Crone of Oria
Prologue
1809
The fire cast long shadows across the teepee walls, the flames dancing as his grandmother added another handful of sage to the embers. Michael shifted impatiently on his woven mat, hoping she wouldn’t notice his restlessness. At ten, he found it difficult to sit still through these lessons, especially when his wolf stirred beneath his skin, eager to run through the twilight woods.
“Your mind wanders, little wolf,” Grandmother said without looking up from the basket she was weaving. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, the dried reeds bending to her will.
“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” Michael mumbled, straightening his back.
She set her weaving aside, her dark eyes studying him with ancient wisdom. “Tell me again the name of our people.”
“Ma Iya Nʉʉ,” he recited dutifully. “The Wolf People.”
“And what else are we called?”
“Mihtsáhivo’. The Moon’s Teeth.”
She nodded, satisfied. “And why do the other bands keep their distance from us, even as they seek our protection?”
Michael frowned, trying to remember the words exactly. “Because we are guardians. Because we carry the blood of the wolf and the blessing of Tahmu’ʉkʉʉ.”
“The Moon Woman,” his grandmother translated, reaching for a small pouch. She opened it, revealing a fine silver powder that glittered in the firelight. “She who walks between worlds, who keeps the balance.”
She sprinkled the powder into the fire, and blue flames leapt up, filling the teepee with the scent of winter despite the summer heat outside. Michael leaned forward, entranced.
“Long ago,” his grandmother began, her voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of storytelling, “before our people rode the plains, before the horse came to us, the Moon Woman walked the land. Her hair was silver as the light above, her touch cool as the night.”
Michael had heard this story many times, but tonight, something in his grandmother’s voice commanded his full attention.
“A darkness came to the land,” she continued, “a shadow that devoured light, that twisted living things and poisoned the waters. The people prayed to her for protection.”
The blue flames formed shapes—a woman with flowing silver hair, her hands raised toward the sky. Around her, dark tendrils seemed to reach from the corners of the fire.
“The Moon Woman heard their prayers. She knew that to fight the shadow, she needed guardians who could walk in both worlds—the world of men and the world of spirits. She found a warrior, one dying from wounds taken in defense of his people.”
The flames shifted, showing the silhouette of a man lying beneath a tree.
“She offered him a choice—to die as a man or to live as something more. He chose life, and she wove his spirit with that of the wolf, binding them together with her magic.”
The flames danced higher, and Michael could almost see it—the warrior’s form blurring, merging with the shape of a great wolf.
“The warrior became the first of us, the first shapeshifter,” his grandmother said, her eyes reflecting the blue fire. “But he was not the last. The Moon Woman created more guardians, more of the Ma Iya Nʉʉ, to protect the sacred places where the earth’s power runs close to the surface.”
Michael nodded eagerly. “The ley lines.”
His grandmother smiled. “Yes, little wolf. The paths of power that cross our lands. And because she made us, she had power over our nature. She could call the wolf forth or push it back. She could control the change. She could take away the gift if we proved unworthy.”
The flames shifted again, and now Michael could see the Moon Woman standing among many wolves, her hand resting on the largest one’s head.
“The first warrior, the strongest of the wolves, remained by her side. He became her protector, her companion.” His grandmother’s voice softened. “Her mate. Together, they drove back the shadow, forcing it into the dark places of the world.”
Michael swallowed hard. “Did they kill it?”
She shook her head. “Some things cannot be destroyed, only contained. That is why we still guard the sacred places. That is why we remember.”
The flames flickered low again, their normal orange glow returning. His grandmother reached out, tapping his forehead lightly.
“The stories say that one day, when the shadow stirs again, the Moon Woman will return. And one of our blood will stand beside her, as her guardian, her protector.”
Michael shivered but nodded, trying to ignore the way her gaze lingered on him, as if she could already see the path laid before him. He was only a boy. This was just a story.
“Now,” she said, returning to her weaving. “Tell me again the name of our people.”
Michael swallowed, but his voice was steady.
“Ma Iya Nʉʉ. The Wolf People.”
Outside, beyond the teepee, the moon hung high and full, painting the land silver.
Present Day
The clearing had been sacred for generations. Hidden deep in the woods beyond Oria, it was a place where the veil thinned, where the moon’s pull felt strongest, and where the town’s coven had gathered for centuries to honor the cycles of magic that bound them to the land. Tonight, the air hummed with expectation as sky clad figures moved through the clearing, the scent of burning herbs mingling with the crisp autumn air.
A circle of smooth, timeworn stones marked the ceremonial space. In the center, a silver bowl reflected the moonlight, the water inside still and dark. At its edge, Lillian Ross lifted a hand, calling for silence. The whispers of the gathered witches faded, leaving only the rustling of the leaves and the distant cry of an owl.
“We come to honor the turning of the wheel,” Lillian intoned, her voice steady but edged with something unreadable.
“To reaffirm our bond with the land, the sky, and the waters that sustain us.”
The coven responded in unison, voices low and reverent.
Before beginning the ritual proper, Lillian placed her palm against one of the ancient stones marking the circle. She frowned, sensing something amiss in the energy flowing beneath them. The ley line that ran through this sacred space had been growing increasingly erratic over the past months—pulsing with irregular bursts of power, then fading to near-dormancy without warning.
“Is something wrong?” Margaret, her second-in-command, asked quietly.
“The line is unstable again,” Lillian murmured. “Worse than last week.”
Margaret’s expression tightened with concern. “Should we postpone?”
“No,” Lillian decided. “Perhaps the ritual will help stabilize it. We’ve maintained the balance for generations—tonight should be no different.”
But even as she spoke the words, uncertainty lingered. Her dreams had been troubled lately, filled with visions of frost in midsummer and a tall, dark-haired woman whose presence made the very air crackle with power. Three other witches in their coven had reported similar dreams. Something—or someone—was coming to Oria, and the ley lines seemed to be responding in advance.
One by one, the witches stepped forward, offering sprigs of rosemary, drops of oil, whispered blessings. The ritual followed the familiar steps, grounding them in tradition—until the moment the silver bowl shuddered violently against the stone altar.
The water inside darkened, rippling outward as though something unseen had disturbed it. The flames of the surrounding torches flickered, bending unnaturally. A wind rose from nowhere, carrying with it the scent of decay, of damp earth freshly overturned.
A gasp rippled through the coven as the reflection in the bowl twisted. Instead of the bright, watching moon, the water showed writhing shadows, shapes that stretched and coiled like living things. Then, the vision sharpened.
A blood-red moon hung low in the sky, casting its eerie glow over the forest. The ley lines no longer flowed invisibly beneath the earth—they glowed like molten gold, cracked and leaking magic into the air. Wolves stood at the edge of the trees, their eyes gleaming, watching. Waiting. And in the center of it all, a woman stood with her arms raised, her presence crackling with power. Her face was obscured, but the coven could feel the weight of her magic, ancient and undeniable.
“The crone,” one of the younger witches whispered, her voice hollow with recognition. “The one from the dreams.”
Lillian’s breath hitched. “Enough,” she commanded, stepping forward to shatter the spell. But before she could touch the bowl, the liquid inside surged upward—
A hand. A blackened hand wrapped in shadow, clawing its way free.
The clearing erupted in chaos. Some witches stumbled back, others reached for protective charms, murmuring frantic incantations. But before any could react, the hand dissolved into inky tendrils, melting back into the water as if it had never been. The air fell unnervingly still.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, in a whisper, one of the younger witches broke the silence. “What was that?”
“A warning,” Lillian said grimly. “Or a promise.”
Margaret approached the altar cautiously, peering into the now-calm water. “The woman in the vision—I’ve never felt power like that before. Not even from the oldest among us.”
“She’s not one of us,” Lillian confirmed. “Something different. Something older.”
“Should we alert the council?” another witch asked. “The wolves, the others—they need to know what’s coming.”
Lillian considered this, feeling the weight of leadership heavy on her shoulders. “Not yet. We need more information. Watch for signs, look for disruptions in the ley lines throughout town.”
“And if we find her?” Margaret pressed.
“We observe,” Lillian decided. “She appears connected to the wolves somehow. Their Alpha may already know more than we do.”
As the coven gathered their ritual items, Lillian lingered at the altar, staring into the silver bowl where the water had returned to its placid state, once again reflecting only the moon. She couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever—whoever—was coming would change everything in Oria.
Miles away, in her Airstream, behind the Beane house, Baba Vi jolted awake from a dream of frost and wolves and a tall woman with eyes that held the light of the moon. Beside her bed, a glass of water had frozen solid despite the summer heat.
At the sheriff’s house, Cora sat up gasping, the same vision fading from her mind. Davis stirred beside her, mumbling a sleepy question.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered, though she couldn’t have explained how she knew. “Someone who will change everything.”
Deep in the piney woods, at the Blood Moon Lodge, Michael Stillwater stood at his bedroom window, staring into the night. His wolf paced restlessly within him, sensing something on the horizon that even he couldn’t yet see.
The ley lines pulsed beneath them all—wounded, waiting, and growing more unstable with each passing night.