Chapter 66 — The Day the Routine Broke

  The change did not come with an omen.

  It came on a normal day.

  Ivaline rose before sunrise, as she always did.

  At 6:30, she was already at Edwyn’s bakery, sleeves rolled, hands dusted with flour. She kneaded dough in steady rhythm, counted trays, carried loaves to cooling racks. Edwyn corrected her posture once, praised her consistency twice, and sent her off with a small heel of bread wrapped in cloth.

  By 9:30, she reported to Corvix’s dye shop.

  Numbers. Ratios. Observation.

  She measured pigment, noted water temperature, and watched fabric drink in color. Corvix said little, as usual, but once—only once—he nodded. She was dismissed shortly before noon, later than usual, close to 12:30.

  After that came her own time.

  Training.

  Hunting.

  The forest welcomed her with familiar sounds. She practiced footwork first, phantom opponents forming in her mind—mistakes corrected, movements refined. Then she moved deeper, setting traps for small game, checking old markers.

  That was when the forest went quiet.

  Not empty.

  Held.

  Chronicle’s voice surfaced immediately.

  “Stop. Do not turn away.”

  She saw it then.

  An adult wolf.

  Alone.

  Thin.

  Hungry.

  It stepped from between the trees, eyes fixed on her without blinking.

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  “Do not break its gaze,” Chronicle said calmly.

  “If you do, it will decide you are prey.”

  Ivaline obeyed.

  She rose slowly, stick in hand.

  The wolf growled.

  The wolf did not rush her immediately.

  It lowered its head, shoulders rolling, weight shifting from paw to paw.

  Testing.

  Ivaline adjusted her stance.

  Left foot back.

  Stick angled, not raised.

  Eyes steady.

  “It’s measuring you,” Chronicle said.

  “So measure it back.”

  The wolf lunged.

  Not straight.

  Side-first, fangs snapping where her throat had been.

  She stepped aside—half a pace, no more. The stick cracked across its ribs as it passed.

  The wolf yelped and skidded, surprised more than hurt.

  It turned instantly.

  The second charge came lower.

  She retreated two steps, then pivoted. The stick struck again—shoulder this time. Bone didn’t break, but the impact made the wolf stagger.

  Breath steamed from its mouth.

  It circled wider now.

  Slower.

  Angrier.

  “You’re not stronger,” Chronicle warned.

  “So don’t trade.”

  The wolf sprang again.

  She dropped her center and rolled under it. Claws scraped cloth instead of flesh. As it landed, she smashed the stick into its flank—once, twice—enough to make it snarl in pain.

  Blood spotted the snow.

  The wolf hesitated.

  That was the mistake.

  Hunger pushed it forward anyway.

  It leapt head-on this time.

  She thrust the stick straight into its mouth.

  Teeth slammed shut around the wood. The force nearly tore it from her hands, but she leaned in instead, jamming it deeper, locking the jaws wide.

  They crashed together.

  Weight. Heat. Breath.

  Claws raked her arm. Pain flared—but she did not release the stick.

  “Now,” Chronicle said quietly.

  Her hand moved.

  The gutter knife Edric had given her before winter slid free.

  No panic.

  No hesitation.

  One motion.

  Clean.

  Across the throat.

  The wolf shuddered once, then went limp.

  Ivaline held the stick in place until the body stopped moving completely.

  Only then did she step back.

  Only then did she breathe.

  The struggle ended almost instantly.

  By the time she dragged the body back toward town, her arms trembled—not from fear, but fatigue. Blood soaked her clothes, streaked her hair, dried along her hands.

  Brannic saw her first.

  He shouted.

  Then stopped.

  The wolf’s body told the rest.

  He escorted her straight to Corvix’s dye shop.

  For a brief moment, Corvix forgot to hide it.

  Shock.

  Then action.

  Water. Clean cloth. New clothes. Silence ordered.

  After she was cleaned and dressed, he questioned her thoroughly. She answered plainly.

  The wolf was inspected that evening—by guards, by Edric, then by the Adventurer Guild.

  Blunt-force trauma.

  Jaw damage.

  One clean, fatal cut.

  Solo hunt.

  Confirmed.

  Edric butchered it himself. The pelt and meat were returned to her; the remainder was bought fairly with salt and spice.

  That night, Ivaline cooked.

  She ate.

  She slept.

  The next morning, a notice waited.

  The Adventurer Guild requested her presence.

  Her routine had held—

  until the world decided to notice it.