"Elara! Are you trying to kill us?!"
Bram's shout boomed through the cottage.
The call startled Elara, her book slipping from her lap as she hurried toward the lab.
The thick wormwood steam hit her immediately, scorching her eyes and tightening her chest. She coughed hard, pushing the air away with her hand.
"Father?" she called, scanning the haze.
Bram was slumped against a shelf, he was red-faced and heaving out rough coughs.
"The—stove—turn it off!" he wheezed.
She darted to the stove, twisted the knob sharply, and the hiss of the boiling mixture died. Gradually, the fog began to thin, leaving behind a sticky sheen of condensation and the overwhelming scent of bitter herbs.
"Come on, Father," she said quietly. "Let's get you outside for some fresh air."
He leaned heavily on her as she helped him outside settling him down on a bench and watch as his coughing slowly began to ease.
"I'm sorry. I should've checked the temperature sooner."
Bram gave her a weary, half-exasperated look.
"It's not the first time, Elara. One of these days one of your cauldron making is going to finish us off." He rubbed his forehead. "Why can't you be like other girls your age? Going to dances, meeting their mates, settling down…"
Elara's expression stayed neutral, though her jaw twitched.
"These potions help people. Mrs. Higgins is finally sleeping through the night. Thomas is running around again instead of burning up with fever. That's important."
"So is your future," Bram muttered. "You'll end up like old Mr. Albert, who calls his inventions 'mate.'" he whispered the mate like a forbidden word which made Elara to laugh.
"Well, if they love me back, that's hardly a bad deal."
Bram chuckled despite his irritation. "You're just like your mother when you get that spark in your eye."
"I know," Elara said warmly. "that's why I'm here. To help her take care of you."
Before Bram could reply, a frantic pounding shook the front door.
Elara rose and opened it. A young boy—Ben—stood trembling on the step.
"Miss Elara! You gotta come quick! Something's hurt in the woods!"
Elara grabbed her satchel without hesitation.
"I'm coming. Father, I'll be back soon."
Bram groaned. "Be careful!"
The boy led her into the forest, branches snapping under their feet. In a clearing, Elara stopped short—not out of fear, but keen curiosity.
A werewolf lay collapsed on its side, fur matted with blood. A deep gash split its flank, leaking a thick, black substance she'd never seen before.
Elara knelt beside it, clinical and calm. She checked its pulse.
Weak, but there.
Interesting, she thought. What could cause a reaction like that?
She put on her gloves and mask.
"Did you touch it?" she asked the boys.
Ben shook his head violently. "No! It just—it was breathing weird."
"Good. That helps." Elara stood. "You three are coming with me."
Their eyes widened in horror.
"W–why?" Ben stammered.
"If this substance is contagious, I'm not letting you drag it through the village." Her voice stayed matter-of-fact. "Better we deal with it properly."
Ben whimpered. "Are we… gonna die?"
Elara arched an eyebrow. "Of course not. You're not that easy to get rid of."
Then she smiled lightly. "Come on. We've got a werewolf mystery to solve."
And with no dramatics whatsoever, she lifted the unconscious werewolf onto her back and carried it home.
The cottage felt cramped with three anxious boys inside. The werewolf lay on her table, its breathing shallow. The children huddled together, wide-eyed.
"It's alright," Elara said, offering them sugared plums. "My grandmother used to tell me stories about children much braver than the monsters they faced. Want one?"
Gradually, the boys nodded.
Outside, Bram paced restlessly, peeking through the window.
He trusted his daughter, but the werewolf's scent tugged at his memory—something familiar, something he couldn't quite place.
Inside, Elara worked with calm efficiency. She brewed medicine, cleaned the wound, examined the black substance under lamplight. The boys fetched water and tore bandages, slowly shifting from terrified to fascinated.
But as Elara wiped down her tools, she paused.
A faint black tracing had begun to appear beneath the skin of her hands—thin, branching veins darkening like ink.
She blinked once, studying it.
So the substance reacts to skin contact? Noted.
She pulled her gloves back on, thoughtful and composed.
She would need treatment too.
And she would find it.
If you want, I can:
✔ help shape Chapter 2
✔ enhance tension around the werewolf
✔ deepen father-daughter dynamics
✔ help worldbuild the werewolf packs
✔ add more humor or mystery
Just tell me!