Author's Note: 

Thank you so much for reading! If you would like to check out more of my WEREWOLF stories, please follow me on my Wattpad profile and check out "The Mad Prince and The Little Bird." 

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Marjorie's crimson cape bellowed in the night wind. She twisted her home key inside the silver lock and gave it an experimental tug before she stepped off of her wooden porch.

Around her, men and women made their way to the heart of Core, where Mother River split the village in half. On one side, the Woodsmen and their families—people like Marjorie—lived. On the other, Ravenport— a port home to the few and rich merchants, those who made their living by fishing the river for salmon and, sometimes, even sailed in a boat of imported goods from Beyond, the land that lay farther than Woodsman Landing or Mirkwood.

The full moon shone above, lighting up the cobblestone path to the ports. Like each year, the village feasted on fish, bread and mead. Together, they danced underneath the stars, and when the night grew impossibly dark, firelight led the way home.

Marjorie plaited her long ginger hair back into two loose braids and pulled them over her slender shoulders to frame her heart-shaped face. Like always, she wore her crimson cape, the only surviving relic she had from her late mother. Like every Festival of Eve, the villagers wore their finest dresses and suits. 

Tonight, she wore one of her mourning dresses, a black skirt fastened to her cream bodice and ruby-colored corset. Along the spine, golden thread laced together to compress and exaggerate her soft curves. She wore the same leather boots she always did. Years of wear meant that she could dance all she wanted. There was no room for blisters, even with all the moving she would do tonight.

Red lanterns led the way to the port, where the villagers picked and sat at two long banquet tables. Tonight, the people of Ravenport and Core mingled, and in the moonlight, fine fabrics and jewels were concealed by shadows.

In the middle of the growing crowd, one giant bonfire illuminated the village square. Around the pit lined with red cobblestone, a circle of young people ran and danced, hand in hand. They kicked their feet to the flames and threw their heads back in laughter.

Marjorie smiled the moment Petyr caught her eye. He spun with his fellow Woodsmen and their wives, his long limbs wrapped around shoulders and his blonde hair tucked inside a neat braid. He was flooded in golden light. His smile caught the attention of the women swaying nearby.

Petyr paid no mind to them, instead he halted his dancing and walked straight to where Marjorie stood, hiding near the shallows of Mother River and sipping mead. 

Eyes followed him the entire way.

"You're hiding," Petyr said.

"I am not," Marjorie objected over the rim of her cup. "I am simply enjoying the performance."

She didn't want to match the intensity of Petyr's gaze, and instead, watched Mother River, where the dark water reflected the villager's moving silhouettes like a rippling mirror. 

Aside for the few Woodsmen that braved the Path and the rich merchants who could afford a boat and crew every other year, not many left the village. For those who didn't leave on the water, they faced a ten-day trip journeying through the dark forest, Mirkwood.

Her Grandmother Sicily fared that adventure. She witnessed lands past the village and Woodsman Landing, farther than the forest— to Beyond.

There, rivers ran into seas. Sicily said the water went on endlessly, that it stretched wider than any village or city, and that the giant, wooden vessels dwarfed any building or tree in Core.

Marjorie bent in half to touch the river water. Her hand cupped the cold, dark liquid. She imagined a boat from Beyond anchored in the slender marina. Would its size force it to dock on the gravel shore?

"Sicily said the beaches in Beyond were made of grain so thin they called it sand," Marjorie said. "It slipped through closed hands, and it moved with the water."

Marjorie wanted that—to be pulled out into the middle of the sea by a lazy, sure current. She imagined stripping off her thick skirt at the shore and wading thighs-deep in cold saltwater.

"That old woman has said many things," Petyr said. He slipped down to sit beside her. "I am sure she stretched the truth of what she saw there."

"Do you not ever want to leave here?" She rested her head on his broad shoulder. She hoped it served as a silent apology for leaving him behind this morning. "Do you not imagine what life would be like in Beyond?"

"No," Petyr replied in a stern tone. "But I do think of life for what it is now. I am a Woodsman, and soon, I'll need a wife."

"You'll find one with ease." Marjorie wrapped her hand around his bicep and poked at his cheek. Thick stubble grew there. A few months ago, he couldn't grow anything past a mustache, which he shaved down each morning. Now, half his face hid behind a golden beard. "But I do not speak of marriage or the life we are all meant to have—I dream of the sea. I wonder about the lives of girls from Beyond."

"It does no good to wonder," Petyr said. "We are all stuck here. We both know women are not allowed to take the Path."

Marjorie frowned at the bitter truth. Women were kept as devoted mothers and if particularly independent, they worked odd trades, like Blanchette's trading post or Marjorie's apprenticeship in the Garden.

"Perhaps things will change," she whispered. She stood from the rocky shoreline and patted her dusty palms off on the thick fabric of her black skirt.

"Marjorie, wait," Petyr said. His fingers clutched her slender wrist, keeping her from moving. "I know it's a day early, but I have your gift."

"For my birthday?" Marjorie perked up at his words. "Petyr, I don't need anything. This time of the year is hard—"

"It is always hard to survive, no matter the time," Petyr laughed. He pulled out a small square of folded fabric from the satchel attached to his leather belt and placed it in her palm.

"Petyr, you didn't need to get me anything," Marjorie whispered.

The square was heavier than she expected. She pushed her hands toward the closest source of light to get a better look at whatever she held. On closer inspection, the rich blue fabric was embossed with a design that resembled lace, and the hem was fraying from use. That was expected. Nothing was ever new in the village.

"Go on, now," Petyr whispered. He moved a hand over his golden mane and stared into the opposite direction of Marjorie. A red flush covered the tops of his cheeks. "Open it."

With a gentle touch, she pulled up the lip of the folded fabric and revealed a stone she had never seen before. The dark red, uncut gem was attached to a thin, silver chain, creating a piece meant to be worn around her neck.

"I've never seen anything so fine before," Marjorie whispered. "Petyr, this is too much."

"It is not," Petyr shook his head. He grabbed the necklace and pinched the tiny clasp open. "Lift up your hair."

She pushed her hair away from the nape of her neck and jerked back at the cold touch of the jewel on her skin. Most villagers who lived in Core could never dream of finery like this. Although she never touched anything like it before, she knew the craftsman who created it was skilled. Each tiny chainlink was even and smooth, and the gem was suspended with a silver cap. 

"There you are, Marjorie," Petyr said after he fastened the clasp.

It weighed heavily on her collarbone and set directly where her cleavage stopped. She pressed her fingers to the red jewel and smiled.

"It matches my cloak," she said. Marjorie needed a mirror. She wondered how it looked pressed against her skin. It must appear odd, something so precious wrapped around the dirty neck of a poor village girl. "How could you possibly afford this?"

"Are you joking?" Petyr swung his head back in laughter. "I am a Woodsman, not one of these Ravenfolk." Together, they eyed the well-dressed people who passed in imported silks and freshly shined leather shoes. Even if Marjorie saved her minimal wages for an entire year, she could never afford a fragment of their wardrobe. "I found it in Woodsman Landing," he confessed. "I cut down one of the tallest sycamores, and while we stripped the branches, I found this resting in a fallen bird nest."

"So now you think of it as yours?" Marjorie asked.

"No, I think of it as yours," he smiled. "Will you dance with me before the Last Banquet begins?" He bowed his head down and extended his right hand for her to take.

She wrapped her fingers around his and nodded. "How could I say no to you, dear Petyr?"

Together, they walked back to the bonfire pit. She turned to Petyr and pressed her hands to his broad shoulders. Her fingers clutched at the muscle there. He was tall and strong. He towered over everyone in the village, and when strength was needed, Petyr was called. What a good husband he would be one day.

Whistles came from the gathering crowd at their entrance to the fire pit. The drums quickened and the villagers clapped along to the beat, encouraging Marjorie to move like a spright across the beaten-down earth. Petyr twisted and turned her body over and over again. Their nimble feet kicked up the dirt and sprayed it into the fire. Like this, Marjorie and Petyr were nothing more than the energy around them.

Marjorie clasped Petyr's hands together and pulled the young Woodsmen closer. His dark eyes widened in surprise at the sudden closeness. He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

"Spin, you bastard," she laughed in his ear.

Together, they moved in a tight circle. The roars of laughter around them grew louder, and the music matched their swift pace. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the flames beside them matched their movements with sharp rights and lefts each time Marjorie swiveled her hips. She wished she would've kicked off her boots. She wanted to squish the damp soil between her toes and feel the coolness of the earth against the soles of her feet.

She closed her eyes and focused on the warmth of Petyr's hands around hers. His grasp was strong and sure. If she threw all her weight back and trusted him to keep her upright, he would.

The song ended, abruptly to them but obvious to the crowd. They were stuck in their own world, where only the heat of the fire and their moving bodies mattered. They still danced a few steps in the silent night air, but after a few beats, stopped.

"Well done." Petyr smiled and guided the top of her hand to his mouth. He planted a kiss on her knuckle, making a show of his chivalrous nature to show off to the surrounding villagers who watched him, hungry with depraved thoughts.

"I need more mead," she said with a heaving breath. Without the dancing, the warmth of the flames caused a thin layer of sweat to form over her skin. Marjorie couldn't stand it. She flattened her hair with a few pokes to her scalp and left her friend to fend off his many suitors.

Once Marjorie reached a table full of wooden tubs of fresh drinks, she searched the faces of those shuffling around her. Most of the villagers were familiar, and she placed every single face—aside for one.

A tall stranger stood on the rocky shoreline of the river. His skin was dark, a deep brown which only a handful of villagers possessed. Most were either olive-skinned like Petyr or pale like Marjorie. He wore a clean linen tunic tucked into thick gray trousers. His shoulders were broad, but his limbs were long. Although his body was packed down with muscle, his lithe figure was lean. Three braids along his scalp redirected his long, curly black hair, where it hung down to his collarbones.

Most men kept their hair short in Core. But he was no villager.

Marjorie found herself walking toward the man, curiosity getting the better of her. When she hit the shores, gravel crunched beneath her feet with each step. His attention remained on the water, utterly clueless to Marjorie's approaching figure.

Once she left little room for him to escape her confrontation, she blurted. "Are you a Fewfolk?"

The stranger turned to face her. This close, it was easy to see his handsome features. From his high cheekbones to his piercing gray eyes, he was unlike any sully-faced villager. Instead, he wore his beauty with a casual grace, as if he were clueless to the plumpness of his lips or the flat, smooth surface of his chest.

"Am I a what?" The man cocked a thick, dark brow up. He pushed his right hand into the pocket of his trousers, but not before Marjorie caught a glimpse of the heavy jewels on his fingers. He drowned in an opulence few villagers could afford.

"I take that as a no," she said. "What is your name, stranger?"

He looked to her, and then his gaze traveled to where men and women continued to fling themselves around the heat of the bonfire.

You don't belong here, she thought.

"Fenris," he said. He turned back to the river and crouched down to the water. He pushed his fingertips into the shallow rapids. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have come."

"Are you... are you from Beyond?" Marjorie dared herself to mutter the question.

His strange, icy gaze moved to her. He remained silent.

"Will you at least join me for a dance?" Marjorie asked. "Or do your prefer brooding in silence alone?"

"There will be no time," Fenris whispered, but his smile spread. Shadows from the flame danced over his handsome face. "She will come soon."

"Marjorie, the feast begins," Petyr called from behind her. His voice and the festival seemed far away when she stood close to Fenris. She turned to Petyr, trying to place his words above the rushing river water. "Come now."

"Please join me and my friend," Marjorie extended her welcome to the stranger only to find he disappeared. Abrupt fear traveled through her spine as she ran to the shoreline. She searched for any sign of drowning—perhaps he fell in. The death was not uncommon in the village. Parts of the river were deep with tree roots and plant stems that entangled unsuspecting swimmers into a quick, cruel end.

"Fenris!" She shouted to the water.

"Come on!" Petyr said from above, unaware of her distress. "If you want a lamb leg, I am afraid you will be disappointed if we wait another second longer."

She turned to the water and watched the dark surface. No bubbles of air appeared.

Her Grandmother said some Fewfolk possessed more magick than others. Perhaps she was right.

Marjorie looked to the stars. Above her, the clouds parted to show a moon tinged in red, the same shade of the jewel dangling around her neck. Tomorrow, a full hunter's moon would illuminate the night.

She wondered where Fenris would be when the village hid from the Wolf.

Author's Note: 

Tell me your thoughts! What did you think?