.

And she meant it.