Chapter 4 - Seven Years in the Shadows
Seven years in Oldenford were measured not by calendar years, but by the thickness of the hair over a boy's left eye.
Isolda had learned the art of invisibility down to a science. She worked out of a cramped, soot-stained workshop behind Margaret’s cottage, grinding herbs into poultices for the local miners, sewing patched woolens for the village children, and trading dried comfrey for sacks of rye flour.
She had buried her wolf spirit so deeply beneath human routines, mundane worries, and the constant, grinding labor of survival that she almost forgot what it felt like to shift. The silver bond to Alistair had faded into a dull, throbbing ache behind her ribs—a scar that only flared on nights when the moon was full and the wind blew from the north.
And Finn... Finn grew like a weed in rich soil.
At seven years old, he was already the size of a ten-year-old human boy. His limbs were packed with dense, whipcord muscle that didn't come from human training; it came from the restless, dormant lykan blood screaming in his veins.
"Mother, look!"
Finn burst through the cottage door, tracking mud across Margaret’s freshly scrubbed floorboards. He was holding a massive, jagged piece of iron slag he had dragged from the village forge—a block that would have required two human boys his age to lift. He hoisted it with one hand and grinned, showing a set of strong, slightly pointed canine teeth.
Isolda looked up from the wooden pestle she was cleaning, her heart performing its usual frantic dance of pride and terror.
"Put that down, Finn," she scolded gently, wiping her hands on her apron. "How many times have I told you? You must not show your strength to the villagers. What did I say about playing in the square?"
Finn dropped the iron block with a dull thud that made the floorboards groan. He tossed his thick, dark brown curls out of his eyes—though he was careful to let the long fringe fall naturally across the left side of his face, covering the dangerous amber-and-emerald iris that haunted Isolda’s nightmares.
"I didn't show anything," Finn muttered, crossing his arms over his chest with a stubborn pout that was entirely Alistair. "I just helped old blacksmith Tom move his scrap metal. He gave me an apple. See?"
He pulled a bruised, green apple from his tunic pocket and bit into it with a loud crunch.
Isolda sighed, walking over to him and straightening the collar of his patched wool tunic. She reached up, gently brushing the long dark hair away from his left eye just enough to check it. The luminescent amber glowed steadily in the dim light of the cottage, bright and defiant.
"You remember the rules, don't you, my sweet?" she whispered, kneeling down so her eyes were level with his. "Never fight back. No matter what the other boys call you, no matter if they push you into the mud. You keep your head down, you keep your hair over your eye, and you never, ever let a stranger look at you."
Finn frowned, his stormy gray right eye flashing with a sudden, restless heat that sounded too much like a growl. "Billy Baker said I was a motherless stray yesterday. He said I walk like a wild dog. Why can't I push him back, Ma? I could throw him all the way to the river if I wanted to."
"Because we are safe here only as long as we are invisible," Isolda said, her voice dropping to a fierce, urgent whisper. "If anyone ever finds out who you are... if the northern kings ever find out you exist... they will take you away from me, Finn. They will put a collar around your neck and make you a weapon."
The boy went silent. He didn't understand the politics of the packs, and he certainly didn't understand kings, but he understood the raw, desperate fear in his mother’s eyes. He nodded slowly, wrapping his small, strong arms around her neck and burying his face in her shoulder.
"I won't let them take me," Finn whispered fiercely against her collarbone. "I'll protect you, Ma. I'm strong."
"I know you are," Isolda murmured, closing her eyes as a wave of profound sorrow washed over her. "I know you are."
That afternoon, the illusion of safety shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
It began with a sound Isolda hadn't heard in seven years—the frantic, erratic clang of the village warning bell hanging from the high timber post in the center square. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Margaret burst through the workshop door, her face drained of all color, her old hands shaking as she grabbed Isolda’s arm.
"Hide the boy, Ida!" Margaret hissed, her voice trembling with genuine terror. "Get him under the floorboards now! The northern lords are here. They’ve crossed the bridge."
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Isolda’s blood turned to ice water. "Who? Harrington?"
"Worse," Margaret said, her eyes wide with horror. "The King himself rides with them. Alistair Montgomery."
