Prologue

The old hag had hobbled into the village on a humid summer evening. She was a shrewd, cantankerous lady, but nonetheless, welcomed as a new settler as all travellers were. It wasn't until a few days later that the villagers discovered an oddity about their new neighbor.

She was crazy, downright insane. The hag rambled day and night about the divinity of the forest, sacred grounds not to be tainted by human hands. She admonished the chopping of trees, claiming their holiness. She scolded the uprooting of the ground, emphasizing its sanctity. And Gods forbid her insistence on the divinity of wolves.

Every moment of the day, the hag would chide, "Do not disturb the wolves. The wolves are the children of the Gods."

The villagers rolled their eyes, swatting away her words. Wolves were creatures of evil. They were thieves and crooks, vermin and pests, eaters of children. Wolves were far from divine beings. Yet despite their beliefs, the villagers kept a respectable distance away from the beasts. The hag was content, though she continued to berate the villagers, and the daily ritual of life went on.

But like how a clear sky could cover in an instant, the peace in the village quickly dissipated.

"Those damn wolves are at it again."

Corpses of cattle lay in tandem on the scarlet stained fields. A blood bath, a slaughter. The doing of wolves.

The farmer rammed his pitchfork into the ground. "We ought to do somthin' about those mangy dogs. They're slaughtering my cattle."

"But the old hag," his wife replied. "She'd 'ave our heads if we laid a finger on them wolves."

"Well, let's see what she has to say 'bout this."

The farmer stormed into town, ranting about the atrocities the wolves had committed. "They slaughter my cattle," he announced. "Every damn one of them. And once they've finished with our livestock, they'll come for us!"

Hushed murmurs and wary rumors spread like wildfire and eventually, the attention of the old hag was garnered. She stomped up to the farmer, jabbing a crooked finger in his face.

"How dare you accuse the children of the Gods of such barbarity."

"Them wolves ain't no spawn of the Gods," the farmer shot back. "They gone and done my cattle real bad. That ain't the work of the Gods' children. The devil's maybe."

"Take me to your cows and I shall determine the butcher myself."

The farmer led the hag to his field. "Look," he said. "All dead. Slayed by your so-called divine wolves."

The hag's gaze swept over the scene and she prodded the corpses with her walking stick. "Oh," she quivered. "May the Gods have mercy on us all, for Slyvet has awoken and it's the beginning of the fall."

The farmer screwed his face in disarray. "The hell are you rambling about?"

"Slyvet has roused and he bears the cataclysm that will ruin us all." The hag clutched the farmer's shirt, shaking him vigorously. "Slyvet will kill us all!"

The farmer shoved the hag off of him. She crashes to the ground. "You lunatic crone."

The old hag curled into a ball, rocking back and forth like a baby in a crib, all while muttering, comforting herself. "Praise the children of the Gods. Help us, children of the Gods. Save us, children of the Gods."

The cattle killings were ceaseless, driving the villagers to rid themselves of the blood thirsty mutts. A hunting party left at dawn, and returned at dusk. They paraded through the town, wolf heads mounted on pikes, the decapitated corpses left in a heap at the outskirts. The bodies were burned in a celebratory bonfire. Smoke billowed upwards, blackening the sky, and the pungent stench of burning flesh wafted from the flames.

To any outsider, the scene would have been something straight out of a nightmare, but to the villagers it was a glorious sight. They had emerged victorious from the wrangle and vanquished the enemy. They were heroes.

The celebration was cut short when the old hag, who had been out of town at the time, arrived back home. The smoke reddened her eyes, the stench curled her nostrils, and an ear piercing shriek spilled from her mouth.

"You monsters," she screeched. "What have you done?"

The village was speechless, silent, but then the farmer stepped forward. His fists were clenched, jaw set with resolve.

"We did what we had to."

Murmurs of agreement echoed through the crowd.

The hag's brittle body trembled with rage. "You've slaughtered the children of the Gods!"

"Those," the farmer said, pointing at the aflame conglomeration of fur. "Are not the children of the Gods. Those are vile, wicked creatures. They were made to be slaughtered." His gaze hardened. "And any being that takes their side ought to be burned alongside them."

One by one, the villagers took up a torch and advanced on the old hag, the flames igniting their hateful gazes.

"Witch," they chanted. "Burn the witch at the stake."

The hag stumbled backward, towards the forest. "You will pay for your crimes," she hissed, seething. "You will all pay." Then the hag turned and fled.

The hag ran through the entanglement of branches and roots, leaves and twigs, stopping once she reached a clearing. She threw herself onto the ground, pressing her forehead against the earth.

"My Goddess, the guardians have perished at the hands of the humans, and now Slyvet is unchecked. With the wolves gone, he will unleash his chaos upon the lands."

The woodlands stirred. A minute breeze picked up, rousing the trees and caressing the grasses. A smile crossed the hag's face. Her Goddess was listening.

"I propose a spell to rejuvenate the guardians," the hag continued "But it is a very taxing spell. I humbly request to borrow your power, so I may restore balance to the forest."

The clearing was quiescent, hushed, and the hag thought for the briefest of moments that her Goddess had declined her request, but then the hag felt a wave of power surge through her frail bones.

The hag brought her lips to the earth and planted a single kiss upon it. "Thank you, my Goddess." Then she rose to her feet and shuffled out of the clearing.

The spell was to be performed at the peak of a full moon when the magic would be strongest. The spell itself was quite simple, a mere transmogrification, but the sheer magnitude of the spell was what made it strenuous.

The day arrived and the sun rose and fell, the moon taking its place. The old hag returned to the clearing, and when the moon filled the sky, she performed the spell. It was a series of cadenced chants, a rhythmic bewitching. The old hag could feel her strength draining, leaving her body faster than the flow of a river, and when she uttered the final word of spell, her legs gave out and she crumpled to the ground, exhausted, yet satisfied nonetheless. The spell was complete.

But the spell had a catch. There was always a catch, a cure, a way to undo the magic. Even so, humans were greedy, selfish creatures, and the old hag was untroubled for who would sacrifice their life for a wolf?