Chapter Text
“What separates a beast from a human? Their appearance? Self-awareness? A curse? No. Beasts are irrational, they kill by instinct. Humans don't.”
—Wednesday Addams, a witcher.
Dark drops of blood mark the path the witch takes toward the top of the small settlement, where the baron waits impatiently alongside his lackeys.
Wednesday sinks into the mud with every step, yet it does nothing to slow her. Not even the murmurs of the peasants around her manage to do so. Their voices stalk her like starving hounds, easy to perceive thanks to her inhuman hearing. She hears them judging her, calling even her mere existence a blasphemy. Still, she could not care less. For some reason, people despise what keeps them alive.
She stops when she finally reaches the baron’s house. He paces restlessly around the courtyard. Without a word, she throws at his feet the trophy of her most recent battle. Two thin, unimposing men hold torches with feigned confidence, trying to decide which terrifies them more: the witcher covered in mud and dried blood, or the head of that jawless monster.
In the end, it seems the rumors are true—subtlety has never been a trait of her kind.
The baron—a grown man with a beard streaked in shades of gray and hands hardened by years—stifles a gasp when the charred head touches the tip of his boot. The smell of burnt flesh makes him wrinkle his nose.
“You should start burning the bodies instead of burying them. If you don’t, this ghoul will be the first of many problems,” she advises, her gaze as cold as last winter, underscoring the seriousness of her words.
The baron watches her with a furrowed brow, convinced he misheard. But when the witcher holds her stance and expression, he understands it was a warning. Clicking his tongue, he gestures to a servant, and before Wednesday can raise her hand to accept the agreed payment, a cloth pouch drops in front of her, sinking into the mud.
“What would a witcher know about holy burial? Your kind knows nothing of respect for the dead. Burning them would profane their memory,” he spits, striking the ground with his cane, offended by the mere suggestion.
Used to such disdain, Wednesday does not flinch. Instead, she bends to pick up her reward and hooks it at her hip.
“Even if I enjoy speaking with the dead more than with the living, burying corpses turns them into feasts that attract new guests. Just like this one,” she adds, kicking the head toward him. The action makes the baron shriek, jumping back to avoid the corpse touching him again.
Realizing his reaction, the baron straightens, lifting his chin, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“A witcher should not meddle in the customs of normal people,” he hisses, stepping closer. “We already tolerate enough of your… nature.”
Wednesday watches him in silence for several long seconds—longer than what might be considered normal—until the baron shifts uncomfortably. Only then does she mirror him, stepping closer, putting not only the man but also his two guards on edge.
“Ignorance is not a custom. And when the ghouls crawl back out of the ground, I’ll be far enough away from here to help you,” she assures him, terror rippling through everyone who hears the dark-haired woman’s words. With that, she turns her back and heads toward Nero, her only companion: a warhorse black as midnight.
The baron reddens, seething with rage, pointing after her as she walks away.
“Cursed witcher! You’ve doomed us! If the law didn’t forbid killing your kind without trial, I’d hang you from a tree myself!” he bellows, flailing his arms dramatically. Wednesday ignores him completely.
With practiced grace, she rides toward the edge of the village, the baron’s shouts fading behind her. The townsfolk glance at her from the corners of their eyes, pretending to busy themselves hanging clothes or grinding corn. Others openly continue spewing insults. Such reactions are not unusual. Since beginning her research on witchers, Wednesday learned they are commonly treated with contempt—either seen as nothing more than monster-killing machines, or as people stripped of every shred of humanity, incapable of remorse or compassion. Whatever the reason, witchers are marginalized, needed only when monsters become a problem.
At least, when she reaches the exit, the guards wish her safe travels and thank her for her work. Wednesday looks over her shoulder at the sign slowly receding into the distance, bearing the name Petrichor. That is the name of the community of roughly fifty-three peasants. She had decided to spend the night there before continuing toward Jericho, the so-called “Great City,” and during her brief stay she encountered an active contract involving a ghoul threatening the village’s few inhabitants.
Those monsters are humanoid creatures—hunched, with bony, grayish skin. Their fangs and claws are long and sharp enough to dismember, their speed considerable, their limbs elongated to capture prey with ease. They feed on rotting corpses from cemeteries or battlefields, but when hunger overwhelms them, they do not hesitate to attack the living. By the time she arrived, it had already claimed two lives near the local graveyard. Wednesday never stands idly by when a monster attacks innocent lives—not out of altruism, but because she enjoys the adrenaline of battle and the feel of silver slicing through a beast’s flesh.
Once Petrichor is behind her, she loosens Nero’s reins. The damp earth muffles the sound of hooves as the forest greets her with a troubling silence—the kind that precedes an ambush. With towering trees limiting visibility, the path would be ideal for attacking an unguarded merchant foolish enough to travel alone, but not for her. After surviving the Trial of the Grasses two years ago, one of the traits she gained from her mutation was an extraordinary sharpening of her senses. She can hear even the faint chirping of crickets among the branches and leaves colliding in the wind. If someone were lurking nearby, she would hear their labored breathing from twenty paces away.
“Someone—please, help me!”
Nero snorts, stepping back at the sudden cry. Wednesday dismounts, stroking his neck until he calms.
“Easy. I’ll be back in a minute,” she murmurs. Nero stays put, as if bound by an unspoken understanding between them.
The witcher approaches cautiously. The sobbing comes from a man hiding beneath a cart a few meters ahead, halfway down the path.
“Stop crying and come out,” she orders, rapping her knuckles against the wood. The man startles on the other side, hitting his head against the cart’s base.
“Wh—who’s there?”
“You asked for help. Here I am. What happened?” Wednesday feels foolish talking to empty air, but until she calms him enough to emerge, she has no choice.
“I was attacked!” he answers, his voice trembling.
“By who?” she asks, circling the cart. She sees no sword marks or embedded arrows. If she is sure of one thing, it’s that it wasn’t a human.
“Wolves!”
Wednesday frowns, confused. “So close to the road?”
They are usually found deep in the forest or the open plains. One would need terrible luck to encounter a pack on such a frequently traveled path—especially by soldiers.
“The war drove them from their hiding places. Like any scavenger, they follow the smell of blood.”
Wednesday knows he has a point. She has lost count of the number of ghouls she has slain this past month, drawn by the corpses left behind by battles over scraps of land.
“Come out. I don’t see any wolves.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because my head is still on my shoulders. Now move, or yours won’t be so lucky.”
The threat works. The man crawls out, and when he sees her, his eyes widen in surprise at the pair of swords she carries.
“A witcher?” he murmurs. “I don’t see the medallion of your school, miss.”
“Does it matter?” she replies flatly. He shakes his head, stepping back nervously. “Where are you headed?”
“Petrichor. I’m carrying meat to sell.”
Wednesday barely hears him, her attention snapping elsewhere as a crack of branches behind her makes her whip her head around.
“What is it?” the man asks, but she raises a hand to silence him.
“I think you’d like to go back to your hiding place,” she advises calmly, sliding one sword from its sheath.
The man does not hesitate. As soon as he is back under the cart, the pack emerges from the bushes—hungry for what they were denied. Six wolves, snarling, teeth bared, eyes gleaming. Wednesday cannot help but smile when the first prepares to strike.
“What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”
The first lunges, and she splits it in two before it hits the ground. The second falls after an elegant spin on her axis. The rest hesitate, circling her warily. The third overestimates its courage and ends up on the ground, a precise cut across its throat. The air fills with panting. Wednesday remains standing, steady. She steps toward the others, challenging them.
The last wolf whimpers as her blade opens its belly. Warm blood splashes across her face, and only then does Wednesday exhale. As she wipes her sword against her leg, she hears the merchant emerging once more.
“You saved my life, witcher!” he exclaims, overwhelmed. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be wolf food by now. Please, take this as a reward.” He extends a small cloth pouch tied with an old string.
Wednesday looks from the man to the modest pile of coins—surely a significant portion of his savings. The thought makes her scoff.
“Keep it. I would’ve dealt with them anyway. I’m heading to Jericho.”
“Really?” He smiles, moved. “And they say witchers have no heart. At least tell me your name.”
“Wednesday.”
“Thank you, Wednesday. I’m Eric. My sister owns a tavern in Nevermore, a waystation village a few hours from here. Her name is Cecilia. If you’re heading to Jericho, you can rest there. Tell her you’re coming on my behalf—everything will be on the house, I promise.”
“I will. And if you see wolves again, light a torch. They hate fire. Hiding won’t do you any good.”
Eric chuckles softly, nodding—clearly realizing how foolish he had been.
“Thanks for the advice. Safe travels, witcher.”
Wednesday answers with a simple nod before returning to Nero and resuming her journey. She still has a few hours of travel left today.
When Wednesday crosses the entrance to Nevermore, the sun is already sinking in the west. The village greets her like every other place she has stepped into: silence, and a few pairs of eyes that refuse to look at her for longer than necessary.
Torches crackle as she passes through the streets, and the scent of smoke reaches her—the same one drifting from a cabin half-hidden among the houses. She assumes it must be the tavern Eric mentioned when she spots a barely legible sign bearing its name: “Weathervane.”
She ties Nero near the entrance, where the animal troughs are, and pushes the door open. Muted murmurs, weary laughter, and the clatter of full tankards fill the room. The warmth spilling from the oven wraps around her, allowing her to relax—just a little.
As expected, the moment her presence is noticed, conversations begin to die down. Patrons glance at her for barely a second, grimacing at the sight of her bloodstained clothing. Others shift uneasily in their seats, ready to turn against the stranger at the slightest misstep.
Wednesday walks across the tavern with every gaze following her. When she reaches the bar, she rests both hands on the wood with casual ease. A sturdy woman with caramel-colored braids is polishing a tankard with a cloth. Sensing her presence, she turns around. The witcher notices the brief flicker of surprise on her face, though the woman quickly masks it, tossing the cloth over her shoulder and stepping closer.
“What can I get you?” she asks, managing a note of politeness despite the circumstances.
“Just something to drink. Eric told me this was a good place,” Wednesday replies. The woman freezes at the sound of that name.
“Is he… alright?”
“Just a small problem with wolves.”
At those simple words, the voices in the tavern fall silent all at once. Wednesday glances sideways, feeling several stares burning into the back of her neck. It seems that word is not welcome here.
The tavern owner looks over her shoulder at the others, eyes wide and jaw tight, as if silently warning them. Then she turns back to Wednesday, clearly hoping she hadn’t noticed the strange exchange.
“Thank you for helping him. It’s rare to see altruism these days.”
“I usually don’t. He was just screaming too much.”
The woman smiles, biting back a laugh. The atmosphere lightens slightly.
“He does have a talent for that,” she nods, setting a tankard of mead on the bar. “My name is Cecilia. If you need anything else, just let me know. It’s all on the house.”
“Thank you,” Wednesday says, settling onto one of the stools. “Do you happen to have a room with a hot bath?”
“Actually, I keep the rooms upstairs for travelers like you.”
At that, Wednesday reaches for the small pouch she received earlier that morning, but Cecilia raises a hand, stopping her.
“It’s fine, witcher. I’ll take care of everything.”
Wednesday arches an eyebrow, surprised, but says nothing more. After all, she is only staying for one night.
While Cecilia disappears to prepare the room, Wednesday finishes her mead. She isn’t fond of the overly sweet flavor with its hint of ginger, but it seems to be the drink of choice around here. The patrons, meanwhile, have returned to their conversations after the awkward silence from moments earlier.
One table in particular, tucked away in the back, catches her attention.
“I told you. The wolves are still out there. That means this isn’t over. Dort is an idiot if he thinks I’ll swallow the story that we’re not cursed.”
“Shut up. If someone hears you, you’ll end up hanging from the Crooked Tree. Don’t you remember what happened to Julian? Any opinion now gets labeled ‘conspiracy.’”
“At this point, I don’t care. If Dort doesn’t kill me, that beast will. It’s only a matter of time before it attacks the village. It’s already taken four lives—what if we’re next?”
Wednesday keeps her eyes on the fire crackling in the hearth, as if she heard nothing at all, but every word settles into a quiet note at the back of her mind.
When she takes her final sip, Cecilia reappears.
“Everything’s ready, witcher. Follow me, I’ll take you to your room.”
Wednesday nods and leaves the bar behind.
They head toward the back of the tavern, where the stairs are. As they climb, the patrons’ voices grow increasingly muffled. It’s the perfect opportunity to begin her questioning, far from curious ears.
“What’s going on in this place?”
Cecilia, walking ahead of her, glances back over her shoulder, confused.
“I mean the wolves,” Wednesday adds when she sees her about to dodge the subject.
“Nothing to worry about,” Cecilia answers—too quickly, and nervously. “They’ve been appearing more often lately. I suppose it’s because of the bodies the war has left behind.”
Wednesday lets out a quiet nasal laugh, amused by how closely her words echo Eric’s.
“I heard talk of a beast.”
At that, Cecilia stops abruptly. Her body tenses for a moment, fists clenched, before she resumes walking as if nothing happened. They stop in front of one of the three doors on the second floor, and Cecilia turns, extending a key to the dark-haired woman.
“They’re just rumors,” she finally says, avoiding eye contact. “People think that when something bad happens, it must be a curse or punishment from the gods. To me, they’re just wolves.” She sighs, shrugging. “This is your room. Rest, witcher.”
Wednesday accepts the key without adding another word. In her limited experience, involving herself in matters she wasn’t hired for never ended well. She learned long ago not to lift a finger without a contract. Still, there is something about this village—some lingering mystery—that draws her in.
Inside, the room is simple but sufficient. A wooden tub sits near the center, the bed pressed against one corner, and a dresser holds a plate with bread and fruit. Wednesday sets her weapons atop the wooden surface: two swords—one steel, one silver—and the crossbow her uncle Fester gifted her on her twentieth birthday, shortly before she became a witcher.
It takes her only a minute to remove her boots and reinforced leather armor before stepping into the tub. Inside, she lets the back of her neck rest against the rim, taking a few seconds to relax as she undoes her braids, releasing the tension she’s been carrying. When the cool water hits her skin, she begins washing the wounds from her journey, focusing on scabs and the dirt beneath her nails. Any cut the ghoul gave her that morning is now nothing more than a fully healed scar.
She emerges shortly after, drying herself with a towel laid out on the bed. In front of the mirror, she braids her hair again, occasionally nibbling on the bread and grapes.
Dressing once more—leaving her leather and chainmail aside—Wednesday lies down on the bed, hard as stone. At least she’s sleeping under a roof instead of in the middle of the forest, she thinks.
With that in mind, she closes her eyes.
It could have been hours—or perhaps only minutes—when her sleep is shattered by a scream, raw and almost inhuman.
Before she can fully process it, she is already on her feet, gripping both swords and throwing the door open as she rushes down the stairs. The ground floor is empty of civilians, and it would be completely dark if not for the moonlight pouring in through the open door.
Outside, the street burns bright under the glow of torches. She moves toward the feeding troughs, where Nero is rearing and stamping, distressed by the noise. She calls to him, strokes his neck in an attempt to calm him, but it’s useless. She resorts to one of her signals—a minor spell—to still his frantic movements.
Near the entrance to Nevermore, the screaming continues. Neighbors watch from the safety of their windows or doorframes. Cecilia is among them, standing near the street, horrified, one hand clamped over her mouth as she stares at a young man soaked in blood up to his elbows, stumbling with every step.
“Help! Help, please!” he sobs, collapsing to his knees in the dirt. The skin on his hands and arms is shredded, as if something dragged him across the ground for several meters. “The beast… it came back… it took Amelia!”
As Wednesday draws closer, she notices the blood isn’t merely superficial. On his back, torn fabric reveals three deep claw marks.
She crouches in front of him, bringing herself to his level.
“Where?” she asks, her severe tone making him swallow hard.
“I–in the forest,” he stammers, pointing toward the distance where the trees stretch endlessly. “Near the stream. It appeared out of nowhere. We couldn’t run.”
Wednesday’s expression darkens as she straightens.
“Yet here you are.”
The words cut like knives. The boy lowers his gaze, guilt written across his face.
“Tell everyone to lock themselves inside their homes. Bar the doors. And no matter what they hear, they are not to come out until I return.” She slides the silver sword from its sheath, letting it gleam beneath the orange torchlight. “Is that clear?”
The young man nods repeatedly.
“Yes,” he manages, pushing himself to his feet, trembling with pain.
That is enough for Wednesday. Following the scattered drops of blood he left behind, she exits the village and heads into the forest.
The trail is sloppy. Chaotic. The marks belong to someone who ran without looking back. Wednesday follows it at a brisk pace—time is precious, and the smallest mistake can cost a life.
She hears the stream before she sees it, its constant murmur almost soothing. The irony is not lost on her.
Eyes on the ground, she notices another set of erratic footprints and leaves smeared with blood. Wednesday frowns at the mess, thinking how careless it was to venture into the forest alone at night. These tragedies are not rare; they happen far more often than she cares to count.
She stops at the bank, where drag marks vanish into the water. The blood thins, nearly dissolving. On the opposite side, she spots a motionless body.
She crosses the stream carefully. Amelia lies among the rocks, her dress torn, limbs covered in painful scratches, a large stain of blood spreading across her waist. Despite everything, Wednesday can still hear her heart beating.
Both alive.
She doesn’t believe in good luck.
“Amelia,” she calls softly—and is rewarded with a weak, pitiful groan. Wednesday tears the sleeve from her own garment and kneels to press it against her side, earning a pained sound from the girl. “Don’t move. I came to—”
She freezes. A sound behind her: the crack of a branch, followed by a low, threatening growl. Moving slowly, she reaches for her silver sword and pivots just as a massive beast bursts from between the trees. She blocks its strike, forcing it back until it stands beneath the moonlight.
Wednesday smiles when the beast finally stands before her—a true nightmare made flesh. A towering lycanthrope—well over eight feet tall—looms ahead, muscles taut, dark fur soaked in blood. Its yellow eyes gleam, never leaving her for even a second, fangs bared. She tightens her grip on the hilt. She finds it particularly interesting that it left Amelia alive, hoping someone would come back for her. Intelligent enough to use humans as bait.
A shame she’ll have to kill it.
“What are you waiting for?” she taunts, rolling the sword in her hand. “An invitation?”
The beast snarls, wrinkling its nose, then lunges.
Wednesday rolls aside just in time and traces the Aard sign with her free hand, blasting it away from Amelia as far as possible. The shockwave sends the wolf flying several meters back, forcing it to dig its claws into the ground to stop itself. Without hesitation, it launches itself forward again.
She dodges once more, her blade grazing its side and drawing a furious roar as the silver burns its flesh. The monster retaliates instantly, tearing into her shoulder, ripping through skin with ease.
They separate.
Wednesday clenches her jaw as she feels warm liquid trail down her back. Terrible timing to remember she isn’t wearing her armor. She focuses, activating another sign—forming a magical shield around her just as the wolf strikes again. The impact is dulled, but it sends them both flying apart.
The shield shatters when she slams into a tree. Wednesday hits the ground face-first. When she forces herself up and lifts her head, the lycanthrope is already there, claws sinking into her torso as it drives her back against the trunk again. She gasps as pain floods her body. Another limb rises toward her—and before it can fall, Wednesday unleashes Igni. Fire erupts from her palm, straight into the beast’s face. The wolf recoils, freeing her.
She scrambles for her sword on the ground and rises, launching a clean strike. To her surprise, it dodges with terrifying speed and, before she can react, plunges its claws into her abdomen again—twisting them inside her before ripping them free, tearing flesh as it goes.
Wednesday staggers, one hand pressed to her stomach, watching her clothes darken with blood by the second. She bares her teeth, forcing herself to raise her sword for another attack.
The beast retreats once more—then leaps.
She doesn’t have time to react.
It crashes onto her back. Pain explodes. Something breaks—ribs, perhaps. Her head bounces against the ground, blood flooding from her nose into her mouth. The blow leaves her dizzy, the air completely knocked from her lungs. The wolf’s leg pinning her down only makes it worse, crushing her chest and leaving her unable to breathe.
The lycanthrope lowers itself, stopping far too close to her face. She feels its nose at her neck, sniffing.
After a few seconds, it freezes.
“You… don’t… belong… here.”
The words come out distorted, mangled by the massive muzzle and teeth.
Wednesday lifts her gaze as best she can, tasting the metallic tang of her own blood. She wants to appear strong, defiant—but she can’t hide her shock at its words.
The wolf tilts its head, as if assessing her.
Then it tenses. It has heard something—far off in the forest. Its head snaps in a specific direction. Wednesday might have noticed it too, if the pounding in her skull hadn’t drowned out every sound.
The beast growls, almost as if cursing.
It looks at her one last time—and then does something that surprises her.
It retreats, vanishing between the trees.
The moment the weight lifts from her body, Wednesday drags in air desperately, gulping it down. She rolls onto her back despite the sharp pain in her ribs.
To her right, the stream keeps flowing. Amelia is still where she left her—but Wednesday wonders how much time she has left to save her. She wishes she could move. Instead, she feels the consequences of blood loss creeping in.
Staring up at the star-filled sky, blood trailing from her nose down her cheeks, her ragged breathing making her sound like a wounded animal, Wednesday has only one thought echoing through her mind:
What a disaster.