Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.
As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.
From the tree line, they watched.
The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.
“Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.
A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.
“Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”
Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.
“The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”
A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.
“…He will be cast out.”
“No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”
“You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”
As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.
Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.
“Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”
Boldolph gave a single nod.
“Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.
Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.
“Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”
“My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”
A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.
“It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”
“Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”
“If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.
But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.
“He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”
The chieftain knelt.
“Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”
“No, sir.”
“It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”
Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”
Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”
“Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”
The children nodded.
The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.
“You are not forgotten,” he whispered.
Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.
“Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”
And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.
© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.
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