Updated Jan 5, 2026 • ~9 min read
POV: Rory
Dawn came grey and cold. Fitting for a funeral. For saying goodbye to someone who’d survived three hundred years only to die three days after being freed.
I approached the burial platform where I’d left Fen’s body wrapped in white cloth. The twelve rogues followed. Silent. Respectful. Mourning their protector.
Morgana carried moon lilies. Traditional fae funeral flowers. Symbolizing transformation. The soul’s journey from one state to another.
“Are you ready?” she asked gently.
“No. But it doesn’t matter. He’s not getting more dead. Might as well—” My voice broke. “Might as well do this.”
We reached the platform.
It was empty.
I stared. Confused. Certain I was seeing wrong. That grief had broken my mind. Because the platform was empty. The white burial cloth lay there. Carefully folded. But Fen’s body—
Gone.
“Where is he?” I demanded. Turning to the rogues. “Who moved him? Who thought it was acceptable to move his body without asking me?”
They looked as confused as I felt. “We didn’t touch him,” the older male said. “We’ve been guarding. All night. No one approached. No one came close enough to—”
“Then where is he?!” Rage replacing grief. “Bodies don’t just disappear! Someone took him. Moved him. Did something—”
Morgana touched my arm. “Rory. Look.”
She pointed at the burial cloth. Something was written on it. Burned into the fabric. Letters that glowed faintly gold. Fae magic.
I grabbed the cloth. Read the message.
Curses break in strange ways
That was all. Four words. In handwriting I didn’t recognize. Magic I couldn’t trace.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “‘Curses break in strange ways?’ Is that—is someone mocking me? Mocking his death?”
“I don’t think so,” Morgana said slowly. “I think—Rory, look at the platform. Really look.”
I looked. Saw what I’d missed in my panic. Ashes. Silver-gold ashes where Fen’s body had been. Like he’d burned. Cremated. But there’d been no fire. No smoke. No heat.
Just—transformation. Body to ash. Overnight. While we slept.
“What is this?” I whispered. “What’s happening?”
Morgana knelt. Touched the ashes carefully. Her fae magic responding. “This is—old magic. Ancient. The kind that happens when curses break completely. When the magic reverses. Undoes itself.”
“The curse already broke. When I chose him. When we bonded. It broke days ago.”
“The first layer broke. The binding. The part that kept him trapped in Darkwood. But Rory—curses that old, that powerful, they have layers. Complications. The immortality was tied to the curse. When the curse broke, he became mortal. But the magic didn’t just—stop. It’s still unraveling. Still transforming. Still breaking in strange ways.”
“Are you saying he’s not dead?”
“I’m saying I don’t know. Fae death magic is complicated. Sometimes what looks like death is transformation. Metamorphosis. The soul shedding one form to take another.”
Hope flared. Dangerous. Painful. “You think he’s transforming? Like—like rebirth? Phoenix-style resurrection?”
“I think it’s possible. The note—’curses break in strange ways’—that sounds like a message. A hint. From whoever or whatever is controlling the magic’s unraveling.”
“The Moon Goddess,” one of the rogues said. “She’s the one who governs wolf magic. Mate bonds. Curses. If anyone could intervene—could transform death into something else—it would be her.”
I stared at the ashes. At the note. At the impossible hope being offered.
“So what do I do? Wait? Hope he comes back? Build a shrine and pray?”
“You honor him,” Morgana said. “You take the ashes. Keep them safe. And you do what he asked. Choose yourself. Be free. Build the sanctuary. Live fiercely enough that if he does come back, he finds something worth returning to. And if he doesn’t—if this really is just death—then you’ve honored him. Made his sacrifice mean something.”
I gathered the ashes carefully. They were warm. Warmer than they should be. Like residual life lingered. Like transformation wasn’t finished.
“How long?” I asked. “If this is metamorphosis—how long does it take?”
“I don’t know. Fae transformations can take hours. Days. Years. There’s no standard timeline. It depends on the magic. The curse. The soul being transformed.”
Years. I might wait years. Might spend decades hoping for resurrection that never came. Might waste my life mourning someone who was truly gone.
Or he might return tomorrow. Next week. Next month. And I’d have given up. Stopped believing. Failed to build what he’d believed in.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “Don’t know whether to hope or grieve. Whether to wait or move forward. I’m—I’m lost.”
“Then do both,” Morgana said. “Hope and grieve. Wait and move forward. Honor him by building the sanctuary while keeping space for his possible return. You don’t have to choose between loving him and living. You can do both.”
The rogues agreed. “We’ll help. Whatever you need. We owed Fenrir sanctuary. Now we owe you the same. We’ll build with you. Protect with you. Honor him by making Darkwood everything he envisioned.”
I looked at the ashes in my hands. At the cryptic message. At the impossible choice between hope and acceptance.
“Okay,” I said. “We build. We make Darkwood into sanctuary. Safe haven for every outcast and hybrid and cursed wolf who needs home. We do what Fen believed in. What my mother died trying to create. What every murdered hybrid deserved.”
“And if he comes back?” Morgana asked.
“Then he finds a sanctuary worth protecting. A revolution worth joining. A mate who didn’t waste his sacrifice mourning. Who chose herself. Who lived fiercely. Who became everything he believed she could be.”
“And if he doesn’t come back?”
“Then I still built something beautiful. Still honored him. Still made his death mean something by refusing to let it destroy me.”
We held an abbreviated funeral. No body to bury. Just ashes to honor. Moon lilies to scatter. Twelve wolves howling goodbye to their protector.
I kept a small portion of the ashes. Put them in a vial. Wore it around my neck. Physical reminder. Tangible proof he’d existed. That we’d loved. That transformation—whatever form it took—had happened.
The note I folded carefully. Kept with the ashes. Evidence that someone—something—knew more than they were saying. That magic was still at work. That curses breaking had consequences we didn’t understand yet.
“What now?” I asked Morgana as the rogues dispersed.
“Now you rest. Heal. Process. Tomorrow you start building. But today—today you let yourself feel everything. The grief. The hope. The confusion. All of it.”
I returned to the cabin. Fen’s cabin. Empty without him. Haunted by his absence. Every corner held memory. Every surface had been touched by him. Every space reminded me of what I’d lost. What I might—impossibly—get back.
The bond was still there. Faint echo. Fainter than yesterday. Fading as death took hold. Or transformation. Depending on which truth I chose to believe.
I’m waiting, I sent through it. Not knowing if he could hear. Not knowing if anyone was listening. I’m waiting and I’m building and I’m choosing myself like you asked. But Fen—if you can come back. If this is transformation instead of death. Please come back. Please don’t make me do this alone.
Silence. The bond didn’t answer. Didn’t confirm or deny. Just—existed. Proof we’d been bonded. Proof love had been real.
I touched the vial of ashes. “Curses break in strange ways,” I whispered. “So break strange. Transform. Return. Be whatever the magic needs you to be. Just—come back. Please come back.”
No response. No sign. No miracle.
Just me. Alone. With ashes and hope and impossible questions.
Tomorrow I’d build. I’d honor him. I’d become the leader the rogues needed. The hybrid who’d change the world.
But tonight, I’d hope. Against reason. Against evidence. Against every indication he was truly gone.
I’d hope curses broke strange. That death was transformation. That immortals who became mortal could become something else entirely.
I’d hope he’d come back. Somehow. Some way. In whatever form the magic demanded.
And if hope was foolish—if I was setting myself up for more heartbreak—then I’d be foolish. Heartbroken. But I’d be alive. Fighting. Building.
The way he’d asked me to.
The way he’d believed I could.
Even if it meant doing it alone. Even if it meant waiting forever for a return that might never come.
I’d hope. I’d build. I’d survive.
And maybe—just maybe—curses really did break in strange ways.
Strange enough to bring back an immortal who’d become mortal who’d become—something else.
Something the magic hadn’t finished creating yet.
I’d wait. I’d see. I’d hope.
And tomorrow, I’d start building the future. With or without him. For him. For myself. For every outcast who needed sanctuary.
The way he’d wanted. The way he’d believed in. The way he’d died hoping I would.
I wouldn’t let him down. Dead or transforming or somewhere in between.
I’d build his dream into reality. And if he returned, he’d find it waiting.
A sanctuary. A revolution. A mate who’d chosen herself and become magnificent in the process.
That would be my gift to him. My honoring. My proof that his death—or transformation—hadn’t been wasted.
I’d make it matter. Make him proud. Make the world change.
One day. One choice. One act of building at a time.
Starting tomorrow. After tonight’s hope. After tonight’s grief. After tonight’s impossible faith in magic I didn’t understand.
Curses broke in strange ways. And I’d believe that. Until proof said otherwise. Until hope became foolishness instead of faith.
I’d believe. I’d wait. I’d build.
And maybe—impossibly—love really could transcend death. Break curses. Transform endings into beginnings.
I’d find out. Eventually. One way or another.
And until then, I’d honor him by living. Fiercely. Fully. Magnificently.
The way he’d asked. The way he’d believed. The way he’d died hoping I would.
For him. For me. For us. Even if “us” was just memory and ashes and fading bond echoes.
I’d make it enough. Make it matter. Make it count.
Starting tomorrow. After tonight’s hope.
Please let hope be enough. Please let curses break strange. Please let him come back.
Please.
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