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"Just you try it," she hissed.

The cottage seemed smaller suddenly. The walls groaned softly, the rafters creaking as if about to collapse.

"Burn the old oak, and you will not cleanse your land or yourself," she said. "You will end it. Root and branch. Pack, cub, stone, and stream. The changelings are bound to it, yes, but so is the balance that keeps worse things sleeping. Creatures like me."

Her eyes bore into his skull. "You torch that tree, wolf, and you will bring ruin to every wolf that walks the earth."

His wolf recoiled, belly low, hackles raised.

The witch inhaled slowly as if she had just had an 'episode,' and the serpent slid away.

Once more she was a plump old woman by the fire, pink shawl gathered neatly around her shoulders, hands clasped as though she had not just threatened annihilation on an entire population.

"You still want the truth," she said mildly.

Blaidd forced his breath steady. "Tell me."

"Something you need to know about changelings… They do not seize the mind," she explained. "They suggest. They place a thought so gently you believe it was always yours, like an impulse."

"Now, how can I help you, cub? Think carefully, because what you ask from here will come at a price," she said.

"I won't have more children with her."

The words tore out of Blaidd like they had a life of their own.

The witch looked up from the fire, one pale brow lifting.

"She will sacrifice this one," he said hoarsely. "I know it. I feel it. And I don't think I can stop her." His hands shook. "But more? No. I won't give her more lives to feed it."

For the first time since he had entered the cottage, something like approval flickered across the witch's face. "Wise," she murmured. "At last."

She rose fluidly, belying her age, and crossed to him. The fire snapped sharply as she moved, sparks leaping as if to follow her. "The changelings do not breed as you do," she said. "They harvest from the body of the half-breed." Her gaze hardened. "A child born of a true bonded wolf and borrowed flesh would be...valuable. And they would want more."

Blaidd swallowed. "I want it ended," he said. "I can't bear to betray my lifemate again."

The witch studied him for a long moment, pale eyes unfathomable. "There is a way," she said at last. "But it is crude, painful."

"I don't care."

Her mouth curved faintly in anticipation. "You will once I start. They all cry in the end."

She gestured to the table where her tools lay—bone needles, carved stone, a blade darkened by use.

"A rune carved into living flesh can blunt the false bond. It can dull the urge and prevent conception."

Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

"Do it," he said. "Please."

She watched him with unblinking eyes before running a sharp nail down his cheek. His wolf rose, showing sharp teeth.

"But," she continued calmly, "nothing I do exists outside the old accords. I am bound by promises already made."

A chill crawled up his spine.

"You are not the first wolf to come to me," she said. "And you will not be the last. The changelings knew you would find your way here, eventually. So, they came to me with something I needed."

His head snapped up. "They knew I would come?"