There was no one at the pyres. Hannah lingered as long as she dared, sheltering against the bitter cold behind one of the three wooden structures, trying to ignore the haunting sound of the wind whistling between gaps in the piles of timber.

Dolls crafted from sticks and ribbons hung from the branches of the surrounding pines, half-hidden by an unusual mix of honeysuckle and brambles that embraced each tree. The plants had been trained to entwine, stretching outwards to form a curtain around the pyres, creating a beautiful but haunting backdrop to the funeral clearing.

Where were they?

Riker had told her someone from Blackridge would be waiting for her. Anxious, she chewed on the inside of her cheek running over all the possible reasons for their absence. Had the battle turned? Had the rogues proven too much combined with the Elmwood warriors? Or maybe – she felt a sudden surge of anger – Had Riker lied to her? What if this were a trap? What if he'd run straight to Syrus and...

She snapped her head around. Voices. Dulled by a still-considerable distance, but definitely heading in her direction; the wind carrying the scent of sweat, grime and smoke ahead of them. Shit. She was out of time. She made a break for the trees, completely forgetting in the process that brambles, even the beautiful ones, were primarily made up of thorns, and as a result, ran straight into a prickly trap.

Like a spiders web it ensnared her, made stronger by the arching stems stretching from tree to tree. The fabric of her clothes, caught by a hundred tiny barbs, held her in place as tightly as any ropes and she struggled ineffectively against the tangle of branches.

Behind her, the voices grew louder, and she began to panic, her anger turning to fear and frustration. Close to tears, she tore at the brambles, the sharp needles wet with droplets of her blood as they ripped into her arms, her legs, her fingers. With a final valiant effort, she tore free and fled, heedless of the direction.

Elmwood seemed to lack any defining features; the trees, ramrod straight and identical, blended together, indistiquishable to her untrained eye. The ferns carpeting the landscape, covered rocks and fallen trees alike, hiding any and all landmarks, and even the plants themselves held no clues, mixing and mingling in a complex embrace. Not for the first time, Hannah found herself on the receiving end of a stark reminder of her disadvantages; without her wolf's keen sense of smell and hearing, she once again wandered blindly, relying on sheer dumb luck to keep her heading the right way.

To make matters worse, the intense pressure in her head refused to give her any relief, the ‘almost-pain’ pressing against the sides of her skull, beating out an unnecessary warning of danger. It grew stronger the further she travelled, and her anxiety increased along with it. When she finally looked up, her eyes met the first noticeable feature she'd seen since leaving the pyres, and she hesitated, unsure what to make of it.

The ‘clearing’ was barely deserving of the name; a small cluster of trees that had endured an intense but controlled fire sometime in the distant past, one that had cleared the forest floor of all foliage, leaving it scarred and lifeless. The pressure intensified, and she took a hesitant step forward, struck with a sudden sense of de ja vu, sure she'd passed this patch of burnt out trees before; the gnarled, scorched trucks nothing more than spikes pointing to the sky. Not today, not now, but on a day so similar to this one, where she’d run though these woods in search of freedom.

She took a closer look, a memory creeping around the edges of her mind, overriding her need to keep moving. None of the surrounding foliage had moved in to claim the bare earth, there were no tree shoots or any sign of recovery, and she wondered vaguely what kind of battle had taken place here. Fire, by its very nature was primal and uncontrolled, only magic could have burnt the earth so permanently and with such precision. Could it be a remnant from the rogue uprising? she wondered, Blake had told her witches were involved.

Without warning, the pressure released itself in a rush of pain, and the shadows of two wolves appeared in the clearing – insubstantial, only half-formed, a memory rising unbidden from the fog.

There had been no frost on the ground back then, the leaves only just beginning to fall, and she had run on swift paws between the trees, stumbling on the clearing in much the same way her future self would some months later.

Right in the centre of the circle of trees, they paced the patch of scorched earth on leathery paws. The smaller wolf carried something in its eyes that could only be described as feral without being feral – dark, twisted, and completely devoid of sanity. He didn't seem to notice her at first, his head swaying rhythmically from side to side as he stared towards the village.

The second pair of eyes, however, turned in her direction. The larger wolf’s piercing gaze twisted her insides into a painful knot and brought her frantic paws skittering to a terrified halt. Two malevolent orbs that stared into her own, neither eye formed like a normal wolf's, and both full of a darkness that shrivelled any bravery she might have carried with her.

It took one purposeful step in her direction and she had turned and fled, all thought of escape lost in her overwhelming fear. Instinct had taken over, primal and focused on survival; she'd altered her course, heading back towards the village, seeking a questionable safety within the arms of her captors. Her last thought, the hope that the dark wolf hadn't registered the recognition in her eyes.

Hannah blinked, and the clouds returned, the wolves fading back into the depths of her memory. She doubled over, emptying what little remained of the contents of her stomach onto the forest floor, retching until she could barely breathe; her body reacting to a lingering fear stronger than anything she had ever felt before.

She had no context, no memories to sift through to explain her horror. Just the irrefutable knowledge that her past self had chosen the fate Macleiry had planned for her, rather than face them alone. No doubt her uncle had taken care to drug her as soon as she had fallen into his clutches once again, and she'd never had time to speak of what she'd seen before the memory was lost to her.