Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning mist clung low to the soil, wrapping itself around the roots of the apothecary’s garden like pale, silken fingers. You dug your hands into the damp earth, pulling weeds from the bloodgrass bed, careful not to disturb the delicate shoots of moonwort blooming beneath. The village bell hadn't rung yet. Still early. Still quiet.

Yarrow for the blacksmith’s boy, he’d split his palm again trying to mend a cracked bridle. Dried valerian root for Widow Maywell. Her sleep was restless, her tongue sharp. And something for the preacher’s wife. She never said what it was for, only murmured the word “deliverance” and left silver on the table.

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your apron. Morning light was just beginning to pierce the treetops beyond the fence, illuminating the creeping mists in soft, golden streaks. The forest loomed there, vast and watchful. It always did. Your little cottage sat at the edge of it, just close enough that some villagers muttered about it under their breath. Too near the wilds, they’d say. Too near where things vanish.

But it had always been like this. Your mother had lived here before you, and her mother before her, healers, all of them. The villagers came when they were desperate, and turned their backs again when they were not.

Superstition ran deeper than reason in Eldhollow. You glanced at the bloodgrass again, its crimson tips glistening with dew. It only grew this well in shadow. Even now, a thin veil of mist clung around its stems like a lover.

You tried not to think too hard on what that meant. The soil under your nails was black and sweet, healthier than it had any right to be, given how close it lay to the forest’s edge. But the earth didn’t care for village borders, nor for the words whispered in its pews.

Inside Eldhollow, religion ruled with a soft, iron hand. The elders claimed their devotion protected the town. That piety kept wickedness out. That modesty and humility were safeguards against what lies beyond. You’d heard the sermons. Even from here, the chapel bell reached your cottage on holy days, followed by the hollow murmur of voices chanting in unison.

Tradition above all. New blood brings old sins. Monsters do not knock, they slip in when the doors are opened too wide.

They didn’t say vampires by name anymore… at least, not in daylight. But the fear lingered like soot in the lungs of the town. It clung to the corners of conversations, to the way old men crossed themselves when shadows grew long.

They used other words now.
"The Night-born."
"Devil’s children."
"Those who hunger through the ages."

As if giving them a new name made the fear more holy. More righteous. But you’d read things in the books your mother left behind. You knew that vampires were more than the frothing stories told to frighten children. You didn’t know if they were real. Not truly. Not yet.

But you knew the world was older than the chapel. And not all things older than man were evil. The village didn’t believe that. They believed only what was written in the scrolls, copied by trembling hands in candlelight. Anything else, curiosity, questioning, change… was a door. 

And doors were meant to stay shut.

You were halfway through hanging bundles of dried rosemary above the hearth when you remembered the pot. You paused, stared at the cold fireplace, and sighed. It was still scorched at the corners from the incident . The incident you refused to name. The one involving an overambitious tonic, three miscalculated spoonfuls of powdered moonwort, and what had briefly become a sentient, bubbling stew.

You pressed your lips together and turned away.

The cauldron had not survived.

With an exasperated grunt, you grabbed your satchel, looped it over your shoulder, and moved to the small mirror near the door. You tied your hair up in practiced motions, loose, but neat. Practical. Forgettable. Just how the town liked it.

Stepping outside, the air greeted you with a soft breeze and the distant rustling of the forest’s edge. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the wind press cool fingers to your cheeks. It smelled of dew and pine and the faint sweetness of something night-blooming. You didn’t quite smile, but your shoulders dropped as you exhaled.

The path to the village was long but manageable. A well-worn trail of packed dirt and scattered stones, flanked by moss and wildflowers where the forest dared not grow too thick. You’d walked it hundreds of times, enough to know the shape of every bend, every leaning tree, every odd patch of root that tried to trip you in the rain.

Today, the light was gentle. Thin sun filtered through the high clouds. Your boots crunched softly on the earth. A bird called somewhere above. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something else answered.

You kept walking. You weren’t afraid of the forest. But you knew better than to walk too slow.

The road narrowed as it wound past the crumbling chapel walls and opened into the square, if it could be called that. Eldhollow’s market was little more than a crooked circle of wagons and wooden stalls, their awnings faded with age and prayer-smoke.

People moved slowly here, in that half-suspicious way the village was known for, heads tilted, mouths quick to shut when a shadow passed too close. Your boots found purchase on the uneven cobblestone as voices and footsteps swelled around you.

Familiar faces surrounded you, but you didn’t meet a single pair of eyes.

In and out.

A child pointed in your direction, mud-streaked fingers and wide eyes, before a stern hand pulled him back. A murmured correction. A sideways glance. The usual. You adjusted the strap of your satchel and kept walking.

The potter’s stall sat near the well, its shelves packed with misshapen clay jars, fire-blackened kettles, and thick-lipped crocks the color of dried blood. Behind them stood Old Merna, apron dusted with flour or ash, or both. Her hands were already on her hips when she saw you.

“Back again?” she called, voice scratchy like bark. “Don’t tell me you cracked another one.”

You kept your tone neutral. “It… turned itself inside out. Long story.”

“Herbs again?”

You nodded. Merna snorted and waved a hand at the lower shelf. “Take whichever’ll survive your witch-brew. I don’t want it crawling back here.”

You crouched to examine the wares, running your fingers along the smooth rim of a deep pot. It was sturdy. Thick enough to hold heat. Ugly as sin.

Perfect.

Coins changed hands. The pot was wrapped in rough cloth and tied with twine. You slung it under your arm and turned on your heel.

In and out.

You didn’t notice the first mention until it slipped under a breath, just at the edge of your hearing:

“--said he was seen again. Near the birches this time.”

“The falconer?”

“Aye. Watching. Doesn’t speak to anyone, never buys a thing. Just… stares.”

You didn’t stop walking. But your steps slowed.

The falconer.

You’d heard the name, in passing. Some strange man living near the cliffs, past the southern ridge. He came down rarely, never lingered. People said he talked to birds more than men. Said he slept in the day. Said he was cursed.

But people said a lot of things in Eldhollow. You tightened your grip on the pot and quickened your pace. The road back home was still long. And you had work to do.

✧

Midday crept in slow and golden, soft light slanting through the apothecary’s windows and warming the worn stone floors. Somewhere beyond the trees, cicadas thrummed lazily, and the scent of drying herbs curled through the rafters. You were in the back room, grinding dried yarrow into powder when you heard it.

“Miss?”

A voice, high, familiar, and slightly breathless.

“Miss, are you in?”

You wiped your hands on your apron and stepped out from behind the curtain. There she stood just inside the threshold, Ela, the baker’s daughter, clutching a woven basket and cradling her forearm awkwardly. A strip of fabric, fraying at the edges and stained through with red, was tied haphazardly from elbow to wrist.

She brightened the moment she saw you. “Oh, good. You are here.”

You gave her a once-over, then raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, bread knife?”

She laughed sheepishly. “One of the new ones. My father told me not to rush, but I wanted to finish before the midday crowd.”

You beckoned her gently toward the table. “Sit. Let me see.”

Ela obeyed without protest, lowering herself onto the stool as you began unwinding the makeshift bandage. Her skin was warm beneath your fingers, healthy, save for the thin gash across her forearm. Clean, but deep enough to sting.

You fetched a small jar of comfrey paste and a fresh strip of linen. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” you said, brushing on the cool balm. “Another inch and I’d be stitching.”

She winced a little but didn’t pull away. “Thank you… I know you don’t like surprises.”

“I don’t like blood on my floors,” you corrected mildly.

That made her laugh again. Light and bright. The sound of someone untouched by the weight that clung to most in Eldhollow.

“I brought you something,” she said after a moment, lifting the basket onto the table. “Two loaves, my father said they’re too dark to sell, but I thought you might like them.”

You paused, hands stilling over the fresh wrap.

“…Thank you.”

Kindness, when it came, always caught you off guard.

Ela tilted her head. “Oh, when I was walking inside earlier, I saw someone near the tree line. Far off. He had a… a bird, I think. A hawk?”

You didn’t look up.

“Wasn’t close enough to wave,” she continued. “But he just stood there. Lurking by the trees. Gave me the shivers a bit.”

You tied off the bandage and stepped back.

“All done,” you said. “Try not to bleed through this one.”

Ela flexed her fingers experimentally, examining your work with a pleased smile. “Feels good. Doesn’t sting as much now.”

“It shouldn’t,” you replied, closing the lid of the comfrey jar. “But keep it clean and no kneading bread until it scabs over.”

She pouted dramatically. “That’s half my day gone.”

You arched an eyebrow. “So is your arm, if you’re not careful.”

She laughed, quick and light, then leaned forward, pushing the basket toward you with both hands.

“Really, thank you. You’re always so kind. Even when you don’t want to be.”

You gave her a quiet look, but she was already hopping off the stool, cheerful as ever. She reached the doorway, hand on the frame, then hesitated. A slight furrow touched her brow.

“Oh, hope I don’t see that man again,” she said with a nervous grin.

You looked up from the basket. “What man?”

She gave a little shrug. “The one with the bird I was telling you about just now... I saw him not close, just… across the ridge, kind of behind your garden?”

You froze.

“…Behind the garden.”

Ela didn’t seem to notice the way your posture changed, how your hand stilled against the cloth.

“Yeah! Hawk on his shoulder, just standing there. Watching the trees like he was waiting for something. It was probably nothing.”

She gave another of those too-bright smiles.

“Anyway, tell your plants to behave. I’ll come by next week for that tea you promised Mama.” And just like that, she was gone. The door swung closed gently behind her, basket of bread warm under your hand.

Behind your garden.

You stared at the wall for a long moment, ears filled with the distant sound of birdsong. Something too sharp, too rhythmic, to be wind alone. You stepped toward the window. Didn’t draw back the curtain. Just stood there. Listening.

Safe to say, you didn’t get much sleep that night. Not that anything happened. No knocks at the door. No footprints in the dirt. No strange figures standing beneath the trees with hollow eyes and feathers on their shoulders.

Just… silence. Or, not silence exactly.

The birds wouldn’t shut up. You’d never noticed how loud they were before. How many kinds there were. How many of them called to each other in strange, uneven patterns, like warnings. Like alarms.

At some point, the moon had shifted and the room had gone still, and your mind had finally given up on pretending.

You needed sleep.

The door creaked quietly as you opened it. Cool night air rolled in, soft against your bare arms, your nightgown fluttering slightly around your legs. You didn’t bother with a shawl. You hadn’t planned to stay out long. The lavender was what you were after.

You stepped barefoot into the garden, the earth still holding warmth from the day. Dew clung to the leaves like sweat. You moved slowly, deliberately, hands steady even if your pulse wasn’t. This wasn’t unusual. Not really. You’d gathered lavender at night before. It bloomed best this way, its oils sweeter, its petals soft and open.

Still… the darkness beyond the fence felt closer tonight. You knelt beside the plant, running your fingers through the stalks. Their scent rose easily, familiar, soothing, grounded. You should have felt better already. But your hands trembled slightly as you reached for your shears.

Was the forest always this quiet at night?

Were the birds always this… alert?

Had that branch always been broken like that?

You didn’t look toward the woods. You told yourself you didn’t need to. You gathered the lavender one bundle at a time, careful not to bruise the petals, and tried not to listen too closely to the rustling in the underbrush. To the hush of leaves stirred by something not quite wind.

You could feel it. Not eyes. Something heavier than that. Like a breath held just out of reach.

The garden gate creaked softly behind you. You stood very still. Too still. And when nothing followed, you told yourself it was the wind. You turned back toward the house, lavender clutched to your chest, heart fluttering like a bird trying not to be seen.

And even as you locked the door behind you, you didn’t look back. Because deep down, you already knew…

Something… someone had been there.

The lavender helped, a little. Enough to pull you under for an hour or two. Not enough to stop the dreams.

You woke tangled in your sheets, the morning light too bright, your mouth dry and your heart racing like you'd just outrun something.

And it didn’t stop. The next few days bled together in a haze of thick silence and stiff smiles.

People came and went as they always did, hobbling in with twisted ankles, scratching at rashes, asking for teas they couldn’t pronounce. You gave them what they needed. You answered questions. You stirred tinctures and tied bundles and nodded in the right places.

But your mind stayed on the back window. On the fence. On the line where your garden ended and the forest began.

You barely ate. Slept in fits. You knew you probably looked like hell, and frankly, you didn’t care. If anyone noticed, they said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for the apothecary to be pale, to have shadows beneath their eyes. People liked to think your work required sleepless nights.

This time, they weren’t wrong. Because every morning, when you stepped into the garden, something had changed.

Subtly. Wrongly.

The first time, it was a single white feather, caught in the lavender you’d clipped days ago. Too clean. Too deliberate. You’d stared at it for a long time before brushing it away like cobweb.

The next, it was a sprig of rosemary tied with black thread, left neatly on your doorstep. You didn’t grow rosemary.

The third was this morning.

You opened the garden gate and nearly tripped over a bundle of wild herbs, bound in what looked like... sinew. Tightly knotted. Pristine. Herbs that weren’t native to Eldhollow. Night herbs. Ones you’d only ever seen etched in the margins of your mother’s older texts.

You hadn’t touched it. It was still sitting there. Right now. Just outside the threshold of your door. And still, the birds kept screaming in the trees. You stood just inside the doorway, eyes fixed on the bundle of strange herbs sitting on the ground like a trap laid too carefully.

You weren’t sure if today was the day you’d finally touch it. Burn it. Throw it into the woods. Take it inside and tear it apart leaf by leaf just to understand what it meant.

You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry and your chest tight. Why you felt like something would happen the moment your fingers brushed the twine.

Your hand had just started to move when… 

creeaak

The front door opened. Your spine snapped straight. You turned fast enough to make the hem of your nightgown flare, your garden and its secrets forgotten as the chill from the open doorway swept through your home.

A woman stood there, her hair unbrushed, cheeks blotchy, fingers trembling around the small form she clutched to her chest. Her son. No older than six, fever-pale, eyes glazed and unfocused, head lolling weakly against her collarbone.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong…”

You didn’t hesitate. The door slammed shut behind you as you moved, reaching for the nearest stool and clearing space on the table.

“Put him here. Now.”

She obeyed in a stumbling daze, lowering him down gently, her own hands shaking. You were already reaching for water, clean linen, a cool compress, everything automatic. Every breath you’d been holding since the feathers started appearing vanished the moment your fingers touched the boy’s clammy skin.

His pulse was rapid. Breath shallow. Sweat soaked through the neck of his tunic. His stomach was rigid. Muscles twitching like wires pulled too tight.

You’d seen it before. Not a fever. Not a wound.

“He ate something,” you said aloud, already turning to your shelf. “A mushroom. Or berries. Do you know where he’s been?”

The mother shook her head, tears brimming. “He plays near the old logging path. Behind the chapel. I… I didn’t see, I didn’t know–”

You held up a hand. “It’s alright. I can treat this. But I’ll need a stronger purge. Something to push it out before it binds to his blood.”

Your fingers ran along the glass jars.

Mandrake… too risky.
Yarrow… not enough.
Mint, thyme, valerian… useless.

No. You needed frostleaf.

A cooling herb, rare and volatile, but powerful enough to break a poison’s grip on the gut. Your mother had used it once, only once. You remembered the smell. You remembered the warning. It didn’t grow in gardens. Only in the shaded glens beneath the pine canopy, where sunlight never touched the ground.

The forest.

Your breath hitched. The mother looked at you with wet, pleading eyes.

“Please,” she whispered.

You did everything you could. You brewed a weak purge with what you had on hand, wild fennel, old catmint, two crushed poppy seeds. Enough to keep his body from locking up. Enough to buy time. But it wouldn’t last the night.

The poison was clinging to him like ivy. Curling through his blood. It needed to be ripped out. And for that, you needed frostleaf. Fresh. Untouched. Drawn under moonlight, when its leaves bled silver and its roots loosened from the ground. You knew where it grew. You remembered the glade. You just hadn’t been there in years.

The boy’s breathing had evened out slightly by the time you finished tucking the covers over him. His mother was curled in the far corner of the room on a folded blanket, eyes red and swollen but finally shut.

You sat in silence for a long while. Just watching them. You whispered soft reassurances, words you half-believed, promises they wouldn’t remember, but you made them anyway. You had to.

Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only the quiet flicker of a single oil lamp and the chirr of insects outside the window.

You stood. Slowly. Your satchel waited by the door. Inside, a vial of hawthorn tonic, a silver knife, a sprig of dried belladonna. Just in case. You added a strip of cloth, in case you needed to bind something. A cracked lantern. A match. You looked back at the boy, one last time. 

“Stay asleep,” you murmured. “I’ll be back before morning.”

You eased the door open. Stepped outside. The air was cooler now, thick with damp moss and pine needles. The stars blinked sharp above the trees, and the moon had risen, half-full, but bright enough to light the garden path.

You didn’t look toward the place where the last offering had been. You didn’t check to see if it was gone. Your boots sank slightly into the earth as you crossed through the gate and stepped into the woods.

This time, you didn’t wait for a warning.

You stop just past the old alder tree, breath catching in your throat. This was supposed to be a straight line. Down the slope. Past the ridge. Through the hollow where the frostleaf grows.

It had been so clear in your memory. But that was years ago. Now the forest presses around you, heavy and strange. The path is gone. The air is colder than it should be. Even the moonlight seems thinner here, filtered through tangled branches like light beneath deep water.

You take another step, trying to stay steady, your boots sinking slightly into the moss-soft ground. Somewhere overhead, a bird shrieks, high and sharp, like a warning. Others take up the cry, flapping furiously through the canopy above.

You flinch.

Your hand goes instinctively to your satchel, brushing the silver knife hidden at the bottom. It makes you feel no better.

"It’s fine," you whisper. "They’re just birds. Nothing more."

But the silence that follows is worse than the noise. You walk a little faster.

The cold shifts around your ankles, moving strangely, like something exhaling just behind your knees. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders and try to focus on your breathing, on the rhythm of your steps.

Left. Right. Left.

Ridge should be ahead. But then… 

crack.

Behind you. A single sharp snap. You freeze. Your chest goes tight. Ears straining, eyes wide. Nothing. No footsteps. No growl. No voice. Just stillness.

But it’s wrong stillness. Watching stillness. Like something is holding its breath with you.

You turn slowly, heart hammering hard against your ribs. Nothing but trees.

You look to the left, to the right, behind you again, trying to find your bearings, but every shadow looks the same now. The moss you thought you recognized is gone. The leaning pine isn’t there. There’s no path.

Oh.

Oh no.

Which direction was I–

You spin once, then stop yourself. Your legs feel weak. No, no, you’re fine, you just need to… 

Another sound.

Rustle.

Not behind you. Not ahead. To your right. Low. Soft. Something moving slowly through the ferns.You don’t breathe. You don’t move . The birds have gone silent again. Your hand clenches around the strap of your satchel. You try to listen. Try to see . But the moonlight has shifted.

You are not alone out here. You don’t move for a long time. Not until your eyes catch something pale drifting down from the trees.

A feather.

Thin, long. White. It spirals gently through the air and lands just ahead of you, right at the base of a crooked birch.

You blink. Your heart pounds in your ears.You take one slow step toward it. Then another. Your boot crushes the feather’s edge. Soft. Real. You swallow hard and glance around, but the trees are still empty. Still too quiet.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice even. “Not terrifying. Not unsettling. Just… a bird. That happened to shed a feather. Right where I needed it.”

You take another step. And then, Another feather falls. This one to your left, where you’d just been about to turn. You freeze. It drifts lower, catching the moonlight, pale against the dark moss below. You look from it… to the direction you were going… then back again.

A small, tight laugh escapes your throat.

“Oh. Great. Breadcrumbs. That’s normal. Totally fine.”

You follow it. You don’t know why . But your feet move anyway.

And then it happens again. Every time you start to veer off the invisible path… Another white plume drops from above. Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

Once, it lands just in front of your toes. Another time, you spot one already nestled in the crook of a root, as if it had been waiting for you.

You keep moving.

“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath. “Not weird at all. Completely okay. Just a mysterious forest guide leading me with feathers. Great. No nightmares tonight, that’s for sure.”

But you don’t stop. You don’t dare stop. You round a thick cluster of oaks. There. The clearing. The air shifts, colder still, but cleaner, lighter somehow. Moonlight spills over the ridge and into the glade like water, softening the earth in silver. And at the very center, nestled low between the roots of an ancient pine.

Frostleaf.

Pale green, sharp-edged leaves with tips already glowing faintly under the moon’s gaze. The same plant from your mother’s notes. From your memory.

You found it. Or rather… you were led to it.

You crouch low, forcing your shaking hands to move carefully. You don’t speak. Don’t breathe. Not until the frostleaf is tucked gently into your pouch. And even then… you don’t look back.

Because you know. Someone is still watching. 

You were almost out of the glade when the silence shifted. It wasn’t just quiet, it was wrong . Too still. Like the forest itself had stopped breathing. Your steps slowed.

The frostleaf was still warm in your pouch, tucked safely beside the lantern and silver blade. Your hand moved toward it without thought. Just the weight of it in your palm helped steady your breath.

You heard it then. Low. Measured. Padded. Not wind. Not a deer. Not a bird.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you turned, slowly. Between the trees, something moved. Tall. Dark. Broad-shouldered, but low . Its breath came in rasps. You could hear it sniffing.

Your fingers curled around the hilt of the blade.

You didn’t run. You didn’t breathe. And when the branches parted, you saw it.

Not a wolf. Not quite. Its jaw was too wide. Its limbs too long. Something shimmered in its eyes that wasn’t hunger, but purpose.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Come on, then.” You raised the blade.Took a step back. Prepared to strike.

And then… 

A hand.

Warm. Human. Fast.

Fingers curled around your wrist and yanked you back before you could scream. You collided with something solid, someone, your breath catching in your throat as claws snapped through the air where your throat had been.

The beast lunged, met only open space. A heartbeat later, it collapsed.

You hadn’t seen how. One moment it was snarling. The next, it was still.

Dead.

You stared at the body, chest heaving. Then slowly, too slowly , you turned to face the one behind you.

He was taller than you. Hooded. A dark cloak wrapped tightly at the neck. His eyes…

Gold. Sharp. Unblinking. Watching you like you were something on the edge of a knife.

“You don’t want to fight something like that alone,” he said, voice low, steady.

His hand hadn’t left your wrist yet. And suddenly, the forest didn’t feel so cold. The grip on your wrist was firm, but not painful. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your skin, even as the creature lay dead not five feet away, its mouth still slightly open, tongue lolled sideways like a dog who hadn’t been fast enough.

Your knife was still clutched in your free hand. You looked up. And he was looking at you.

Not like he was curious. Not like he was trying to comfort you. No, he looked at you like you’d done something wrong. His brow was slightly drawn. His mouth set in a grim line. And his eyes, those eyes , golden and sharp as blown glass, didn’t leave yours for a second.

You didn’t breathe. But you didn’t drop your gaze either.

You weren’t the type to shrink.

And maybe that surprised him, because after a beat, his expression shifted. Not softened. Just… became something unreadable. He tilted his head, studying you like a hawk pinning down a mouse that wasn’t running.

You blinked first.

“…uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “Thank you. For… that.”

You didn’t gesture toward the beast. You both knew what you meant. There was a pause, so long it became strange. Then, finally, his hand let go of your wrist. The air between you felt cooler immediately. Emptier. 

His voice was lower this time. Almost like he regretted saying anything at all. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

You raised a brow. “Could say the same for you.”

That surprised something behind his eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. He stepped back. The cloak moved with him, silent, like feathers in the dark.

“Go home, apothecary,” he said. And then, just like that, he turned.

You opened your mouth, so many questions stacking all at once. But he was already gone. No sound. No broken branches. Not even footprints. Just the lingering echo of gold eyes and the weight of him still pulsing in your wrist.

✧

You were back before sunrise. The frostleaf still glowed faintly in your satchel as you crushed it down into boiling water, added the hawthorn tonic, stirred in the poppy oil with steady, practiced hands. Every movement deliberate. Controlled.

You hadn’t slept. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.

The boy was still burning up when you pressed the cloth to his lips, but he drank. Somehow. And within the hour, the tremors had eased. His breath slowed. His fingers uncurled from his mother’s sleeve.

By the time the first light touched the windowsill, his fever had broken. He would live.And when his mother finally stirred and saw him sleeping peacefully, the way her hands flew to her mouth… That stayed with you.

Word spread fast in Eldhollow. By noon, three families had stopped by to “see how things were,” all of them carrying small tokens, fresh bread, honeycomb, a hand-woven sachet of dried thyme. You didn’t ask for any of it, but they left them on your steps anyway, muttering things like– 

“It’s the least we could do.”
“You saved that child’s life.”
“Didn’t even think frostleaf still grew…”

You stayed quiet through it all. Kept your eyes down. Let them speak. But when the last of them left, and the house was still again, you lingered by the front door. Your broom was in your hand, dust pan tucked beneath your arm. Just a quick sweep of the steps. That’s all.

You pushed the door open, stepped into the sunlight and paused. Because someone passing by looked up. And smiled. Then someone else. Another nod. A third, Mrs. Eldwen, who’d once refused to speak to you directly, raised a hand in a stiff, awkward wave. You just stood there.

Broom in hand. Mouth dry. Sunlight warming your hair. “Huh,” you murmured.

You cleared your throat. Swept the dust off the step. Tapped the broom against the stone.

“Coolcoolcool.”

You turned back into the house. You didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But it stayed in your chest for a while. Even as your eyes flicked once, automatically, to the tree line beyond your back garden.

The day ended in a slow, gentle quiet. Most of the village had gone to bed early, the kind of restful hush that only comes after something terrifying passes without tragedy. The boy had survived. You’d done your part. And now… everything felt softer. Lighter.

You stood by your back door, lantern in hand, cloak pulled snug around your shoulders as the last traces of sunset melted into indigo. Just a quick check on the garden. That was all. Nothing unusual. You’d already watered the nightwort and tucked a cloth over the feverfern sprouts to protect them from the chill.

You knelt beside the patch of lavender, fingers brushing the soil. Still warm. You stood to go. And then you saw it. Just beyond the gate.

Not inside your garden, but close enough to be noticed , carefully placed between two flat stones at the edge of the path. Almost reverent. A bundle.

You froze. Lanternlight flickered gently as you moved closer, one cautious step at a time. Your eyes scanned the trees. The shadows. Nothing moved. When you finally knelt down and peeled back the cloth… 

Frostleaf. At least ten stems. Fresh. Unbroken. Still faintly glowing at the edges. You stared at it. You hadn’t seen this much since you were a child.

But… you got the last of it. You were sure.

No one else in town would know where to find more. No one but him. You sat back on your heels, the cloth still in your hands. He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t leave a mark. Didn’t even leave a feather this time. Just frostleaf. A whole bundle.

You swallowed. The cool air pressed against your back like a whisper. “Why?” you said softly, out loud, to no one.

He didn’t seem all that okay with your existence, if we’re being honest.

You stood slowly, the bundle tucked against your chest now like something fragile. You looked once, just once, back at the trees. And then you went inside. 

A few days passed. The boy’s fever never returned. His mother brought you wildflowers and a loaf of lemon bread wrapped in cloth. You tried to give it back. She insisted. The frostleaf was dried and sealed in a jar now, labeled neatly with wax and string. You hadn’t touched the bundle from the woods. It sat in the drawer below your desk, wrapped just as you found it.

You hadn’t told anyone about it. You’d told yourself not to think about it. And you were doing just fine, until you cracked another pot. You stared at the pieces on the floor. Bits of soil. A healthy little valerian root now sad and unpotted at your feet. You sighed deeply through your nose.

“I’m not even going to talk about this,” you muttered, brushing dirt off your skirt.

You made your way into town late that morning, hood up and bag slung across your shoulder. The walk was long, but manageable, sunlight soft on your back, boots kicking up dust from the path. Everything felt… oddly normal . Until you reached the main square.

“Oh hey, Apothecary!”

You blinked. A group of women standing outside the baker’s shop waved at you, smiling. You waved back. Awkwardly. One of them even nodded like she wanted to say more, but thankfully didn’t. You kept walking. Past the butcher. Past the well. A few heads turned, and this time they didn’t turn away .

The stableboy, who used to pretend not to see you, offered a clumsy “Good morning, miss.”

You nodded. “Mmhm.”

You didn’t break stride. Your face felt warm. This was fine. Normal. Not weird at all. Not like people were suddenly smiling at you or anything. Coolcoolcool. You let yourself walk slower than usual.

The market buzzed with quiet chatter and warmth, sunlight catching on worn rooftops and copper kettles. For once, it didn’t feel like you were on a timer. No one was whispering about you. No one was watching, at least, not in that way.

So maybe you’d… indulge. You passed the spice cart and lingered. Even bought a honeyed fig tart from the baker’s younger son, he’d blinked like you were a ghost when you thanked him. Your fingers were sticky with sugar, lips tingling with warmth. It felt good . Normal. Like you could maybe get used to this rhythm of town life again.

You crossed toward the butcher’s stall, humming quietly under your breath.

“Morning,” you said, stopping in front of the vendor.

He gave a small smile in return, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then his gaze shifted. Past you. You felt it before you turned.

That sudden shift in air pressure. The way the warmth drained out of the sky. Like the clouds had passed over the sun, but they hadn’t. Everything in the square dulled. The sounds blurred. People were still moving, but slower now, like their bodies were responding to something invisible.

You straightened. The vendor’s smile faltered as he glanced over your shoulder again.

“He’s new,” he murmured, barely audible. “Think he’s a hunter.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of your cloak.

Oh no.

You didn’t turn right away. You stood still, very still, suddenly aware of every point of heat on your skin, your neck, your back, the backs of your arms. Someone was behind you. And they were watching. You could feel the weight of him before you heard his voice. It rolled low, smooth, controlled, like smoke curling under a door. Familiar in the worst way.

“Two haunches. Clean cuts. No sinew left in.”

Your head turned slowly. He was standing right next to you. Not across the stall. Not down the row. Right beside you. Cloak dark and weather-worn. Shoulders broad. The same hood from that night in the forest casting his face in shadows, but not enough to hide him.

You knew it was him.

Same voice. Same stillness. That quiet, coiled energy that hummed just beneath the surface, like the low tension in a bowstring. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t acknowledge you.

He spoke to the butcher, picked up the small bundle of pelts on the wood counter. The vendor took the bag with slightly shaking hands, nodding quickly, eyes flicking between you both like he wasn’t sure whether to breathe.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers had gone cold around your cloak.

He smelled faintly of pine and blood. Earth. Metal. The same scent that had lingered on the frostleaf bundle in your drawer. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but your mouth stayed shut. You studied the line of his jaw, the curl of dark-blond hair brushing the side of his neck. He was taller than you remembered. Or maybe just closer.

Still, he didn’t look. Not when he was handed the money. Not when the vendor thanked him. Not even when he shifted slightly and the back of his hand nearly brushed yours.

You opened your mouth, but he was already turning away. The cloak swayed. His boots moved quiet against the stone. And just like that, he was gone again. You didn’t move. Not right away. The tart in your hand had gone limp, warm sugar clinging to your fingers. Your appetite was gone. Your heartbeat wasn’t.

You watched his back as he disappeared into the crowd, calm, unbothered, cloak dragging across the stone like he’d never even seen you. That was fine. Totally fine. Not at all strange or infuriating. You didn’t realize someone was standing beside you until she spoke.

“Wow,” came a familiar, chirping voice. “You must really like him.”

You nearly choked. “ What?! ”

You turned sharply, almost dropping the pastry, only to find Ela, the baker’s daughter, grinning up at you with wide, curious eyes and her usual woven basket crooked over one arm.

She blinked innocently.

“What?” she said. “I’ve never seen you look at someone like that before.”

“Like what ?” you demanded.

“Like he just pulled you out of a fairytale. Or set your whole life on fire. Or both.”

You stared at her like she’d just stabbed you in the ribs. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“No. I– he’s… It’s not like that. ”

She giggled. Actually giggled. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

“Sure,” she said, patting your arm. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You watched her skip off toward the fruit stand like she hadn’t just casually unraveled your entire mental stability in twelve seconds. You stood there a moment longer, trying to remember how to exist. Then, quietly, you dropped the half-eaten tart into the nearest barrel.

✧

You laid flat on the garden path, arms tucked behind your head, cool earth pressing against your spine through the thin linen of your tunic.

The stars above were clear tonight. Sharp. Still. No clouds. No moon. Just the slow spin of constellations overhead and the rhythmic hush of wind through thyme and lavender. You tried to breathe with it. Match its tempo. Let the stillness soothe your frayed thoughts.

It didn’t work. The weight was back again. The one behind your ribs. Behind your eyes. Behind you. It had started maybe an hour ago, soft at first. Barely noticeable. A prickle at the back of your neck. A subtle shift in the air. The kind of thing most people would’ve brushed off.

But not you. You knew when something was watching. You’d learned to trust that instinct. You swallowed. Tried to keep your eyes on the sky. Counted the stars. Traced the old shapes your mother taught you. Refused… refused , to look at the trees.

But the feeling pressed harder. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t friendly either. Just there . Unrelenting. Until finally, your patience snapped. Your voice cut through the quiet like a blade

“If someone’s out there… just come out.”

You waited. Only the lavender rustled. Only the silence answered. You closed your eyes.

“Coward.”

“ Coward , you say?”

You froze. The voice came from behind you. Not far. Not loud. But clear enough to curl down your spine and light every nerve like flame. Smooth. Amused. Recognizable. You sat up too fast, your elbow caught the edge of a stone, but you barely felt it. Your eyes snapped to the garden gate, to the trees, the fence– 

And there he was.

Leaning just slightly against one of the tall posts beyond the garden’s edge, arms folded, shadowed by the night but undeniably there. Cloaked. Hood down.

No birds this time. No feathers. Just him. Watching you.

The corner of his mouth quirked, not quite a smile. More like he was highly entertained by the fact that you’d dared to call him out.

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked, tilting his head. “A coward?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt. You stood slowly, brushing dirt off your skirts with more force than necessary.

“I think anyone who stares at women from the trees instead of speaking to them probably qualifies.”

His brow lifted, golden eyes flicking down your frame like he was memorizing you in real time.

“Plus, you didn’t seem interested in speaking to me the last time we met.” You crossed your arms, feet firmly planted in the dirt between the thyme and the bloodgrass, chin tilted just enough to feign composure, even though your heart hadn’t slowed since he spoke.

He hadn’t moved from the garden edge, but the air around him still felt too close . Like he could step forward at any moment and the world would change shape around him. So you said the first thing that came to mind. The safest thing.

“So you’re the bird boy, then? What was it?  peacock whisperer? ”

That earned you something. He blinked slowly, unimpressed. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you saw it. The tiniest curve at the corner of his lip.

“Really?” he said dryly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That what they call me?”

“I mean, probably not to your face.”

“Mm.” A pause. “Cowards, then.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“Did you come all the way back here just to be mocked?”

“I came to return something,” he said simply.

Your mouth opened, ready to ask what , but then he reached into his cloak, pulled something small and pale and wrapped in cloth. And tossed it underhand. You caught it instinctively, hands curling around the soft weight. When you unwrapped the fabric, your breath caught.

Another bundle of frostleaf. And, beneath it, a single white feather. You looked back up. He was still there. You blinked.

“You didn’t vanish,” you said flatly.

“I thought about it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

What the hell. You took a step closer, clutching the bundle tighter. “Why are you leaving these?”

He tilted his head slightly. Didn’t answer.

“Seriously,” you said. “Frostleaf. Moonwort. That little cluster of bloodvine two days ago? You’re either very generous or very creepy.”

“Could be both,” he murmured.

You gave him a look. Sharp. Tired. “You’ve been sneaking around my garden almost every night.”

“Not every night,” he replied, almost too quickly.

“Why?”

That’s when his expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just… subtly. A pause in his stance. A drop in his voice. “Oh. Did you not like it?”

That threw you . You blinked again, mouth parting in confusion. “What?”

“The gifts,” he said simply. “If you didn’t like them, I’ll stop.”

You stared at him like he’d just asked you if the sky was too blue . “No– I mean… it’s not that. I just…” You exhaled. “Why?”

He shrugged. That same maddening, vague, entirely unhelpful shrug. “Felt like it.” 

You gawked. “Are you serious right now?”

“Would you prefer I left nothing at all?” His tone was level. Calm. But something danced in his eyes, dry amusement, maybe. Or something quieter.

“I’d prefer you explained what exactly you want from me.” Another pause.

Then, softly, “You’re the first person who’s ever looked at me like I’m not cursed.”

Oh… 

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

“Don’t ruin it,” he added, and then, finally , turned back toward the trees.

“Wait–” you started, stepping after him.

But by the time you crossed the garden’s edge, he was gone. Again. You looked down at the frostleaf bundle in your hands.

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

You stood at the edge of your garden, wind tugging lightly at your sleeves, and shouted into the night like a madwoman. “At least get me some ghostshade next time!”

Your voice rang out over the trees. No answer. No sound. No feather.

“Ughhhhhh,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

You turned on your heel and stormed back toward the house, muttering under your breath.

“Creepy night stalker freakin’ cryptid cloak boy… thinks he can just… show up, drop herbs, emotionally gut me, and vanish? No explanation? No goodbye?”

You slammed the door behind you. Harder than necessary.

“Coolcoolcool,” you muttered. “Totally fine. Not losing my mind. Everything is… great. ”

The next morning came soft and golden. Birdsong crept lazily through your windows. Sun warmed the wood floor beneath your feet as you stepped out onto your back stoop, still barefoot, still groggy.

You rubbed at your eyes. And then you froze. Right there, set delicately on the same flat stones near the garden gate… 

A bundle of ghostshade.

Carefully harvested. Pale purple, faintly glowing. Fresh. Cool to the touch. Wrapped in dark cloth. No note. No feather this time. Just… the plant. Exactly what you asked for. You stared at it for a full ten seconds.

“Unbelievable,” you whispered.

✧

You hadn’t planned on it. You truly hadn’t. But the book had caught your eye on the trader’s cart, its spine worn, the title barely legible:

“Birds of the Eastern Vale: Habits, Diets, and Folklore.”

Naturally, your first thought was, “Huh. That might be helpful. For potion stuff.”

You told yourself it had nothing to do with him. Not the way he moved. Not the way the birds followed. Not the feather that still sat tucked inside your desk drawer.

Nope. Purely academic. You’d bought it without thinking. And now, hours later, you were curled sideways on your reading chair, candle flickering low, eyes scanning page after page with a strange mix of curiosity and… anticipation.

Your fingers dragged slowly down a chapter header, “Foraging Habits by Species: What the Birds Seek.”

Hm. You read.

“Small forest finches are drawn to frostleaf for its calming scent. Corvids have been known to collect ghostshade– Not for food, but for nesting material.”

“Some breeds instinctively seek out moonwort. It is believed to dull pain or sharpen sight during night flights.”

“White plumage birds seem particularly drawn to bloodgrass, often using it to line nests or mark territories.”

You stared at the paragraph a little too long. Then flipped a few pages back. Then forward. Then again. Your hand twitched for a quill.

Instead, you said aloud, “Interesting.”

A beat. Strictly for research purposes, of course. 

You didn’t believe yourself. Not entirely. But still, when you shut the book, you slipped a little scrap of paper into the page about moonwort. Marked it. Just in case.

And as you stood to snuff the candlelight and head to bed, 

You didn’t check the window. But you felt it. Like somewhere out there, in the thick dark of the forest, He knew.

You told yourself you needed more herbs near the back window anyway. The light was good. The soil was soft. And if the bed just so happened to be filled with moonwort and ghostshade, well, who could blame you? They were practical plants. Useful. Medicinal.

“Besides,” you said aloud to no one, crouched beneath the sill, dirt on your knees, “birds like them. They help the ecosystem.”

You didn’t look at the forest line when you said it. You pressed the roots in carefully, fingers gentle, humming something tuneless under your breath. The same page from the bird book echoed in your mind, something about moonwort aiding night-sight. Bloodgrass for territory.

“Mmhm. Strictly herbal interest,” you mumbled, patting the soil.

You reached for the final stalk, moonwort, still faintly silver-veined, and placed it in the center, steadying it upright with a small wooden stake.

When it was done, you wiped your hands on your apron and stood.

“There,” you said.

Totally normal. Absolutely not weird.

You took a step back, and froze.

A small white bird had landed on the ledge above the planter. You watched as it tilted its head, hopped forward, and began picking delicately at the edge of the soil, nipping at loose seeds.

…Huh.

You blinked slowly. The bird plucked one tiny stem free and fluttered off, vanishing into the trees without a sound. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He’d seen it. You could feel it. And somewhere, deep in the forest… 

You were almost certain he did.

You didn’t wait up. You weren’t waiting at all. You just… left the window cracked. For airflow. And maybe you glanced at the moon a little longer than usual before blowing out the candle. And maybe your boots were left by the back door. Just in case. But it wasn’t waiting. It was preparedness.

The next morning, you rose early, sunlight brushing the edge of your bed like it was politely asking to come in. You stretched, exhaled, dragged your fingers through your hair.

You paused. There, set gently, precisely, on the windowsill planter you’d filled just yesterday, A sprig of silverthorn.

You stared at it for a long moment. Delicate. Pale. Laced with thin, iridescent veins. So faintly tinted blue it almost looked frost-kissed.

It wasn’t from your garden. It wasn’t from the town. You knew exactly where it came from, because you’d only ever seen it mentioned once .

Page forty-two. Bottom paragraph. “Silverthorn: A high-altitude plant known to draw white-winged birds to nesting grounds. Rare. Most commonly found deep in shaded, moss-covered clearings or beneath mountain overhangs.”

You picked it up carefully, brushing a bit of dew from the stem. Nothing else. Just the plant. A clear, quiet message.

I see you.

You exhaled through your nose. Smiled, despite yourself.

“Unbelievable,” you whispered again.

But you tucked it carefully into a jar of clean water anyway. Right next to the feather in your drawer.

✧

The bell above the apothecary door hadn’t even finished ringing when the footsteps struck the floor like thunder. Heavy. Unapologetic. Cloaked in purpose. You looked up from your notes, quill paused mid-stroke, as a tall figure swept into the shop, robes deep crimson, a silver pendant swinging from their neck like a blade.

Elder Halden.

Strict. Stoic. Stone-eyed. One of the council’s most devout voices. He didn’t so much speak as declare , and he never, ever , entered your shop without warning. You stood quickly, dipping your head in a respectful nod.

“Elder.”

“Apothecary,” he said curtly, hands clasped behind his back as he scanned the shelves like they offended him.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“We require bitterthorn berries for the seasonal harvest.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “You will prepare a tincture before the eve of gathering.”

Your brows furrowed faintly. “I’m… afraid I haven’t come across any bitterthorn this year, sir.”

He turned sharply. His eyes landed on the frostleaf bundle drying near the window.

“But you found that , didn’t you.”

Your breath caught. You looked to the leaves. Still fresh. Still arranged exactly the way he left them. You swallowed.

“Y… yes.”

Halden stepped forward, his presence filling the room like smoke.

“Then I’m sure you can do the establishment this favor,” he said, voice low but pointed. “Can you not, apothecary?”

You bowed your head instinctively, pulse racing behind your ears. “Of course,” you said. “I’ll do what I can.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then, with a final sweep of his robes, he turned and walked out. The door swung shut behind him. You didn’t move for a long moment. Then, very quietly, you exhaled.

Shit.

You stood in the silence after Halden’s exit for a long time, staring at the frostleaf bundle on your counter like it might shrivel beneath the weight of your guilt. The door creaked quietly behind you as the wind settled. You finally moved. Your fingers itched for answers. The old botany book cracked open on your workbench with a soft puff of dust. You flipped through pages, past diagrams, inked leaves, pressed petals, until you found the one you were looking for.

“Bitterthorn.”

A small, jagged drawing in the upper corner. Thick, thorny stems. Red-black berries clustered low near the roots.

Your eyes skimmed the description… 

“Found primarily in deep-shaded forest floors, most commonly near the Hollowgrove basin. Prefers silence, dark loam, and cold. Only blooms late season. Sap causes minor skin irritation, gloves required.”

You swallowed. You read it again. Hollowgrove. You stared at the name like it might change. Like the book might offer you another option if you just waited . It didn’t. You leaned against the table slowly. Closed the book with one hand.

Of course it’s Hollowgrove. Not only was it the deepest part of the woods, it was also the least traveled. Even the hunters avoided it. Too dark. Too dense. Too... alive.

You exhaled shakily and stared at your hands. This wasn’t even your job, not really. You didn’t take oaths. You didn’t hold titles. You didn’t sit in council chambers or lead prayer lines or harvest anything sacred.

You just… helped. You weren’t supposed to be part of all this. And yet here you were. The frostleaf sat in the corner, quiet and fragrant. Almost taunting. You didn’t say it aloud, but the thought clanged through your skull anyway… 

This is your fault.

You didn’t speak. Not even to yourself. Not while you moved through the shop with methodical precision, every motion practiced, measured.

Pouch of powdered yarrow. Cloth wrap. Skin balm. Small blade. Herb press. Water flask. Twine.

You packed light. You had to.

The berries, if you found them, would need space. You grabbed two empty baskets, slung the smaller one over your shoulder, and set the larger beside the back door.

Your cloak hung nearby. You paused as your hand hovered over it, fingers brushing the fabric. The color was dark. Not quite black. Not quite forest green. It would do. You draped it over your shoulders, pulling the hood up to shadow your face.

Just in case. The frostleaf still sat on the counter behind you. You didn’t look at it. You couldn’t. Instead, you stepped into your boots, adjusted the straps on your satchel, and took one last glance at the quiet shop. The fire was out. The windows were shuttered. Everything was still. You took a breath. And opened the door.

The wind met you like a whisper, brushing against your cheek as if to ask… 

Are you sure?

You didn’t answer. You just stepped outside, baskets in hand, and closed the door behind you.

It was time.

The trees rose like teeth. Tall. Twisting. Shadowed. Familiar in shape, but wrong in tone, like something deeper hid behind the bark and waited. You stood at the edge of the forest for a long time. Not moving. Not blinking. The last fingers of daylight reached weakly through the branches, failing to touch the path ahead. The light was leaving. The warmth was gone. And still, you hadn’t stepped forward.

Your hand clenched around the strap of the basket. You could turn back. You should . But then, your foot moved. Forward. Just one step. And then another. And then your legs kept going, without permission, without pause, carrying you across the threshold like something inside you had decided it was already too late to stop .

The trees swallowed you whole. You didn’t know how long you walked. The light bled out faster than it should’ve, and the air grew damp with silence. Not still. Not peaceful. Just… held. Every branch you passed felt like it turned to watch. You tried to breathe steadily. But your chest was tight. And your thoughts were louder than your steps.

You shouldn’t be here. This is too far. You don’t belong here. But your feet kept moving. One after another.

“Breathe,” you whispered aloud. “Just breathe.”

But you were scared. Terrified. The kind that grips low in your stomach and doesn’t let go.

And still… You didn’t stop. The forest was breathing. Not with wind, but with life . With low rustles and shifting leaves. With the occasional snap of twigs from somewhere unseen. You kept your steps light, fingers clenched around the basket handle. Every sound felt too loud. Every breath, too sharp. You told yourself to focus.

Look for the berries. Get in, get out.

But then, You heard something… Low. Throaty.

A rough grunting sound, followed by something wet. Sloppy . Like a creature tearing into fruit or meat. You froze mid-step, body stiff as the trees around you. Your heart pounded loud in your ears.

What… was that?

Another sound, a growl this time. Soft. But not quite animal . And not far enough away. Your eyes scanned the thick brush ahead.

Wolf? No… too heavy.
Boar? Maybe?

You shifted your weight… 

Crack.

A branch snapped beneath your boot. The noise stopped instantly . Everything went still. No wind. No rustle. Not even a birdcall. The air tightened. Your breath caught in your throat.

It heard me.

You took a careful step backward, pulse pounding. But the silence was already speaking. Something was there. Watching. Just out of sight. And now?

You were too close. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your foot was still hovering just off the ground, the branch beneath it freshly cracked. The sound had shattered the forest’s rhythm, and whatever had been snarling, grunting, feeding just seconds ago?

Gone. Or silent. Which was worse. Your lungs tightened. Your fingers gripped the basket tighter than necessary.

“It’s fine,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself. “Probably just a, just a fox. Or a… something. Normal. Completely normal.”

But the bile rising in your throat didn’t agree. You stepped back. Another. Still nothing. No wind. No growl. Not even a breeze in the trees. Just you. Alone.

Deep in woods you shouldn’t be in, chasing a request that was never really yours. You glanced behind you, barely able to make out the path.

This is stupid.

This is so, so stupid.

Your thoughts spiraled faster than your breath could keep up.

What if it was a wolf? A bear? What if I’m being watched? What if this was a mistake? What if Halden did this on purpose… 

Your foot caught a root and you stumbled, catching yourself just before hitting the ground. You froze, breath ragged, eyes stinging from the effort of not crying. Before you could even process what was going on…  A voice. Low. Dry. So close it slipped under your skin like cold water:

“It’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

You whipped around. Nothing. Just trees. But that voice… You knew it. Your heart surged. You weren’t alone. Not anymore. You stayed perfectly still, breath caught in your throat. The silence hung like a blade.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you said the first thing that came to mind…  

“Uh… peacock whisperer? ” It came out weaker than you meant. Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced. You were trying for brave. You sounded more like a feral librarian.

“I mean– ” you cleared your throat. “That is… you, right?”

Another beat of silence. Your heart thudded behind your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Say something, damn you. 

You glanced into the trees, eyes scanning every dark patch between the trunks.

“You’ve been… watching me,” you continued, voice steadier now, though it trembled at the edges. “For a while. Leaving things. Following birds. And I don’t even know your damn name.”

A breeze swept through the branches then, rustling the leaves in a whisper. And from somewhere just ahead, A low chuckle. Rough. Dry. Amused in that annoyingly confident way. It slipped out of the trees like smoke, wrapping around your ears and prickling your skin.

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re not very good at being subtle, you know,” came the voice again, deeper this time, with a curl of something behind it. “But I guess neither am I.”

You turned toward the sound slowly. But still… no one. Just the forest. Still too quiet. Still too close. The voice circled you like a hawk riding a thermal, unseen, but ever-present.

Finally. He stepped out. From the shadows between two trees, just far enough to be real. Cloak drawn low, hood still casting a faint shadow across his face. Golden eyes catching the dim light like they had no business glowing as much as they did. He was calm. Collected. The smug curve of his lips told you he’d been enjoying this little performance.

“You really should go home, apothecary,” he said lightly. “You’re not exactly built for this terrain.”

You opened your mouth to say something sharp. But you couldnt… all you could see was… The red. Streaked along his sleeve. Dark and fresh. Staining the edge of his collar, just barely visible where his cloak hung open.

Your heart spiked . You didn’t think. You moved. Fast. You crossed the space between you in two strides, grabbing his cloak with one hand and his wrist with the other, shoving him back against the tree behind him. He grunted, not in pain, just in surprise . Your fingers were already pulling at the fabric, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

“Are you hurt–?”

Your tone was sharp. Focused. No-nonsense. His eyes widened slightly, not in offense… but like he’d just seen a ghost. Like the question hit somewhere deeper than it should have.

“...You’re worried about me? ” he asked quietly, as if the concept was foreign.

You blinked, frown etched between your brows as your hands hovered just above his chest. His heart was racing. And not from the climb. Your hands pressed against his cloak, sweeping it aside with practiced ease. You leaned in, scanning for any deep wound, any source of… 

You stopped. The blood was drying. Flaked. Already beginning to darken into rust along the fabric. Your eyes narrowed. You pulled your hand back and held your fingers up in the sliver of light that managed to pierce the canopy. It wasn’t his.

“...Well,” you muttered, arching a brow. “ Someone is bleeding.”

Your tone dripped with sarcasm. You dropped your hand, glaring at him. He stared down at you, pinned casually between your arms like this happened to him daily . His mouth twitched.

“I’m a hunter,” he said slowly, as if explaining to a child. “I kill things. For a living.”

You stepped back slightly, eyes still narrowed.

“That explains the smell,” you muttered.

He actually laughed at that, just once, quiet and under his breath. You crossed your arms.

“And the noise?”

He blinked. Tilted his head. “What noise?”

You frowned. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t have to. It comes naturally.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. The amusement was still there, but his posture had shifted. Just a little. Like he was waiting to see what you really knew. What you really heard. You could still hear it. That awful wet sound. The growl that wasn’t quite animal. That moment where the forest had gone silent.

“It sounded like…” you trailed off. “It didn’t sound like something you kill. It sounded like something that kills.”

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes? They sharpened.

“It’s dangerous out here, apothecary,” he said softly. “Maybe next time… stay in your garden.”

“Well that’s not an option right now,” you said flatly.

Your hands were still on him. And slowly, very slowly , you let go. But not before your eyes wandered. Just a little. And unfortunately, he noticed. Your fingers uncurled from his cloak, and your gaze drifted upward, as if trying to read something from his face. Instead, you just… looked. His hood had fallen back somewhere between your grab and the pin, and now there was nothing in the way of your view.

Oh no.

His hair was windswept and slightly tousled, strands the color of wheat and flame, half-shadowed by the canopy. His jaw was sharp, but not harsh, like it had been carved with real intention. Dusting of stubble along the edge. His mouth, parted slightly, was too smug for its own good.

But it was his eyes that got you. Precise. Focused. Golden . Like they saw too much. Like they knew more than he was saying. Like staring into the sun and forgetting to look away. You didn’t realize you were staring until one corner of his mouth tilted up. Just a bit.

You snapped back, clearing your throat and stepping fully away.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

He’s… weird. Suspicious. Bleeds chicken. Lives in the woods. Probably talks to himself.

You refused to look again. But you still felt his eyes on you. Quiet. Knowing. Like maybe he caught every single thought that just ran through your head. You cleared your throat, refusing, refusing , to acknowledge the warmth rising to your cheeks.

Focus.

You straightened your cloak and pretended that last thirty seconds didn’t exist.

“So, bitterthorn,” you said abruptly, like a verbal slap. “Know where I can get that?”

A pause. You felt his eyes still on you, heavy and unreadable, like he was trying to decide if he should tease you again.

“Kinda far from here,” he said finally, his voice lighter now. “South ridge. Past the basin.”

You frowned. “Isn’t that... Hollowgrove?”

He raised a brow, like finally , a smart question. “Yeah.”

“That area’s… ” you hesitated. “That’s dangerous.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t deny it. You stared at him, exasperated.

“And you just know where it grows?”

“I’ve been out here longer than you,” he said, folding his arms lazily. “I know a lot of things.”

You hated how smug he sounded. Worse, you hated how his cloak shifted when he crossed his arms, drawing attention to just how broad his shoulders were.

You looked away. Again.

Focus.

“Well,” you said, brushing your cloak back into place, posture straightening. “I’ll have to go. Thank you for the directions.”

You bowed your head slightly. Polite. Respectful. Like he was some traveling merchant and not the cryptid you’d just cornered and accused of bleeding in the dark. When your gaze lifted again, his expression had changed. He looked… Stunned. And maybe a little offended .

“Are you serious? ” he asked, eyes narrowing.

You blinked. “Uh… yes?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“You just stumbled into something’s dinner,” he gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, “got stalked for half an hour, found me , covered in blood, by the way, and your brilliant plan is to keep going? ”

You frowned. “I need the bitterthorn.”

“You need survival instincts ,” he shot back.

You squared your shoulders.

“This is my job.”

“No, it’s not. You’re not a scout. You’re not a forager. You heal people. You stitch broken fingers and hand out sleep tea. This isn’t–” he gestured toward the trees again, “--this isn’t what you’re supposed to do.”

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “Unfortunately, the religious council didn’t get that memo.”

You started to step around him, determination blazing in your eyes.

“I have to go,” you said firmly. “The council expects results, and I’m not about to let some old men’s superstitions dictate my work.”

He planted a foot firmly in front of yours, blocking your path. “You don’t get to just decide to wander into Hollowgrove because some dusty elders want their berries,” he growled, voice low but edged with something close to concern.

You narrowed your eyes, muscles tense but unyielding. “They’re messed up in the head anyways,” you said, voice steady but sharp. “Believing in monsters and curses instead of facts and healing.”

He let out a dry, humorless chuckle.“You’re pretty stubborn.”

He stepped closer, reducing the space between you until you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Fine,” he said, exasperated. “If you’re that set on walking into a death trap, I’m coming with you.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t say it aloud, but you were grateful. Even if he was grumbling about it. He wasn’t exactly the hero you expected, but maybe… he was the one you needed. You crossed your arms, eyes locked on him as your voice sharpened.

“Those elders? They don’t want healing. They want control. Fear. Monsters to blame so they don’t have to face the real problems.”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk creeping onto his lips. “Oh yeah?”

He took a step closer, voice low and almost amused. “You have no idea how much I hate those old fools.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Really.” He ran a hand through his hair, as if brushing away the weight of a thousand pointless meetings and sermons. “They think they’re the keepers of purity. Guardians of the ‘right way.’”

“But it’s just fear,” you said quietly, matching his tone. “Fear dressed up as faith.”

He looked at you, eyes sharp but with something like respect. “You’re braver than most around here.”

“Or just stubborn,” you shot back.

He chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. “Maybe a bit of both.”

For a moment, the tension between you eased, replaced by a rare understanding.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping back to a growl. “But if you’re going to play rebel, I’m not letting you walk into Hollowgrove alone.”

“Don’t think I’m letting you off easy,” you warned.

He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As you hoisted one of your baskets, he stepped forward and gently took it from your hands before you could protest. Your fingers brushed briefly against his as he lifted it. A strange warmth fluttered in your chest, but you pushed it aside. This was fine . You walked side by side, the basket swinging lightly between you. After a moment of silence, you glanced over and let a small, teasing smile creep onto your face.

“So,” you said, voice light but curious, “do you actually talk to birds?”

He shot you a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Only when they’re worth listening to.”

You laughed softly. “That’s... very mysterious.”

He shrugged, eyes gleaming like he knew secrets no one else did. “Maybe.”

For the first time since this whole ordeal began, the forest felt a little less heavy. You glanced over at him, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Do you name them?” you asked, voice eager.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Only the troublesome ones.”

You laughed softly and kept going. “How do you get their feathers? Do they just... give them to you?”

He raised a brow. “Sometimes. Sometimes I take what’s fallen.”

You nodded thoughtfully, then fired off another. “Do they like you? I mean, is it mutual?”

He gave you a look that was half amusement, half something unreadable. “They tolerate me.”

You grinned, not ready to quit. “Is there anything I can grow for you? Anything that might help?”

His eyes flickered briefly, a subtle shift you almost missed. “Maybe.” He let the word hang between you like a secret.

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling. “Maybe? What do you mean?”

He glanced toward the sky, then back at you with a faint smile. “The birds seem to like the moonwort you planted near your windowsill.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, really? That’s so cool!”

You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Did they tell you that?”

He chuckled softly. “They didn’t have to. I’ve been paying attention.”

You felt warmth rush to your cheeks… not from the cold. “You’ve been watching me.”

“And you, me.”

A quiet moment settled between you, full of unspoken understanding. You looked at him, curious and a little cautious. “Do you not like people?”

He shrugged, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What’s to like about them?”

His voice was quiet, almost weary, like he’d carried that question a long time. You waited, sensing there was more beneath the surface.

“They’re loud. Messy. Fragile.” He gave a half-smile, bitter but honest. “And they don’t see what’s really important.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight behind his words. “But you… you watch the birds.”

He nodded. “They don’t lie. They don’t pretend. They just are. ”

For a moment, the distance between you felt smaller, the forest a little less daunting. You smirked, crossing your arms. “Hmmm, yeah... if I were only friends with birds, I’d probably hide in a forest too.”

He glanced at you, a flicker of something, surprise? Crossing his golden eyes.

“Doesn’t seem like you have many friends.”

Your smile didn’t waver. “Sounds like you’ve been paying attention.”

He leaned back against the tree, exhaling softly. “Maybe I have.”

For a moment, the teasing felt less like a challenge and more like an invitation. Many minutes passed as you walked through the tangled trees, the basket swinging lightly at his side.

You asked, and he answered, the conversation weaving between silence and shared stories, your voices soft against the rustling leaves.

Then, without warning, he spoke again. “You know,” he said, voice low but clear, “if you needed this so badly, you could have just asked.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Asked? For what?”

He smirked, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. “The bitterthorn. It would have been in your garden by morning.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that… a threat?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No. An offer.”

For the first time, the idea that he might actually want to help didn’t feel like a joke. Is this right? you wondered, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you walked beside him. Having friends was one thing. Guy friends were... different. Closer. Riskier. The elders would never approve of the way you lingered near the woods, the way you spoke so easily with this stranger, this hunter with golden eyes and too many secrets. You didn’t even know his name. Did it matter? Was it dangerous to care?

The weight of the village’s whispered warnings echoed in your mind.

“People like that don’t have friends.”

But maybe… maybe he wasn’t the monster everyone feared. Maybe you were just starting to see something else. His voice cut through the quiet.

“You okay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Had he really sensed that? How? You swallowed, searching for an answer.

“I’m fine,” you said softly, but your eyes betrayed you, clouded with confusion and uncertainty. He didn’t press.

Instead, he waited. And in the stillness that followed, you finally asked...

“I never got your name,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He stopped walking. Turned slowly to face you, eyes deep and unreadable.

“Names can be dangerous,” he said after a beat.

“But if I’m going to walk this path with you... you deserve one.” His gaze softened, just enough.

“Call me Keigo.”

“Hmmm… Keigo.” The name rolled off your tongue like honey, soft, warm. It suited him somehow. Strange, maybe, but… cute . You smiled a little to yourself.

Until… Something flickered in your memory. Your smile faltered.

“That name... I’ve never seen it in my reco–”

“We’re here.” His voice cut in sharply, not loud, but firm.

You looked up, startled to find the trees thinning, the air cooler. The ground beneath your feet shimmered faintly with frost. The clearing was ahead.

Bitterthorn.

He started forward again without another word. But the unfinished thought hung in your chest like smoke. You pulled your gloves from your satchel, tugging them on with practiced ease. The bitterthorn was dense and delicate, fussy about how it was picked.

You crouched low, scanning the silvery vines twisting through the frost-kissed soil. Careful fingers found the stems, snapping them gently and placing them in the basket. Focused. Professional. You could feel him behind you.

Not close at first, just there. But then… He shifted.

You heard the soft crunch of his boots in the frost-dusted undergrowth, and when he knelt, he was suddenly far too close . Pressed into your side. You froze mid-reach. His knee brushed yours. His shoulder nudged yours lightly as he crouched down beside you, silently mimicking your movements.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, voice low, too calm.

You didn’t respond immediately. Because breathing? Breathing suddenly felt like work.

Why is he so close.

You cleared your throat. “I do it for a living,” you muttered, eyes on the bitterthorn.

But your hands had started to shake just slightly in your gloves. The two of you worked mostly in silence. You finished your side of the patch, brushing frost from your gloves, and moved around the thick shrub to gather what remained on the other side.

You crouched again, settling into the rhythm, pluck, examine, toss. Footsteps crunched behind you. Then–

Thud.

He plopped down beside you with little ceremony, the weight of him shifting the frost-crusted earth. This time, there was no hesitation. His arm brushed yours, shoulder to shoulder. His thigh pressed flush against yours. You froze for just a second.

He is definitely closer than before.

And he said nothing about it. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t comment. Just leaned forward casually, pulling a bitterthorn sprig with a slow, steady motion. You could feel his warmth bleeding through all the layers between you. It made your chest tight.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice even.

He didn’t look at you. But you saw the smallest hint of a smile at the edge of his lips.

“Am I?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached forward, snagging a cluster of berries right beside his knee, intentionally leaning into him in the process. Pressed into his side, shoulder digging slightly into his chest.

You didn’t even blink. “You’re in my light,” you murmured.

He huffed a quiet laugh, not moving an inch. You didn’t either. Eventually, the baskets were full. You pulled your gloves off with a slow snap and stood, dusting frost from your skirts. He followed, stretching as he rose beside you, still watching, still quiet.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the way your shoulder tingled where it had rested against his.

Instead, you reached for your basket like nothing had happened.

“Let’s go,” you said.

And without waiting, you started walking. He followed, of course. Just a half-step too close.

By the time you were halfway back through the thicket, he had both baskets in hand. You didn’t even remember handing yours off. Maybe you hadn’t. But you let it happen. He walked beside you like it was natural now, shoulder brushing yours every so often, his steps easy and unhurried.

He’s definitely getting comfortable… maybe too comfortable.

Your eyes drifted to his side. The dried blood still stained the hem of his cloak.

“You gonna wash that?” you asked flatly.

“Hm?” he looked down as if only just noticing. “Oh. Yeah. Later.”

“Hm.”

That wasn’t an answer. You stared a little longer, then glanced behind you. No carcass. No signs of a proper hunt. Your brow furrowed.

He wasn’t carrying the body. Did he just… leave it?

Your chest tightened.

Was that even his first kill of the night?

You said nothing. But the questions were stacking faster than your heartbeat. And next to you, Keigo just kept walking like the forest didn’t whisper with warnings behind his every step. You stepped over a thick root, squinting ahead as the path began to flatten, the trees parting just slightly. The faint outline of an old tree marker came into view, one you knew well.

You exhaled in relief. “Oh, I know where we are,” you said, more to yourself than him.

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”

You gave him a sidelong glare. “I was just double-checking.”

“Sure you were.” He adjusted the baskets in his hands, smirking like he had already won something.

You didn’t respond. But if your elbow nudged him just a little as you passed, well… that was your business. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the soft crunch of frost beneath your boots and the whisper of branches above. You glanced at him, trying to read the slope of his jaw, the quiet calm he always wore like a second cloak.

“You know… people are kind of scared of you.”

He didn’t even look over. “Oh really?” Sarcasm, dry as ever.

You winced. Maybe not the best opening.

“I mean... people used to be scared of me too,” you added quickly, voice lower now.

He finally glanced your way. You couldn’t quite read his expression. You looked forward again, trying not to sound too nervous.

“Anything different, I guess… makes people weird. Makes them... wary.”

Still, he said nothing. You swallowed and tried again. “I just mean… I get it.”

A long beat passed. You weren’t sure he was going to respond at all.

“Yeah.”

Just that. But it felt heavier than most full conversations you’d had. The trees were thinning now, just enough that you could see the dusky edge of the path that would lead to your garden. Home was close. The silence between you had settled into something comfortable. Almost warm.

But of course it couldn't stay that way. 

“So,” he said casually, “what else have you learned from your bird book?”

You stopped. Your foot caught mid-step. You turned slowly, staring at him.

“I... never mentioned I had a bird book.”

He smiled, innocent, infuriating.

“Didn’t you?”

No. No, you absolutely didn’t.

He kept walking, like he hadn’t just peeled back your walls with one sentence. You caught up, heart skipping a little too fast.

Okay, you thought, he’s still a little weird. Definitely a little weird.

But gods help you… You still kind of liked it. 

The path opened up fully now, your garden just ahead, familiar and quiet, bathed in fading light. You slowed. He didn’t. Not until you both stood at the low stone edge of your property, the herbal rows just visible past the gate.

He still had the baskets. You still hadn’t decided what to say.

Do I offer him in? Would that be too forward? Would he take it the wrong way?

You glanced at the side of his face. He looked… unreadable. Relaxed, but still sharp around the edges. Your throat tightened. He hadn’t made a move to hand the baskets over.

So… it’s on him, isn’t it?

How far he walked. Where he stopped. Whether he crossed that little threshold between “visitor” and… something else. The two of you reached the back door, the baskets still in his hands.

You turned to say something, to thank him, maybe, but he beat you to it.

“So... are you gonna invite me in, or–”

His voice trailed off. His eyes weren’t on you anymore. They were fixed just over your shoulder, a shift in his posture so subtle, but so immediate, you felt it before you even turned.

“What is that?” he asked.

You followed his gaze. “Oh. That’s just the night-blooming jasmine.” You smiled softly, almost absentmindedly. “My mother used to plant them. I just… took over after.”

His face changed. The playful smirk dissolved into something unreadable. Not pain. Not quite. But something hollow. Stilled. As if time paused behind his golden eyes.

Is he okay?

You watched him, heart thudding. “Keigo?”

He blinked once. Then twice.

“...It suits the place,” he murmured.

But his voice didn’t match the words. You blinked, heart hammering in your chest. “Oh... thank you…” Before you could second-guess yourself, your fingers found the latch.

The door creaked open. He stepped inside. You froze.

Holy crap. He’s actually coming in.

The warmth of the room wrapped around you, thick with the scent of herbs and earth. He paused, eyes sweeping over the shelves and jars. Your breath hitched.

This changes everything.

You stepped aside and motioned toward the empty side table. “Here, you can put the baskets down.”

He obeyed, setting them down with a soft thud.

 You turned to him, eyes warm.“Thank you so much, Keigo. It means a lot that you’d help me.”

For a heartbeat, he looked like you’d said something utterly absurd. His mouth opened, then closed. “I… you… uh…”

You raised an eyebrow, concern creeping in. “Are you feeling okay?”

His eyes flickered briefly, then he gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I’m fine.”

But the hesitation lingered in the air between you. You glanced at the night-blooming jasmine clustered near the window.

“You like the jasmine? I can cut some for you, if you want.”

His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes please.”

You reached for your small, sharp knife and moved toward the plant. As you knelt to snip a few fragrant sprigs, you noticed him slowly pacing around the room, inspecting everything with an amused curiosity.

Just great.

Of course he’s poking around.

You were just about to turn back to your task when he suddenly froze mid-step. “HAH! The bird book.”

You looked up, caught off guard. “What about it?”

He smirked, holding up the well-worn tome you’d left open on the worktable. “I knew you were weirder than you let on.”

You stepped closer, holding the freshly cut jasmine between your fingers, the delicate fragrance filling the room. With a teasing smile, you glanced up at him. “Yeah, says the one who actually talks to birds.”

He looked up from the book, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Guilty as charged.”

You tapped a finger against the open pages, scanning the text and illustrations. “So, what’s your verdict? Am I a bird whisperer or just a crazy herbalist?”

He closed the book with a soft thud, eyes locking onto yours. “Definitely a little of both.”

You leaned lightly against the table, holding the jasmine between your fingers as you looked at him. “Hmmm… you’re actually pretty cool.”

His brow lifted, a touch surprised, like he wasn’t used to compliments that weren’t edged in fear or suspicion. You shrugged. “I’m sure if people saw me talking to you, I’d be beheaded. But, what’s new.”

He blinked. Then gave a quiet laugh, low and warm, but with an edge. “Charming town, isn’t it?”

You smiled, just a little. “Oh, the best.”

Your fingers brushed over the petals in your hand. Still alive. Still here. And somehow… not entirely alone.

He looked around again, a little slower this time, like the space actually meant something. “It’s been a while since I was somewhere like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He didn’t meet your gaze right away. “Just… allowed in.”

That made your chest pull tight. But before you could say anything… 

“Where do you sleep?”

You blinked. “I… what.”

He looked at you, completely serious. “Just curious.”

Oh god. Oh no.

Your brain was running laps. Did he want to see it? Why did he want to see it?  Was that a bird- man thing? Was he going to sniff your sheets or something???

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. And he just stood there. Waiting. Calm. Casual. Like he hadn’t just completely short-circuited your entire nervous system. He didn’t even blink. Just looked at you like it was a totally reasonable question.

“I was just curious.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Just curious? Just curious about where I lay unconscious and vulnerable every night?

You coughed, trying to play it off. “That’s kind of a weird question.”

“Is it?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Most people ask things like ‘how’s your day?’ or ‘what’s your favorite tea?’ Not, you know, where do you sleep .”

He tilted his head, half a smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not most people.”

Yeah. No kidding. 

You glanced toward the back hall. “It’s… uh… down the hall. Not that I’m inviting you to see it or anything.”

“Didn’t ask to,” he said, amused. “Yet.”

Your face burned. You hated him. You also maybe, sort of didn’t. You kept half an eye on him as he wandered across the room again, this time to your bookshelf.

Because apparently that’s what we do now. Just poke through people’s reading habits uninvited.

He ran a finger along the spines like he was choosing wine, pausing occasionally to tilt his head at the titles.

You tried not to feel exposed. “You always this nosy?”

“Only when I’m curious.” That faint smirk again.

You crossed your arms, watching him more closely now.

The way he moved, slow, deliberate, quiet . Too quiet. Like he was always calculating. Always listening. And his eyes… You squinted slightly.

Was his gaze... reflecting the candlelight?

Just a flicker. A strange, golden glint that didn’t belong in normal irises. You blinked. Gone.

Weird.

You filed it away in the back of your mind with the rest of the things about him that didn’t quite make sense. You watched him pluck a book off the shelf, one of the thicker ones, and flip it open like he had all the time in the world.

You cleared your throat. He didn’t look up. “Are you staying all night, orr…?”

That finally got a reaction. His eyes lifted, golden and amused. “Depends. You inviting me to?”

You made a face. “Absolutely not.”

He closed the book, the ghost of a grin on his lips. “Then no. I’m just enjoying the ambiance.”

“Right. The ambiance of… herbal storage and dust.”

“Mhm.” He didn’t move.

You crossed your arms. “...You’re really weird, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one, apothecary.”

If he was going to stay, then fine. You had things to do anyway. Notes to organize, books to reference, obscure medicinal entries to reread for the hundredth time. Just a normal night for an apothecary. You pulled your chair closer to the desk and sat comfortably, curling one leg underneath you as you flipped open a thick, handwritten volume. Something about root systems in swamp climates. Completely irrelevant. Possibly life-saving. Who knew?

Across the room, Keigo still hadn’t moved from the bookshelf. A different book now in hand, posture relaxed but never fully at ease, he read in that same deliberate way he did everything, like each sentence might hold a secret.

The candlelight flickered between you. Neither of you spoke. It was… weirdly comfortable. Almost like you’d done this before.

Don’t overthink it, you told yourself.

So you didn’t. You just turned another page. And so did he. You blinked hard. Twice. The candlelight was soft and steady. Your notes were beginning to blur. Across the room, Keigo was still standing by the bookshelf, still reading, like time didn’t apply to him. Like the hour didn’t matter. Your elbow slipped a little on the desk and you caught yourself, sitting up straighter with a stubborn breath.

Nope. No way. You’re not falling asleep while some forest cryptid is standing in your house acting like it’s a public library.

You flipped another page, though you had no idea what it said. You didn’t even notice him glance up from his book until he spoke. “You don’t have to stay awake just for me.”

You stiffened. “I’m not.”

A beat. You regretted that too quickly. He set the book down, spine up. “You’re practically drooling on your notes.”

“Am not.”

“Right.”

Silence stretched. Then his voice, quiet. “You’re safe, you know.”

Your gaze flicked to him. He wasn’t smiling. He just looked… certain. Like he meant it.

Dangerous people don’t usually say that out loud, you told yourself.

But gods, something in your chest relaxed anyway. Just a little. You stared at him across the candlelit room. He wasn’t smiling. Just calm. Steady.

“Says the guy with blood all over him,” you muttered, eyes half-lidded.

Thud.

Your head dropped gently onto your arm, cheek smushing against your notes, fingers still curled around a half-written line.

Silence.

Keigo blinked. “Huh.”

He watched you for a second longer, eyes softening just slightly. Then, without a word, he picked up the book again and kept reading.

✧

Ugh. Your back.

Your eyes fluttered open to a beam of blinding sunlight slicing through the apothecary window. You groaned, lifting your head, paper stuck faintly to your cheek. Your notes were crumpled beneath you, ink smudged in places, but mostly intact.

You blinked a few times, disoriented, and sat up with a stretch. Then froze. There was a blanket on you. Not just a blanket. Your blanket. From your bed. You recognized the stitching at the hem, the way it smelled faintly of lavender from the sachets you kept under your pillow.

“Oh no.”

Your heart flipped. He’d seen your bed. He’d gone in your room. He’d… He tucked you in?

You stood up too fast, pushing the blanket off and staring around the room. No sign of him. No sound. Just quiet. And on the corner of the desk… a single white feather.

You rubbed your eyes and stretched, still dazed. The blanket pooled at your feet. You stared down at it, then up at your notes again, and that’s when you saw it. A tiny, smiley face , drawn in the corner of the page you fell asleep on. Drawn with your ink . You stared.

Are we serious.

And then you looked to the windowsill. The jasmine was gone. Of course it is.

No feather trail. No scribbled message. Just the faintest hint of birdsong outside and a silence that felt… too full to be empty. You had no idea when, or if , you’d see him again.

And the worst part? You already kind of missed him. You spent the rest of the morning pretending. Pretending like your blanket hadn’t been moved. Like your notes hadn’t been graffitied by a grown man with the sense of humor of a child. Like the jasmine on your windowsill hadn’t been taken by the world’s most cryptic forest ghost.

You threw yourself into your work. Every bottle was refilled. Every herb re-sorted, catalogued, and re-labeled. You scrubbed glass jars that didn’t need scrubbing. You re-stitched the linen lining on the patient cot. You even fixed that creaky drawer you’d been ignoring for three weeks.

Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep your brain quiet. “Forget him,” you muttered to yourself while grinding moonwort into powder..”

By mid-afternoon, you’d helped five customers. A burn, two rashes, one mystery cough, and a dog with fleas.

“Anything else?” you asked the last customer, too cheerily.

“No, that’s everything,” they said, eyes a little wide at your enthusiasm. “You’ve been... very helpful.”

You smiled. Tight. “That’s my job.”

But the second the bell on the door jingled closed behind them, your eyes drifted, unbidden, toward the tree line outside your back window.

Still. Quiet. No birds. No feathers. No Keigo.

Good, you told yourself. You’re better off. You didn’t believe it. Not even a little. The soft chime of the door broke your focus.

“Afternoon, apothecary!”

Ela’s voice drifted in like warm bread, and you turned to see her, cheeks rosy from the walk, basket in hand.

“Here for your mother’s tea?”

“Mhm! She said your last batch worked wonders. Slept through the whole night. Not even the church bell woke her.”

You gave a soft smile and reached for the pouch already prepared behind the counter. “Tell her not to brew it too hot this time. It burns the calming oils.”

“Got it.” She stepped forward, accepting the wrapped herbs, then paused, eyes flicking toward your desk, where several books still sat half-opened in a haphazard pile.

Her gaze landed on that one.

“Birds, huh?” she asked, tilting her head. “That’s... interesting.”

You blinked. “It’s for cross-pollination.”

“Right.” She didn’t sound like she believed you.

“You know,” she said casually, “I’ve never actually seen you talk to anyone. But lately… you’ve seemed a little less, I dunno... haunted.”

You stared at her. “What are you getting at.”

“Nothing!” she said innocently, already turning for the door. “Just thought it was cute. The whole mysterious herbalist and bird-watching recluse thing.”

“Ela.”

She giggled, swinging the door open. “I didn’t say anything. Enjoy your feathers.”

And she was gone. You stood there, blood hot in your ears, glaring at the empty doorway.

She doesn’t know anything.

Your eyes shifted slowly to the desk. Tabs. Smiley face. Book on migratory patterns.

...She knows everything.

✧

You weren’t nervous. Of course not. You just… took a little longer getting ready than usual. A fresh blouse. Hair pinned just so. A ribbon tucked into your braid, deep plum, matching the color of the bitterthorn berries now neatly bundled in twin baskets on your worktable.

You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But you’d deliver just the same. 

When you opened the door, the sunlight spilled across your floor like judgment. You stepped through it without flinching.

This is fine.

The baskets were heavier than you remembered. Or maybe it's because it wasn't your arms carrying them. Either way, you carried them all the way to the town square with steady strides and your chin high. The church building loomed ahead, tall, pale stone with its high stained-glass windows and pointed arches that always looked like they were watching you.

Inside, the air was still and cool. A few heads turned when you entered. Quiet murmurs followed. You ignored them.

“Delivery for the harvest preparation,” you said simply, placing the baskets on the altar table with care.

A robed attendant took them with only a nod, but he wasn’t the one you were worried about. You straightened, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. Behind you, heavy footsteps approached on the stone floor.

“Apothecary,” came a deep voice.

You turned slowly. The elder priest stood there, hands clasped, face unreadable. “You followed through.”

“I said I would.”

“And where did you find them?”

Your smile was thin.

“The forest provides.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. But finally, he nodded once. “Good. We’ll pray they’re enough.”

“I’m sure they are.” You turned and walked out before he could ask more.

The sunlight hit your face like a reward.

The town fell behind you in slow, echoing steps. You walked, steady, quiet, like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just handed over proof that you could do what no one else could. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were too good at your job. Too good at surviving. At knowing what to say. At hiding just enough of the truth to keep them satisfied.

They’re going to get me killed.

The thought whispered through your skull like wind through hollow bark. Not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. Because now they knew you could find what they couldn’t. Go where they wouldn’t.

And if they asked again? When they asked again? What choice would you have.

You hugged your arms tighter around yourself as the trees returned to view. Your cottage peeking through branches like a quiet retreat, but not even that felt safe now. Would they ask you to go deeper next time? Would they watch you? Would they send someone with you?

You reached the garden gate, fingers trembling as you unlatched it. You didn’t want to go back in there. But you would. Because you’d have to. Because they wouldn’t stop. Not until the forest took you or he did.

By the time you reached your cottage, the sky had deepened into soft gray, clouds low and heavy, like the earth had taken a long breath and didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t notice the small box until you nearly tripped over it. Set just beside your door. Wrapped in deep red cloth. No note. You stared at it for a moment, heart already racing.

Not again. You crouched slowly, lifting the fabric.

Oh.

Inside: a hairpin.

Delicate and shining. Silver, but not pure, some blend of metals, carefully wrought. Safe. Thoughtful. The end curled into a familiar shape.

Jasmine.

You blinked.

Not like jasmine. Not symbolic of jasmine. It was your jasmine. The exact way your mother had once shaped them in her garden. The way you had grown them ever since. The ones he had stared at without saying a word. You ran your thumb along the curve of the metal. It wasn’t something someone bought on a whim. It wasn’t casual. It was… too much.

“What are you doing...” you whispered aloud, even though he wasn’t here. Or maybe he was. The trees didn’t move. The air didn’t shift. But the feeling crept in all the same, that heat against the back of your neck. That quiet, invisible gaze.

You stood, clutching the pin, throat dry. This isn’t funny anymore. But you didn’t throw it away. Of course you didn’t.

You called it a night not long after. There was nothing more to be done. The herbs were drying, the shelves were stocked, the tea orders sorted. You ate half a loaf of bread, drank water you didn’t remember fetching, and changed into something soft and threadbare, something familiar.

And the hairpin stayed exactly where you left it. Right on the corner of your bedside table. Close enough to catch the lamplight. Not on purpose. Just... that’s where it ended up. You didn’t touch it again. Didn’t put it away either. You laid down with your back to it.Didn’t think about it.

A couple days passed like that. Maybe three. Maybe four. You weren’t sure. Business was steady. You kept your head down. Stayed in the garden. Dried chamomile. Took long walks to nowhere in particular. You hadn’t seen him. You hadn’t seen anything.

And that should’ve been comforting.

You weren’t thinking about it. Not the jasmine pin. Not the soft way he’d said your name. Not the way he looked at you like…

Stop.

You pressed your palm over your eyes.

You're not thinking about it.

The sun warmed your shoulders as you stepped past the market stalls, the buzz of voices washing over you like a gentle tide. For once, the usual wary glances and whispered suspicions felt softer, friendlier, maybe because you’d earned a little respect, or maybe because you were just finally letting yourself breathe.

You smiled at a group of women sharing gossip near the bread vendor, and one of them returned it, nodding in quiet approval.

This is kind of nice.

Your feet carried you further down the main street toward the blacksmith’s forge, a sturdy stone building, smoke curling from the chimney and the steady clink of hammer on metal ringing out.

Inside, the blacksmith looked up from his workbench, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Ah, Apothecary,” he greeted with a broad grin. “What brings you here?”

You lifted the edge of your cloak, revealing the small leather pouch you carried. “I need a new mini cauldron,” you said, fingering the worn one strapped to your belt. “Something sturdy, but not too big.”

He nodded, already rummaging through his shelves of pots and pans. “Got just the thing,” he said, holding up a small, thick-bottomed iron pot with a smooth finish. “Perfect for your tinctures and brews.”

You took it, feeling the weight in your hands, the rough cast-iron cool but comforting. “Thank you,” you said softly. “Exactly what I needed.”

As you turned to leave, the blacksmith called out, “If you ever want to learn to mend your own gear, you know where to find me.”

You chuckled, stepping back into the sunlight.

Maybe one day.

You found yourself walking past the butcher’s stall on the way back, the smell of roasting meat tugging at your stomach. Maybe tonight you’d eat something warm, instead of just breathing in herbs and falling asleep over your books.

“Hi, sir! Two chicken skewers, please,” you called out, smiling.

The butcher looked up, his weathered face breaking into a friendly grin. “Ah, of course,” he said, carefully wrapping them in parchment.

You reached for your coin pouch, but before you could pay, he waved a hand.

“No need. You healed my wife’s fever last week. Please, take it for free.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly– ” you started, but he shook his head firmly.

“Consider it a thank you. And an encouragement to keep doing what you’re doing.”

Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected kindness. “Thank you. Truly.”

With the skewers tucked safely in your basket, you were about to continue your way home, feeling lighter than you had in days. You barely had time to step away from the butcher’s stall when the air around you seemed to change. A shadow fell over your shoulder, and before you could turn, a familiar presence was there.

Keigo. Cloak pulled tight around him, dark and unreadable, like he’d stepped straight out of the forest. Whispers stirred among the people nearby. Eyes flicked to him, then quickly away. Some stepped back, others simply melted into the crowd, leaving you standing awkwardly alone.

You swallowed, heart thudding. He moved with quiet purpose. Without a word, Keigo pulled a large, worn leather pouch from his cloak and set it on the butcher’s table. You assumed it was animal remains… that was his job after all. 

The butcher glanced inside. “Thank you…” he muttered, voice low.

Without waiting for a response, the butcher turned and disappeared toward the back of the stall. Moments later, the butcher returned carrying a heavy sash of coins, which he pressed into Keigo's hand.

You wanted to look at Keigo. To say something. But your eyes wouldn’t meet his. Why couldn’t you look? He took the coins pressed into his hand and you decide to finally glance up, hoping to catch the butcher’s friendly smile again.

Instead, your eyes met Keigo’s. He was already looking at you. That same expression, the one from the very first time you’d seen him. Not quite anger. But definitely not pleased. Your chest tightened. What had you done? Had you said something wrong? Did you slip up somehow? Before you could unravel your thoughts, a sharp, clearing voice cut through the silence.

“Ahem.”

You blinked. The butcher stood in front of you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“You’re holding up the line, miss.”

A small crowd was gathering behind you, waiting patiently but expectantly. You flushed, muttering a quick apology as you stepped aside to collect your skewers. Keigo’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and melted back into the shadows.

You walked fast. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel the skewers swinging slightly in your basket, untouched.

God. His face. That look, flat, unreadable, and far too familiar. It gnawed at you the entire way down the main road. You tried to shake it off. You nodded to the candlemaker’s apprentice. Thanked the grocer for a small jar of honey he pressed into your hands. Smiled when the florist waved.

But your body was stiff, your smile tight, and the words didn’t feel like yours.

Why did he look at you like that?

You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t even say anything. You told yourself that once, twice, ten times. It didn’t help. And the worst part? You could feel him. Not next to you. Not behind you. Not exactly. Just… around . Like the wind moving in the wrong direction. Like shadows that didn’t quite belong. Like every crow in the village had turned its head to follow your steps.

Your fingers curled tighter around the basket handle… Keigo, what did I do?

You reached your cottage just as the wind picked up. The door loomed in front of you, familiar, safe. But your hand hesitated at the latch. You glanced around. The garden was still, the jasmine untouched. The path behind you was quiet. Too quiet.

He’s not here.

At least… not where you could see. You exhaled slowly, trying not to look like you were checking . But your eyes swept the trees anyway. Nothing but shifting branches and the sound of distant crows.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.

Still, your heart kicked harder as you pushed open the door. It creaked like always. You stepped inside quickly, closing it behind you with a soft click. Then paused. Just in case. You walked through each room, quick, practiced steps. Checked the back door. The windows. Even your herb room. No sign of him. No sign of anyone. Still, the air felt heavy. Like it hadn’t quite cleared since you left.

You stood in the center of your home for a moment, hands still curled around your basket, skewers untouched. Why were you so scared? Not of him. Just… of what he might be thinking. Of what he might do. Of what you don’t know. You placed the basket on the table with more force than necessary.

“God…”

You exhaled through your nose, staring down at the untouched skewers. Your appetite was long gone.What is wrong with you?

You turned, pacing to the far end of the room, then back. He’s not here. He’s not in the window, he’s not in the garden, he’s not pressed into the shadow of the wall… he’s not here.

But it didn’t feel true. It felt like he was everywhere. In the shift of the curtains. In the way the breeze creaked the floorboards. In the darkened corners of your home that somehow felt darker than usual.

When was the last time you felt… alone? Really alone .

You leaned on the edge of the table, knuckles white. Maybe you need to say something. Or… or write something. Set… boundaries. Normal people have those. You laughed bitterly at yourself. Normal people don’t lie awake all night wondering if the man they met in the woods is going to materialize in their home.

You paused, then muttered under your breath… “yeah . Right.”

You dragged your hand down your face.you just… you need space. You need your space. Your privacy. This is your home. Your life. You didn’t ask for this… this shadow over everything. You looked to the window.

Silence. Your shoulders sagged. What does he even want ? The question hung in the room like a weight, pressing down on your chest. You didn’t have an answer. Not a real one. You stared down at the scrap of parchment in your hand, ink pen hovering just above it.

Please leave me alone from now on.

Seven little words. It didn’t look like much. But they hit like a stone in your chest. You read it again. Once. Twice.

Was it too harsh?

You glanced to the side, to the small wooden box where you’d stashed the hairpin, the beautiful, delicate one shaped like jasmine, like your mother’s flowers. It gleamed faintly in the low light, catching the glint of the oil lamp.

He did give you that. He didn’t have to. So maybe… maybe he was trying. In his own strange way.

But that look . That expression at the butcher’s stall. Like you’d betrayed him. Or worse, like you owed him something.

You swallowed, folding the note in two with trembling hands. “Maybe this is for the best,” you whispered into the silence. “I just need… to breathe.”

You stepped outside quietly, the night air cool on your skin. You moved to the edge of the garden, to the small post where he always left his offerings. You hesitated. Then, with a soft exhale, placed the folded paper gently on the flat stone at its base.

“Please understand,” you whispered, even though no one was there. You turned, walked inside, and shut the door. This time, you didn’t look over your shoulder. But gods, you wanted to.

✧

You weren’t sure what woke you. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the stillness. Or maybe… That sound. Wet. Choking.

Like someone drowning in their own breath. It bubbled up from somewhere just beyond the window, hidden in the folds of the dark. You froze under the blanket, heart thudding hard enough to shake your ribs.

There it was again. A thick, suffocating gurgle, cut short like a throat closing mid-gasp. You sat up. For a moment, the room was too quiet. Even the wind held its breath. You slid from bed, pulled your shawl around your shoulders, and reached for your oil lamp. It flickered low, barely holding its flame.

“Please don’t be what I think it is…”

The back door creaked as you opened it slowly. Cold air swept around your ankles, carrying the scent of damp earth, crushed herbs, and… Blood?

The garden was still. Too still. No breeze stirred the night-blooming jasmine. The trees beyond didn’t even rustle. You stepped out, bare feet ghosting over the stones, the lamp trembling in your hand.

This is fine, you thought. Maybe a fox. Maybe an animal got caught in the fencing. Just check the post. That’s all. You walked carefully. Every crunch of a stray twig sounded like a thunderclap. You forced yourself forward, eyes darting through the shadows, breath held. The sound had stopped. But your body stayed locked in place. Something felt… wrong. You reached the small stone post where you’d left the letter.

And there it was.

Still folded.

Untouched.

Except… 

No, not untouched. New ink had bloomed across the page.

Your lamplight caught it, dark, rust-colored. Bold, unmistakable letters slashed through your careful handwriting:

NO

The word stared back at you. Thick. Jagged. Written in blood. You staggered back a step, chest heaving. Your stomach turned as you realized, 

It was fresh. Still wet. Still warm. You scanned the garden wildly, lamp whipping with your movements.

“Keigo…?”

No response. Just the silence. The paralyzing, watching kind. And somewhere in the trees, you swore you heard the rustle of feathers.

Chapter Text

It had been seven days.

Seven days since the blood-soaked “NO.” Seven days since the garden stopped feeling like yours. And in that time, the world hadn’t stopped turning, but you had.

You moved like someone stuck between moments. Everything you did, every herb crushed, every salve stirred, every door locked… was done with trembling hands. You dropped things more often now. Not because you were clumsy, but because your fingers never stopped shaking.

And the nights…

The nights were worse. The oil lamp stayed lit ‘til dawn. You’d sit near the fireplace, knees drawn to your chest, blanket around your shoulders, pretending to read while your ears tuned to every single noise outside. Every rustle. Every scrape. Every birdcall that didn’t sound quite right.

The crows watched you. They always watched you. Were they his? Were they him ?

You didn’t dare ask.

Your sleep came in scraps, two hours at most, dreamless or not at all. The dark circles beneath your eyes had gone from shadows to bruises. You didn’t bother covering them anymore.

What was the point? You knew he hadn’t left.

You felt it.

Somewhere out there, past the tree line, past the reach of your garden wall, he was there. Always watching. Always waiting.

And yet… He didn’t show himself.

Not once.

No feathers. No plants. No words.

Just silence. And the memory of red letters bleeding across your goodbye.

You tried to keep up with your work. You tried to smile when villagers came, tried to measure your doses correctly, tried to not flinch when someone stood too close or knocked on the door unexpectedly. You failed more often than not.

“You okay, apothecary?”
“You look pale today.”
“Are you eating enough?”

You lied. You lied so easily. And then, when they left, you locked the door and stood there. Listening. Because something was always out there. And gods, you couldn’t help but wonder…

Why did he say no?

The bell above the door jingled, a soft, pleasant sound that nearly made you jump out of your skin. You turned too quickly, knocking over a jar of dried thyme with your elbow. It hit the floor with a clatter, herbs scattering across the wood.

“Oh! Sorry, should I come back later?”

Her voice. You froze, then exhaled so hard it nearly buckled your knees. “Ela.”

She stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the sun, a familiar woven basket tucked in the crook of her elbow. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been gripping the edge of the counter.

“You scared me,” you muttered, forcing a tight smile. “Sorry. I'm on edge.”

Her face softened instantly. “Yeah, no kidding.” She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a gentleness that made your throat sting. “You look like a ghost.”

“Thank you,” you deadpanned.

“Anytime.”

She made her way toward you, already kneeling to help pick up the scattered thyme. “I’m just here for some extra wrapping bandages. My brother scraped himself climbing a fence he definitely wasn’t supposed to be on.”

You knelt beside her, fingers brushing dried herbs into a pile. “Of course. Middle shelf, second drawer. You can grab what you need.”

She glanced at you, hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No,” you said finally, quietly. “But I will be.”

Ela didn’t push. She never did.

She stood up, fetched the bandages, and wandered a little, picking up a jar here, turning a label there, the way she always did. And somehow, her presence calmed the walls of your chest, eased the thudding of your thoughts. She didn’t feel like someone who could see the shadows creeping at the corners of your life. And maybe that was the most comforting thing of all.

“You’ve been planting more,” she said, peering at the windowsill. “What’s that, moonwort?”

You nodded faintly.

“Bird stuff?”

Your heart dropped half a beat. You looked up sharply, but she just grinned at you with that knowing, sweet-but-suspicious look she always had.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh.” She didn’t say his name. She never did. But somehow… she always knew.

Ela rifled through the second drawer, fingers brushing past rolls of gauze and dried linen. The silence had stretched long enough to feel comfortable, almost familiar, until she broke it with the kind of casual tone that meant she was absolutely fishing for something.

“So… you and the falconer,” she said, still facing the cabinet. “Are you guys, like… friends, orrr?”

You blinked. Slowly. “What?”

She turned her head just enough to flash you a knowing smile, eyes dancing like she already had her answer and just wanted to hear you say it.

You stared at her, expression flat. “No. We’re… acquaintances.”

Ela raised a brow, amused. “Acquaintances who apparently exchange rare flora and nighttime visits?”

“Do you want those bandages or not.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing as she held up her hands. “Just making conversation.”

You turned back to organizing the jars behind the counter, but your fingers were moving slower now. You felt her glance at you, soft, unspoken curiosity hanging heavy in the room.

“He’s just... around,” you added quietly, almost to yourself.

Ela hummed. “Mhm. Mysteriously around. Like a shadow that brings gifts.”

You sighed, pressing a lid tighter than it needed to be. “You have quite the imagination.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I also have eyes. And ears. And instincts that scream you’re acting weird whenever he gets mentioned.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, Ela wasn’t wrong. You were acting weird. Skittish. Jumpy. Like someone whose world had started tilting just slightly off-center, and no one else seemed to notice the shift but you. And him. You busied yourself with restacking the loose bundles of thyme, but your ears were still tuned to the sound of her footsteps padding toward the door.

“Well,” Ela chirped lightly, basket now snug in her arm, “if you two acquaintances ever need a chaperone…”

You looked up, ready to retort, but the door was already swinging shut behind her, bell chiming once as she vanished into the sunlight. Silence. Just the herbs. The sunlight. And your own pulse, ticking a little too fast.

Acquaintances.  Right.

✧

The gifts were becoming not only more frequent,  but more… peculiar.

It started with the usual things, plants you’d mentioned in passing, herbs too rare to grow nearby. Moonwort. Frostleaf. Bitterthorn with roots still damp, like it had been picked minutes before dawn.

Then came the jasmine hairpin. That was the first thing that made your heart stutter. Not because it was extravagant, but because it was personal. Delicate. Floral. Something chosen, not found. Something meant for you.

You told yourself it was fine. “Just a gift,” you’d whispered, staring at it in your palm. “Just a thank you.”

But now? Now it was a different story.

A pair of gloves, soft, expensive, too fine for fieldwork, left folded on your garden wall one morning. A small wooden carving of a bird, no bigger than your palm, feathers etched with such delicate care that you could trace them in the dark. Then a book. One you’d looked at briefly in the market. You hadn’t bought it. Hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. But there it was, waiting on your windowsill, wrapped in fabric the color of his cloak. And yesterday– Yesterday there was a jar of ink-black honey. Not just rare, impossible. Harvested only from hives that bloom under moonlight, said to taste like burnt sugar and bloodroot.

Your hands had trembled for nearly ten minutes before you could even bring it inside. You were spiraling. You knew you were spiraling. You watched the trees too much. Flinched at every flutter of wings. You couldn’t sleep unless the shutters were locked, the curtains drawn, the lamp burning low. And yet, despite everything, despite your fear, your unease, your aching desire for silence, every time you opened the door in the morning, your eyes would go to the same place:

The garden wall.

And every time something new was there, your heart would do that awful, treacherous thing. It would flutter.

Why is he doing this?
What does he want?
What happens if you tell him to stop again, and he says no again?

You hadn’t seen him since that day in the market.  But you felt him, always, always watching.
And worse… some small, broken part of you started watching back.

You noticed it the moment you opened the door. Tucked neatly beneath the vase of dried lavender on your stoop. No strange feathers. No wild herbs. No ornate gifts. Just… parchment. Cream-colored. Folded cleanly.  Your heart stuttered anyway.

Not again. Please not again.

You hesitated to reach for it, half-expecting it to vanish, or bleed, or whisper.

But it didn’t. It was stiff under your fingers. Crisp. Unmoving. And when you flipped it over, you saw the unmistakable seal:

A black sun surrounded by thirteen jagged thorns.

The mark of the elders. The religious heads of the village. The ones who looked at people like you with quiet suspicion and too many prayers. Your throat tightened as you unfolded it, hands shaking before you even read the words.

To the Apothecary,

You are formally requested to present yourself at the Hall of Worship before the sun reaches its peak tomorrow. The Elders require your counsel on a matter of spiritual and civic concern. Attendance is not optional.

May your soul remain pure in shadow and light.

– Elder Mirthas

You read it once. Twice. And still the words didn’t sink in. Your knees did, though. Right to the floor. The first thought in your mind wasn’t the Council. It wasn’t what they wanted, or what they knew, or how dangerously they might be watching you now. No, The first thing you thought was-

Did he do something?

You glanced to the trees. The stillness. The hush of your garden. Then back at the note in your hand, crumpling slightly from how hard you were gripping it.

What do they know?

You tried to breathe. You tried to move. You imagined walking through those doors, the heavy stone ones lined in cold scripture and painted saints. You imagined thirteen pairs of eyes. Silent. Judging.

What if they knew about the gifts? About the boy in the woods? About the way your heart turned itself inside out when you said his name?

You stood up slowly, folding the letter with brittle fingers. The parchment felt heavier than any peace offering ever had. And for the first time in weeks… you found yourself wishing it had been from Keigo.

✧

The air was thin that morning. Not quite cold, but hollow, like something had been scraped clean from it. The kind of dry stillness that made your skin feel too tight around your bones. The path beneath your feet, worn and familiar, had never felt more foreign. You walked. One foot. Then the other. Each step measured and painfully slow, like you were being watched , even though you saw no one. No chirping from the trees. No distant chatter from the market. Even the wind felt muted, curling past you with all the warmth of a breath held too long.

The letter sat folded in your pocket, but it might as well have been burned into your palm. You kept your head down.

Past the baker’s shop, Ela wasn’t outside this time. Past the meat vendor, who usually greeted you with a soft nod, but now didn’t even look your way. Or maybe you were just imagining that. Maybe they all knew something. Your boots crunched softly on dry earth, echoing too loud in your ears. You didn’t wear your usual cloak, it felt too light. Instead, a heavier one hung over your shoulders, more of a shield than warmth. The hood cast a shadow over your eyes, and still, you felt seen .

As the Hall of Worship came into view, your hands curled tighter beneath the cloak. Tall. Stark. Built of blackened stone and old wood that moaned under the pressure of memory. It loomed at the edge of town like a wound no one dared to heal. The iron-cast door, shaped like a gate, already stood ajar.

Waiting.

You stopped just short of the entrance. Your stomach curled. Your legs ached. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until now, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched tight like armor. And yet you moved forward. Because what else could you do? The closer you got, the more it felt like something was pressing down on you. Not wind. Not time.

Judgment .

Your fingers brushed the handle, cold metal biting through the linen of your gloves. Breathe. Just breathe. You opened the door. And stepped into the mouth of the lion. 

The door shut behind you with a sound like finality. Inside, the Hall was dim, light filtered through stained glass in fractured streaks of amber and violet. The air smelled of old wood and extinguished candles, with the faintest trace of dried lavender tucked somewhere deep in the rafters.

You’d been here before. For festivals. Blessings. Mandatory devotions. Always surrounded by people. Always with laughter or song to distract you.

But now? Now it felt like a tomb.

The main room was vast, echoing every footstep you took on the stone floor. Thirteen high-backed chairs sat in a semicircle at the far end, carved from dark pine and lined with velvet older than you. Each one bore an engraving at its peak, symbols of faith, purity, obedience.

They weren’t filled yet. Good. You weren't ready. A low bench stood before them, meant for offerings. Or confessions. You didn’t sit. Instead, you stood in the center of the hall, arms drawn in tightly under your cloak, listening to your own breath. It was too loud.

Maybe they saw you in the woods.
Maybe someone told them about the herbs.
About the man.

You glanced up at the glass saints above you. Their faces serene. Their eyes empty. The silence was suffocating.

I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right. I didn’t do anything wrong.

A distant door creaked open. Then came the slow, deliberate shuffle of footsteps. They entered one by one. No greetings. No names. Only the sounds of robes brushing stone, wooden chairs creaking as weight settled into them. Thirteen in total. Robed in ash-gray and ivory, faces half-hidden by hoods. Some older. Some still middle-aged. All of them staring.

At you.

Elder Mirthas spoke first. His voice was dry and thin, like paper being torn. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

The others remained silent. You didn’t answer right away. “I’ve only done what’s required of me,” you said, steady despite the hammering in your chest.

Another voice. Elder Rhel. Female. Sharper. “And more.”

A pause. Then Mirthas again. “Rare herbs. Forbidden plants. Journeys into the forest long after curfew. You’ve grown bold , child.”

The word child curled like poison in your throat. You swallowed it. “I serve the village,” you said. “I heal. I protect.”

Mirthas leaned slightly forward. “Are you sure that’s all you’re doing?”

The silence that followed dragged too long. You couldn’t tell if your body was trembling or if the floor was shifting beneath you. You held your hands tight behind your back to keep them from betraying you. “We’ve seen signs,” Rhel added. “Birds where they shouldn’t be. Blood left in the snow. Tracks leading to your garden and back into the woods.”

Your heart nearly stopped. No. No, no–

“And we’ve heard rumors ,” Mirthas murmured. “That someone has been watching over you. A protector, some say. A man. Strange. Solitary.” Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“We are not accusing you… yet,” Rhel said smoothly. “But we suggest… no, we require , that you remain within your home after dark from now on. No more wandering. No more collecting. And if there is anything you’ve failed to report... you would be wise to come forward now.”

The thirteen pairs of eyes burned into you. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t move. You could only nod, once. And it was enough. “You are dismissed,” Mirthas said. “For now.”

You bowed stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. Then turned.And walked out of the Hall with their words echoing in your skull. For now.

The door shut behind you with a deep, final thud. You didn’t breathe. Not for a long time. Just stood there beneath the cold eye of the sun, wrapped in a silence that wasn’t peaceful, it was emptied. Like something vital had been stolen from the air itself. You walked. Your steps were slower this time. Heavier. Not from exhaustion, but from weight. Invisible, suffocating weight.

The ground felt different. The same worn path that had always led you back home now felt like it belonged to someone else. Like you were trespassing in your own life. Your cloak dragged behind you, catching on rocks, sticks, the edges of familiar places. But you didn’t adjust it. You didn’t fix anything. Because something was broken now.

Who saw something? Who told them?

It couldn’t be Ela. No. That was impossible. She was the only one who never looked at you like a threat. The only one who never blinked twice at the jars and roots and potions. She never judged. She just smiled, offered baskets, and asked too many questions. But maybe that’s why she would’ve been listened to. Trusted. You shook your head, hard. No. Not Ela.

But then who? You passed the edge of the market square. Someone called your name, maybe, but you didn’t turn. You couldn’t. Your thoughts were too loud. Every face too sharp. Every whisper, every shadow felt like a blade pressed behind your spine.

Why now? You’d kept your head down. You’d followed the rules, at least, the ones that mattered. You healed the sick. You grew what no one else could. You walked carefully.

Was it the bitterthorn? The frostleaf?

Or was it him. That man . That… thing.

That presence in the woods who left you gifts and bled into the snow and stood too close when you couldn’t afford to be seen. You thought of his hands. The blood on them. The way he said your name.

Your stomach twisted. This is what happens when you let something wild too close. This is what happens when you forget your place. You reached the edge of the woods. The dirt path that led to your home was still dappled with wildflowers, lavender, moonwort, bits of wild clover that had started to bloom early.

It looked the same. But you didn’t. You didn’t feel like the person who’d planted them.  You didn’t feel like the person who belonged here.

What am I supposed to do now? Turn him in? Pretend none of this happened?

Your hand tightened around the edge of your cloak. Stay inside after dark, they said. Obey.

You stepped off the road. And kept walking. Home wasn’t far now. But it felt miles away. You didn't remember unlatching the garden gate. You didn’t remember hanging your cloak, or lighting the lamps, or taking off your shoes. Everything felt slow , like you were moving through honey. Or a dream you couldn’t wake up from.

But you remembered the fear. That part stayed sharp. It curled under your ribs and pressed into your throat. A sick, aching sort of thing that didn’t scream, it whispered. Over and over. Do something. Fix it. You stood in the middle of your apothecary, surrounded by dried herbs and bottled salves and hanging bundles of yarrow, and for the first time in weeks…

You felt completely, utterly unsafe. Your eyes darted to the windows. The ones near your worktable. The ones you always kept slightly open for airflow, just a crack, just enough. No more. You moved before your legs even caught up. Shoving them shut with more force than necessary. Sliding the latch down. Then again. Then again. Double-checking each one with trembling fingers.

You moved to the back door. The one that opened to your garden. To the frostleaf. To the edge of the trees where he always left things.

You stared at it for a long moment.

Then quietly, methodically, You fetched the iron latch from the cabinet. The one you hadn’t used in years. It took time. The screws were rusted. The wood was stiff. You had to hammer a new nail in to anchor it right. But you did it. Lock one. Then two.

Then the chair pushed up under the knob… just in case. You’re being paranoid. No. You’re being smart. You have to protect yourself. You moved to the front windows. Then the ones in your bedroom. You drew every curtain tight, covering each pane in thick, woven cloth, even if it dulled the light. Even if it made the room feel more like a crypt than a home.

By the time you stopped moving, your hands were sore. Your shoulders ached. And your chest still felt too tight. You sank into your chair near the fire. A bundle of dried lavender sat on the mantle, brittle and losing color. You stared at it. Was it enough?

Would this convince them? The Elders?  Would it convince him? Or was this all just a performance for your own peace of mind?

Your eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, but even in the dark behind your lids, you felt it. Like a shadow you couldn’t name. Like someone, or something , was still out there. Watching. Waiting.

And then… You were standing in a field. The fog was thick, curling around your legs like water. It clung to your clothes, your lashes, your skin. You recognized the hill in front of you. Sort of. It reminded you of the one behind your childhood home, the one with the wild lilacs and the crooked pine tree where the birds always gathered, but this version was wrong. Too quiet. Too pale. The tree had no leaves.

You took a step forward. The fog parted slightly, just enough for you to see the shape of a figure standing beneath the skeletal tree. You froze. It was a man. Tall. Back turned. Still. Something about the shape of him tugged at you in a way that wasn’t entirely fear, but wasn’t safe either.

"Hello...?" your voice came out muffled, like it had to push through water.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Then… slowly… he tilted his head. Not toward you. But toward the sky. As if listening. And when he finally turned… You couldn’t see his face. Just gold. His eyes glowed like coins at the bottom of a well. Familiar and wrong all at once. They pierced straight through you. You couldn’t breathe.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked.

But the sound didn’t come from his mouth. It came from everywhere. From inside your ears, your bones, your thoughts. A voice that knew how you sounded when you cried. How your heart stuttered when you panicked. You took a step back. The fog rose with you.

“I– I don’t know you,” you whispered.

Liar.

The word pulsed behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. He took one step forward. The ground didn’t crunch. The grass didn’t bend. It was like he wasn’t real. Like he was just wearing the shape of a man. You turned to run. The fog thickened. You stumbled forward, hands out, searching for anything. A tree, a wall, a door, a way out –  

But it was endless. Every direction led nowhere. Every sound was muffled, except for his footsteps behind you. Steady. Calm. You blinked. And suddenly he was in front of you again. Closer. His head tilted, as if studying something in your face.

“Why are you so scared?” he asked. You tried to speak. You wanted to. But your throat burned. Your lips wouldn’t move. You were frozen in place, trembling.

He reached out a hand, pale, long-fingered, delicate. There was something shimmering on his palm. You looked down. It was the hairpin. Your breath hitched. But it wasn’t silver anymore. It was bleeding. Bright red, staining the petals. He smiled, just barely.

“Don’t go locking all the doors,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth. “It’s not very polite.”

Your eyes snapped open. You woke up with your cheek pressed to parchment, your hands sticky with dried ink, your breath caught in your throat like a scream that had nowhere to go. It was still dark. But not in the usual way. Not in the safe, oil-lamp glow you always left burning on your desk.

No. Every single candle was out. Even the lantern by the window. Even the one in the hearth, which should’ve burned through the night. You sat up slowly. Your chair creaked beneath you. The ink bottle had tipped, its contents now an inky stain across half a page of herbal notes.

Wait... you lit all of them.  Before you sat down to work. You remember doing it. You remember the flame. The warmth. So why… The hair on your arms stood up. You turned to look at the window behind you.

Curtains: still closed. Latch: still secure. And yet…  You felt like something had been here. Just moments ago. Watching. Whispering.

You shoved the thought away. No. No, no. That was just… just the dream. The dream.  God, you’d almost forgotten. You swallowed, but your mouth was dry.  A foggy memory drifted behind your eyes… golden irises and bleeding jasmine and that voice...

“Don’t go locking all the doors.”

You shivered so hard your teeth clicked. Your hands flew to the edge of the desk. You pushed yourself up too quickly, stumbled toward your bedside, heart hammering behind your ribs.

He couldn’t have. He didn’t.

You would’ve heard something, right? Felt it. He’s not… he’s not even capable of something like that. Dreams aren’t real. They’re just... fear, scrambled by sleep. That’s all it was.

Still… You found yourself checking the back door again. Then the front. Both were still locked. The garden gate untouched. You pressed your palm flat to the cool wood, as if trying to sense some trace of presence left behind. Nothing.

Good. Right? The candles shouldn’t have gone out. 

Safe to say, you didn’t get much sleep after that. The rest of the night was spent tangled in your blanket, eyes darting to the corners of the room, flinching every time the house creaked or the wind stirred too loud. You lit all the candles again, every single one, and watched them like they might betray you. Eventually, you stopped trying to sleep.  And when the sky began to pale, you got up like it was any other morning.

Because it was. Right? It had to be.

You cleaned the ink off your desk. Brewed tea for your nerves (though it tasted like ash). Ground up dried chamomile and bottled it for old Mrs. Larane. You tended to your garden, sorted requests for pain salves, and reorganized your shelves for the third time in a week. Normal. It was all… normal. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You knocked over a jar of fennel. Twice. You nearly called a root by the wrong name. You forgot to eat.

And that dream… God, he looked so real. Not just real. There. Like you could’ve reached out and touched him. Like you did. His voice. His eyes. The bloody jasmine in his hand. You tried to convince yourself that it was just your subconscious. A fear response. Of course your mind would conjure him up in your sleep, he was the source of all your unease lately. The notes. The gifts. The blood.

But still... You couldn’t shake the feeling that he meant for you to see it. To feel it. And now, everything he’s ever done felt laced with a different kind of intention. Something not quite innocent. Something not quite safe.

You didn’t see him that day. Not in the town. Not in the sky. But you felt him. Like a shadow you couldn’t find the source of. You’d been avoiding the garden. You told yourself it was just the late frost. Or the early chores. Or the influx of requests that needed filling before dusk. But deep down, you knew. It was the note. The one you left. The one answered in blood.

You skipped the morning watering. Ignored the herbs straining toward the light. Let the petals wilt a little more each day. But now, The sun was low, dipping into the golden hues of late afternoon, casting long shadows over your walls. You stood at the back door, hand hovering above the handle. Just standing there. Listening.

Bravery in pieces, you told yourself. One deep breath. One step at a time. You opened the door. The scent of lavender and rosemary met you first, familiar, calming, almost enough to soothe the tight coil in your chest.

Almost. You stepped outside. The air was cool, but still. Nothing moved. The breeze had died down hours ago, leaving only silence. Your shoes crunched softly against the gravel path as you moved toward the watering jug. The metal was cool in your hands. Heavy. You began with the mint. Then the elderflower. Your hands shook only a little. Each motion felt louder than it should’ve. The water sloshing. The rustle of stems. The beating of your heart.

And then, You turned toward the jasmine. The same patch where you’d cut him a piece. Something new sat beside it. Your breath caught. It was a single white feather. Perfect. Clean. Placed deliberately at the base of the stem. No note. No blood. No explanation. Just... there. Your throat tightened. He wasn’t done with you. Not even close. You stared at it for longer than you should have.

That single white feather.

It didn’t belong to any bird you’d seen around here. Not one of the little finches that perched on your windowsill. Not even the doves that sometimes wandered near the chapel gates. This one was... different. It almost shimmered in the light. You knelt down slowly, the fabric of your skirts brushing against the damp earth, and reached for it with hesitant fingers. It felt… 

Soft.

Softer than silk. Like it might melt between your fingers if you held it too tight. You stroked your thumb across it once. And for a split second, just one,you forgot about the blood on the note. The eyes in the dark. The dream you still hadn’t recovered from.

It was so pure. But then your breath hitched.

The Elders’ warnings. The quiet threats layered in stiff smiles.
“We’ve heard rumors.”
“Unnatural things…”

You stood quickly. The feather still in your hand. Your first instinct was to keep it. Hide it. Protect it. Instead, you forced yourself to place it down gently, right back where it had been. On the soil. Next to the jasmine your mother once planted. You stepped away. One foot. Then another. Trying not to look back. It was just a feather. That’s all. You made it to the door, hand reaching for the knob, your breath beginning to even out again. And then…

CRACK–!!

A flash of light split the sky open above you.  Thunder followed an instant later, so loud it rattled your bones. You flinched hard, your hand jerking from the metal, pulse exploding in your throat. The rain came almost immediately. A sharp, heavy downpour that drenched the entire garden in seconds. So much for watering the plants. You stood there, frozen in place, soaked through in moments.

A warning. Or a message.

You didn’t know which was worse. You rushed inside, slamming the door behind you with shaking hands. The air clung to your skin, wet, cold, and thick with the weight of something wrong. The rain came down like a punishment. Not the gentle drizzle that often followed fog. Not the steady kind the farmers prayed for. But a torrential, angry kind.

Fog was normal. Fog was the norm.

But this? This storm?  It didn’t feel natural.

You stood just inside the door, dripping onto the wooden floorboards, eyes wide as you watched the garden blur behind the glass. The feather was already gone, washed away or trampled under mud. You pressed your palm against the door to steady yourself. The thunder struck again. Louder this time. So loud it felt like the very air split in two. You could feel the room shake. Candles flickered. A jar rattled off a shelf in the corner and shattered. Somewhere beyond the room, something slammed shut on its own. You didn’t scream. But you wanted to.

“Just a storm,” you whispered to yourself. “Just... a storm.”

You didn’t believe it. Not really. Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire house in ghostly white for a breathless second, and for that breathless second, you thought you saw a figure at the back gate. But when the dark returned… there was nothing.

You backed away from the door, heart pounding as fast as the rain against your roof. It was hard to breathe. The storm didn’t feel like weather. It felt like a presence. Like something watching.

And you suddenly weren’t sure if it was safer inside… or out. You were scared. Terrified, even. The storm was like nothing you’d ever experienced. Every time the lightning cracked open the sky, it felt like it peeled something back, like it was revealing a truth you weren’t ready to see. But even through the thunder. Even through the fear...

You thought of him. You hated that you did. You paced the length of your little home, bare feet soft against the floor, arms crossed tightly over your chest as if that would keep the thoughts out.

Was he okay out there?

The image formed uninvited, his cloak soaked through, water dripping down golden strands of hair, eyes glowing in the dark like the very storms were drawn to him.

Was he cold...? Did he even feel cold like you did? Was he wet? Did the storm bother him at all?

And then... the birds. You stepped closer to the back window, breath fogging the glass. His poor birds.

Where would they go in a storm like this? Did they scatter? Did they huddle in the trees?  Did they... sense what you were starting to fear?

Your hand came to rest against the windowpane, cool and slick with condensation. A part of you, small, ridiculous, soft, wanted to open the door. Just to see. Just to check.

Did he need help...? What would you even do? Offer him tea? A dry towel? A place to sit while thunder cracked the sky in half again?

He’d frightened you. Unsettled you. Haunted your dreams.

And still… You worried for him.

Even if you hated that you did. You knew you shouldn’t. There was nothing out there.  Nothing but mud and rain and cold wind that howled like it was mourning something.

You unlatched the back window just enough to lift the blinds. A single streak of lightning painted the garden in stark white. Everything was soaked. Leaves torn. Soil overturned. The fence line barely visible through the downpour. You pressed your lips together, searching for movement, for feathers, for anything . But there was no one. Nothing. Not even a whisper of wings.

You let the blinds fall back into place with a soft click. Your heart was still racing, but there was nothing more you could do. No candle to leave lit. No feather to offer in return. Just the rain, loud and relentless. You sighed, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, and turned away from the window. It was late, though the storm made it hard to tell how late. Your clothes clung to your skin in places you didn’t want to think about. With cold, damp fingers, you undid the fastenings and peeled the layers away, trading them for a dry nightgown.

Changing had started to feel... strange. You never used to think twice about it. Not here. Not in your own home. But lately? Every time you undressed… Every time you bathed… You found yourself checking the windows twice. Drawing curtains tighter. Listening for footsteps that weren’t there. You’d even stopped humming to yourself, as if that made you harder to find.

It was ridiculous. You told yourself that more than once. You were being paranoid. But that didn’t stop you from checking the back door again before blowing out the last of the candles. And it didn’t stop the shiver that crawled up your spine when the wind hit the shutters just a little too hard.

✧

Sleep did not come easy. When it did, it came wrong.

Water. Cold, black, endless water. You gasped for breath, but none came. Your arms kicked upward, legs flailed, but it was like the water moved with you, against you, pulling harder the more you fought. You weren’t sinking. Not exactly. You were suspended , as if the ocean had hands, and it had decided to cradle you in the dark.

You opened your eyes, salt stinging. There was no surface above you. No bottom beneath. Just a vast, terrifying stillness…  And a sound. Low. Faint. Like a voice echoing through the water. You turned, slow, sluggish,  and something moved in the dark behind you. Your lungs ached. You tried to swim again, harder this time. You knew how to swim. You were strong. You weren’t afraid of the water, but this… this was wrong.

Your body wouldn’t rise. Your limbs… they wouldn’t move. You were being held back. A pressure curled around your ankle, tight, deliberate. Another at your wrist. You screamed, or tried to, only bubbles rose. Your chest burned, fire under your ribs. The edges of your vision darkened. The voice again, closer now. A whisper you couldn’t understand.

Please.

You didn’t know if you meant it as a plea for release or rescue. Your body jerked once. Twice.

And then… you hit solid ground with a soft thud. The world around you was, white. Not bright, not blinding. Just… endless. Like fog. Like memory. Like limbo. You coughed, hard, body convulsing with the effort.

Your skin was bone dry. And someone was staring at you…

A silhouette, human, almost. Shadowed. Familiar. Eyes locked on yours, wide with something between terror and awe. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His mouth was parted just slightly, like he had something to say and couldn’t . And in that moment, for reasons you couldn’t explain… you knew he had pulled you out.

His grip on your wrist only got tighter. You tried to speak, to move, but your body felt sluggish, numb in places, cold in others. You looked down, breath catching…  Bare skin. Just your undergarments. You hadn't noticed until now. And his hand, firm, unmoving, was wrapped around your wrist, thumb pressing just below your pulse.

He had pulled you out. But from what , you didn’t know.

Your eyes snapped up to his face. That same unreadable expression. The one he wore at the butcher. Not quite angry. Not quite calm. Just… void. His voice came low, steady. No malice. No gentleness either.

“Are you scared of me?” The question didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a test. Like he wanted to know, no, needed to know.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, maybe. The air was too thin. Your skin prickled with heat despite the cold. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. His eyes, golden, unnervingly bright in the white around you… watched every flicker of your face like he was reading your soul. He didn’t look away. Not when his hand moved, slowly, deliberately, from your wrist to your face.

The warmth of his palm against your cheek should’ve comforted you. But it didn’t. It was too soft. Too gentle . Like a lie. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. And for a split second, his expression cracked, something vulnerable flickering behind those golden eyes. Like he wanted to say something. Like he almost regretted …

Then… you were falling .

A sudden drop. The white vanished beneath your feet. Your stomach twisted.  No hands held you now. Air rushed past your ears… 

Then sheets. Pillows. Breath. You gasped, bolting upright in bed. Your chest heaved. The nightgown clung to your damp skin. Your blankets were tangled. The room was quiet, still. The wind outside had died down. You stared down at your hands. No marks. No fingerprints. No signs of anything but your own trembling. You were alone. Right?

Your gaze flicked to the window. Nothing. The room was just as you left it, candles burned low, books scattered, your chair askew. And yet… you could still feel the ghost of his hand on your cheek.

✧

The sun was barely up when the letter came, sealed in wax and smelling faintly of smoke.

You were needed in the town square. Urgently.

Before you knew it your hands were packed with herbs and oils, and your feet carried you through the familiar dirt path that no longer felt familiar at all. The trees didn’t sway like they used to. The air didn’t hum with birdsong. When you finally stepped into the square, it hit you like a wall.

The stench of sickness.

Thick. Sour. Muddied with damp rot and bile and something else, something you couldn’t quite place. People lay slumped against stone walls and wooden carts, too weak to move, too exhausted to call out. Children curled up beneath tattered cloaks, coughing. Grown men leaned on others just to stand. Red faces, chapped lips, glassy eyes. A kind of sickness that came fast. Violent. Unnatural.

And there were so many of them.

You hesitated at the edge of the square. The earth squelched beneath your boots from the storm's leftover mud. Did the rain do this? No. Storms didn’t make people’s veins bruise at the surface. Storms didn’t drain color from eyes like that . You swallowed hard and stepped forward. Voices called your name, frantic, relieved. You were pulled into the mess before you could think twice, hands grasping yours, children clinging to your cloak. Faces you recognized. Families you’d helped. Even the butcher’s wife, lying motionless on a bench, sweat slicked across her brow.

You got to work. You had to. But in the back of your mind, it repeated, soft and slow like a warning… This isn’t just a storm. Something else came with it.

You had been going for hours. Kneeling in mud. Pressing cool cloths to burning skin. Holding trembling hands in your own. Mixing tinctures by memory because your fingers had long stopped cooperating. Time bled into itself… measured only by the deepening lines in your hands and the weight in your chest.

The square was quiet in the strangest way, no laughter, no market chatter, just the wet cough of sickness and the occasional cry from a child who didn't understand what was happening. No one did. You pulled a satchel from your side and reached for the small pouch inside, Sunveil. A rare herb, golden and bitter. One you’d nearly forgotten you had stashed away. You’d harvested it before the storm, unconvinced it would ever be useful. But now? It was the only thing keeping people upright.

“Chew this slowly,” you instructed a young boy whose lips had turned a sickly gray, “then drink this… all of it.”

He did without protest, like most of them had. Desperation didn’t allow for complaints.

You moved on to the next person. Then the next. Then the next. And every time you passed by someone new, their eyes clung to you like lifelines, full of a hope you weren’t sure you could promise. What was this?

Rain didn’t do this. Storms brought fevers. Not bruises beneath the skin. Not pupils that refused to dilate. Not limbs that shivered hours after the heat had passed. Your knees were soaked through. The hem of your cloak clung to your ankles with grime. The little pouch of Sunveil was nearly empty. And still, they kept coming.

By late afternoon, your hands had begun to tremble. Quietly. Invisibly. But they trembled.

This sickness hadn’t been seen in centuries. That’s what one of the Elders whispered to another when they didn’t know you were listening. “A plague,” he said. “An omen.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and focused on your next patient. Just keep going. Help who you can. Worry later.

And yet… as you worked, you felt it again… That crawling heat at the back of your neck.

Watching. Always watching.

You adjusted the edge of your mask with a shaky hand. The tight leather and herbal filters inside had long grown hot, clinging to your skin like a second face. You could barely breathe through it anymore. You were down to the last of the Sunveil . A single dose. Maybe.

Your fingers clenched around the pouch as you turned your gaze across the square, toward the small cluster of Elders, seated beneath the temple’s shaded stone archway. Untouched. Not a cough among them. Not a pale cheek or strained breath. Their heavy robes were dry. Their hands unshaken. They watched the square with quiet eyes, cloaked in fur and incense while the rest of the town wilted in the mud.

You took one breath, then another, then stepped forward. Every footfall echoed in your ears. Each step a protest of your body.  Of your pride.

The townspeople barely noticed. Too many were collapsed in alleyways or huddled beneath carts. Too many were busy dying. You reached the Elders’ perch, knees stiff with effort, and gave a low bow of your head. Not from respect, your spine refused to bend further.

“I’m out,” you said, voice flat and exhausted beneath the mask. “Of the Sunveil . There's one dose left. After that…” You didn’t need to finish. One of them, a narrow-faced man draped in wine-colored robes, tilted his head thoughtfully. The others remained stone-still.

“ Only one?” His voice was smooth. Dismissive.

You nodded. “I’m on my way to the baker’s family. They need it most.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, folding his hands together. “How unfortunate. And how curious that you’re the only one with access to these rare herbs. Curious indeed.”

Your spine stiffened. “I’ve made no secrets of my practices. You approved my license, you inspect my gardens, I submit logs…”

A shriveled woman to his left waved a hand. “We don’t doubt your diligence, child,” she said, the word child like ash on her tongue. “Only the source of your fortune. You’ve been blessed by providence, yes? And yet... storms like this don’t discriminate.”

Another added “And yet none of us fell ill.”

“Yes,” you said, voice low, “I noticed.”

The silence that followed was heavy. It told you everything. They knew something. Or suspected. Or worse, didn’t care to know at all. You stepped back, hand still clenched tight around the last Sunveil pouch. You didn’t wait to be dismissed. There was a girl gasping for breath two streets away and her father who hadn’t spoken since dawn.

As you turned from the pristine steps of the temple, you felt their eyes linger. Not with gratitude. Not with fear. But with quiet calculation.

“I have to go,” you muttered, clutching the empty pouch in your hand.

The elder in crimson shifted forward, brows furrowed. “Go where, girl? Speak up.” Your shoulders tensed at the word girl. Your nails dug into your palm. You straightened just enough to be seen.

“Back to the forest.” Silence followed. A thick, awful silence. Even the sick groaning in the streets felt muffled under it.

“You mean that forest?” another Elder asked sharply, voice thin with distaste. “Where you miraculously discovered this herb before?”

You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without saying something… dangerous.

“I don’t have another choice,” you finally said, trying to make your voice sound less fragile than it felt. “If I wait, people will die.”

The woman with the thin shawl scoffed. “And if you go, and do not return, what then? Are we meant to rely on who for healing? Birds and prayer?”

Your lip twitched. You looked at her squarely. “You won’t need anyone if we let the children die.”

That shut her up. But the eldest among them, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, who watched you like one might watch a crack forming in a dam, finally leaned forward. “Then you go at your own peril,” he said, voice soft but sharp. “We will not shield you from what the forest holds. Nor from what you might bring back.”

He meant it as a warning. You took it as permission. You turned and walked, faster than before. You didn’t look back.

You stepped into the square, the half-empty pouch of herbs weighing heavily at your side. All around you, people sat slumped on crates or blankets, sick and sweating, their breath shallow. Mothers clutched their children. Neighbors leaned on each other. The air was thick with worry, too many eyes followed your every movement. You took a breath. Then another. Then raised your voice.

“It appears I’ve run out of the Sunveil.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers sparked like wildfire.

“No more?”
“Gods help us…”
“She’s going back… she’s going to go back in there, isn’t she?”

You held up your hand, silencing them.

“I will make the journey to collect more.”

A woman clutched her husband’s arm. “Is that safe?” someone else called out, their voice hoarse.

“Will you be okay?”

You didn’t lie. You didn’t comfort. “Only time will tell.”

You met the eyes of the crowd, your expression unreadable. Then you turned toward the chapel steps, where the Elders still stood like statues. “Until I return, stay outside in the fresh air. Keep warm. Drink water. Wait.” You didn’t say if you returned. But the silence that followed said enough. No one stopped you as you walked away. But everyone watched.

Your hands trembled as you gathered what little you could carry. A flask of water. Twine. A small knife. The same empty basket you brought the first time, its weaving worn slightly from overuse. You couldn’t bear to look at the jasmine hairpin still resting in your drawer. You had no right to wear it anymore. The cloak fell heavy across your shoulders, covering the pale fabric of your gown as best it could. It still smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, of your garden after a storm. You tugged the hood up. It didn’t help. The chill in the air still bit at your skin.

He wasn’t happy with you. You didn’t need to say his name. The memory of his face, tight-lipped, unreadable, hurt, was carved into the inside of your skull. How could you ever face him again? The back door creaked open, the hinges groaning in protest. Fog was already curling along the edges of the trees, thick and silver and heavy. The sun had almost vanished beyond the horizon, just a sliver of orange bled through the gray. You stepped out, the hem of your gown brushing against the dew-wet grass. The air was sharp, colder than before, and your heart had begun to thrum in your throat.

He might still be angry. He might not show up at all.  Worse… he might not care anymore. You swallowed hard. The trees were waiting. And this time, you had no feathers to guide you. This time… You genuinely had no idea how to get to the Sunveil. You stepped past the line of trees, your fingers brushing against bark slick with mist. The air was thick, almost sour on your tongue, and each inhale made your ribs ache. Your cloak clung to you, weighted by moisture and nerves.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But your heart was pounding. Out of rhythm. Out of control. You didn’t follow the old path. You couldn’t. You weren’t even sure if you should. There were no markers. No feathers. No hidden glances or warnings this time. So you turned, toward a new direction. Left, then slightly northeast, toward where the light broke through the trees in slender veins.

The deeper you went, the more your mind spiraled. Had you already passed it? Was this the wrong way? Was he watching? Would he let you get lost this time?

The thought chilled your spine more than the fog ever could. Twigs snapped underfoot. The trees groaned around you. A bird screamed overhead, and you flinched, hand gripping your satchel like it could offer protection. Still, you pressed forward. Because what else was there to do?

You had to prove you weren’t weak. You had to bring it back. You had to be useful. To someone. Anyone. 

Minutes passed. Or hours. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t recognize a single rock, or clearing, or root. Your legs were starting to shake. And yet you couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until it appeared. Please… just let it appear. You pushed past the brush, careful of the uneven ground, the damp cloak sticking to your skin as the air grew heavier. The fog swirled low and slow, clinging to your ankles like something alive.

Then you saw it, a clearing, quiet and untouched. White roses. An entire bush of them, blooming in clusters like stars fallen to earth. Petals so pale they looked silver in the low light, kissed gently by dew. You felt your breath leave your body, a soft gasp caught between awe and disbelief. You’d only ever seen them in books, sketches on aged paper, pressed petals long dead. But this… this was alive .

You stepped forward. Slowly. Reaching out, just barely, fingers hovering over a blossom. You hesitated at the last second, afraid of thorns, afraid of what it might mean to touch something so impossibly delicate. That’s when you felt it. A breath, hot and sharp, against your ear.

“You picked the worst direction,” a low voice murmured, flat and disapproving,  “...Again.”

You froze. His voice wasn’t just near, it was against you , lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. You could feel the cold weight of him at your back, the pull of his presence like gravity. The scent of the forest clung to him, earth, damp stone, a trace of iron beneath it all.

You couldn’t move. Not because you were scared of him. But because… part of you wasn’t. His breath lingered too long. His body didn’t touch yours, not quite, just close enough that you could feel the heat of it bleeding through the cold.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe again. You couldn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed rooted to the white petals, blurry now from how hard you were not blinking. Every part of you felt like it was buzzing, your fingers, your spine, the tips of your ears still warm from where his breath had landed.

You didn’t speak. What could you say?

‘Sorry for ignoring you?’
‘Sorry for the note?’
‘Sorry for accusing you of terrifying me only to secretly hope you’d show up again?’

The image of that word  NO  carved across your peaceful little world in something too dark to be ink… flashed behind your eyes. You swallowed hard. The dreams, the ones you’d brushed off, that you'd tried to forget… His hands around your wrist, his voice echoing through your mind, the warmth of him even when your dream-self was cold and soaking wet… 

No… no. That wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. You were just exhausted. Just… imagining things. But still…

Your heartbeat was thundering. Not because you were scared. No. This wasn’t fear. This was something else entirely, hot and trembling and stupid. You finally looked at him. Just a glance. And gods, why did it feel like looking into the sun? He wasn’t even facing you full on. His posture was casual, almost bored, but you could see it in the sharp line of his jaw, the tension. The restraint. Golden eyes cut to you briefly from beneath his hood, unreadable.

“You're shaking,” he said finally, voice low but not unkind.

You flinched. Hadn’t realized you were. “I’m not–” You stopped. A lie wouldn't help here.

Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Fog clinging to the folds of your cloak, the roses still rustling in the breeze behind you like they were listening. Say something. Anything. Your voice caught, hanging useless in the air between you. He blinked once. Slowly. Then turned away like it meant nothing.

“Well, okay then,” he said. And just like that, he walked into the dark. Like he hadn’t been watching over you for days. Like he hadn’t haunted your dreams.

“Wait–! Where are you going?” Your confusion spilled out before you could swallow it. He was moving too fast, too far, and your feet were too slow, too cold.

“You said it yourself, Apothecary.” His voice echoed, sharper now. Bitter. “You want to be left alone from now on.”

He wasn’t even looking at you when he said it, just tossing the words over his shoulder like they meant nothing. But they landed like stones in your chest.

You scoffed under your breath, something hot and petty bubbling up your throat. “Yeah, and you’ve been doing just a fantastic job at that, haven’t you.”

He stopped. The moon cut clean through the trees, casting him in slivered silver. His hair caught the light, a strand of gold falling loose over his face as he finally turned. And the look he gave you… It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pain. It was disgust. Like your very presence was an inconvenience. Like you were the parasite. The imposter. The sinner.

You’d never felt so small. You turned, fists clenched, willing your face to stay steady. To walk away with what little pride you had left.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” His voice was behind you, sharp, irritated… but you didn’t stop.

You didn’t answer. The crunch of leaves under your boots swallowed the silence between you. One step, then another. You kept your eyes forward.

You didn’t even hear him move. Not until the world tilted. Suddenly, your back hit bark… hard . The rough chill of a tree pressed into your spine, breath catching in your throat as his body boxed you in. So close. Too close. One arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist tight enough to make your fingers tingle.

“Don’t fucking ignore me.”

The words cut straight through your bones. Low. Lethal. A growl meant to scare. His voice had always danced around sarcasm and mystery, but not now. Now, it was stripped bare. And his eyes… They were filled with something worse than anger. Deeper than hate. Something you couldn’t name. You could feel the rage in the tremble of his hold, but you could also feel… restraint. That’s what made it terrifying. Because underneath it all, buried under his fury… was something aching . And it had everything to do with you .

You looked deep into his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn’t… “...K–Keigo…” Your voice cracked. His name barely made it past your lips. Your throat tightened. Everything you’d been holding in, days, weeks of mounting fear, paranoia, confusion, exhaustion… it all built to the breaking point. You’d worked yourself raw. You’d stared down plague, storms, him , and still managed to keep going.

But not now. Not like this.

Your vision blurred, the weight behind your eyes finally winning. You sniffled, biting your bottom lip as your hands balled into trembling fists. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if holding back the tears would somehow hold everything else together too. A tear slipped out anyway. Then another. 

You felt the shift before you opened your eyes. The heat of his hand left your wrist, and found your face instead. A featherlight touch against your cheek. His thumb wiped the tears away so carefully, it almost hurt. No claws. No force. Just... warmth. You didn’t dare open your eyes. You didn’t want to know what kind of expression he wore now. Not when you could barely hold yourself together.

You expected cruelty. You expected teasing. But instead, his fingers lingered. And in the silence between heartbeats, it felt like the whole forest held its breath.

You opened your eyes slowly… And he was closer than before. Much closer. The realization hit you like a stone dropped in still water. His knee was wedged between your thighs, the coarse fabric of your dress the only thing separating skin from skin. You hadn’t noticed when it happened, when he moved, when you let him. But now… His hands were still on your face, cradling it gently, thumbs hovering just below your cheekbones. His face hovered inches from yours, close enough that the brush of his nose against yours made your breath hitch. His eyes, no longer sharp or mocking, were soft. Warm. Too warm. It made your chest ache.

“Uhm—” The word barely left your mouth before he spoke.

“Are you okay?” His voice was quiet. Gentle. Too gentle for someone who’d pinned you to a tree moments earlier. Too tender for someone who wasn’t supposed to care .

Your heart was still hammering. Your breath uneven. You weren’t sure what part of this frightened you more… the situation or the fact that part of you didn’t want to move.

“M-fine…” you murmured, voice barely audible.

He held your gaze a second longer, searching, scanning, before his hands slowly pulled away from your face. The sudden loss of warmth made your skin feel colder than before. A breath passed.

“What plant are you looking for?” he asked, tone now oddly casual.

“Sunveil,” you muttered, brushing your hands down your dress and trying to avoid his eyes.

A bark of laughter echoed through the trees. “ Hah. Wow. You really were going in the wrong direction.”

There it was. That smug grin. That shift in demeanor like nothing just happened. Of course.

You groaned, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. “Yeah, yeah. Just take me.”

Without another word, he reached for your hand, your hand , not your wrist this time, and pulled you forward with him, guiding you briskly through the thick trees. His pace was fast. His grip was firm. And somehow, even after everything, your fingers curled a little tighter around his. This was fine. This was totally, completely fine.

“Weird rain, huh,” you said after a few beats, trying to fill the thick silence. Your voice cracked slightly, still tight from earlier, but you pushed through it.

“Definitely,” Keigo muttered, brushing aside a low-hanging branch with the back of his hand. 

“Are your birds okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself, eyes fixed on the ground as your feet followed his.

“Oh yeah. Bit frightened, but overall they’re fine.” He said it so nonchalantly, like he hadn’t been drenched in blood and moonlight the last time you saw him. A soft smile crept onto your face. You could picture it… him kneeling by his little birds, cloak soaked, whispering to them, calming their ruffled feathers like some strange guardian of the forest.

“What, are you smiling?” he teased, glancing over his shoulder. “You picturing me singing lullabies to them?”

“I didn’t say that,” you replied quickly.

“But you are picturing it.”

You looked off to the side, pretending to study a tree. “I mean, if the feathers fit.”

He huffed a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the guy who keeps delivering me mystery herbs like some forest-dwelling florist.”

“You liked those herbs.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, so what is the point, then?”

You opened your mouth and closed it just as fast. “I… haven’t figured that out yet.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Great. Following a girl with no sense of direction and no point.”

You kicked a rock lightly as you walked. “Yet you’re still here.”

“…Shit. You’re right.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. The tension had shifted, still thick, but laced now with something warmer, something teetering just between unspoken things and all the things neither of you were ready to say. Keigo’s thumb brushed against your fingers as you both ducked beneath a curved branch. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent a jolt of heat up your arm and straight to your cheeks. You refused to glance at him. He’d see it written all over your face.

Instead, you cleared your throat and muttered, “You’re kind of possessive, you know that?”

“Pardon?” His voice lifted in mock offense, but he didn’t look at you. He was suddenly very interested in the moss on a nearby tree.

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m just saying…” you trailed off with a shrug, like it was no big deal. “The gifts, the lurking, the stalking, grabbing my hands and dragging me around, the hairpin …”

You paused. He was smiling. No, grinning. That smug, satisfied curve on his lips was practically sinful.

Your eyes widened. “Wait… are you– are you enjoying this?”

“What? No,” he said, far too quickly.

“You are. You’re getting off on this.”

“That’s a bold assumption coming from the girl who planted Moonwort next to her window.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Oh, I’m possessive?” he added, glancing sideways at you, eyes alight with mischief. “You’re basically building a bird-themed shrine.”

“I was being scientific, ” you shot back, flushed. “For research.”

“Mhm. Sure.”

You huffed. “For the record, the hairpin was beautiful. I just… thought you should know.”

His expression shifted just slightly. Less cocky. A little softer. “Yeah?” he asked, voice quieter.

“Yeah.” 

A beat passed. “…So you do like shiny things,” he muttered, nudging your shoulder with his.

You elbowed him in return, suppressing a grin. “Shut up.”

“You’re welcome.”

Your foot caught on a root… how typical. One second you were mid-step, focused on the patch of clover in front of you, and the next your balance tilted dangerously forward.

“Whoa–!”

A firm hand gripped your arm, the other catching you right at the curve of your lower back. The strength of it made your breath catch, and you found yourself frozen, barely a few inches from his chest. You didn’t dare look up.

“…Thanks,” you muttered, trying, and failing, not to sound flustered.

Keigo’s hand lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then “Well, I couldn’t let my favorite apothecary faceplant in front of the trees.”

You slowly looked up. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

He grinned, not even a little sorry. “What? It’s poetic. Romantic, even.”

“I will throw this basket at you.”

He leaned closer, golden eyes practically glowing with amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve thrown at me.”

You blinked. “When did I ever throw–?”

“Your attitude. Constantly.”

Your jaw dropped as you pulled away from him. “I slipped , not died, you absolute menace.”

“Yet I still saved you,” he said with a shrug, walking ahead. “No thank-you kiss? Not even a leaf?”

“I will poison you,” you called after him.

He laughed, actually laughed, and it echoed through the trees like it belonged there. You jogged to catch up, heart still pounding and cheeks hot, and muttered, “I should’ve just stayed home. Let the town perish.”

“Oh no,” Keigo smirked over his shoulder. “Then who would flirt with me in the woods?”

Your glare was immediate. “I’m not flirting.”

He stopped walking, turning just enough to glance down at you, smug and unbothered. “You sure? ’Cause you’re blushing like someone who wants to know what kind of feathers I sleep on.”

You smacked his arm so fast your basket almost tilted. “Go.”

He was still laughing when he turned away, practically strutting now. God, you hated him. (You didn’t. You absolutely didn’t.) You trudged along behind him, trying to will the heat in your face to vanish, to pretend none of that just happened, but every time you thought you were in the clear, you'd catch him glancing back, smirking like he knew .

“Hey.” He stopped suddenly, turning so fast you nearly bumped into him. “We’re close.”

“Oh? How do you kn–”

Before you could finish, his hands cupped your face. Both of them.You blinked. Froze. “What are y–?”

“Shhh,” he hushed you like you were being far too loud in a sacred temple. “Do you see the glowing?” His thumbs squished your cheeks together, forcing your lips into an awkward pout as he tilted your head ever-so-slightly. “There. Right past that ridge,” he whispered, his own voice soft in a way that made your skin prickle. “Little bit past the tree that looks like a goose.”

You stared straight ahead, but honestly? You couldn’t focus on anything with his palms warm on your face and his breath brushing your forehead. His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, were gentle now, completely unguarded, like he wasn’t thinking about anything but this moment. And you. “I can’t see anything,” you mumbled through the squish.

He leaned forward slightly, squinting in exaggerated concentration. “Huh. Maybe you need bird vision.”

You shoved him. He didn’t budge. “You done?” you asked, trying not to smile.

“Almost.” His thumbs gave one last, dramatic squish before he released you. “There. Now you’re properly calibrated.”

You wiped your face like he’d committed a war crime. “You’re deranged.”

“I prefer innovative. ” You started walking again with a huff, but he stayed close beside you now, humming lightly under his breath, clearly in too good of a mood.

“Keigo,” you said, not looking at him.

“Mm?”

“Do you... always grab people’s faces like that?”

“Only yours.” That made you stop in your tracks. You turned slowly to stare at him, but he wasn’t even looking, just walking ahead, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just upended your entire central nervous system. He glanced over his shoulder with a lopsided smile. “You coming, or do I need to squish you again for encouragement?”

You swore you were going to scream. But your legs moved anyway.

You reached the clearing not long after, bathed in silver light, the delicate glow of the Sunveil blooming like a secret the forest had been saving just for you. But you barely looked at the plants. He still hadn’t stopped smiling. You bent down onto your knees, the cloak folding beneath you as your hands reached out with practiced ease. The soft glow of the Sunveil shimmered beneath your fingertips like starlight caught in silk. One by one, you clipped each stem cleanly near the base, collecting them carefully into your satchel.

Behind you, you could hear rustling, clumsy, awkward rustling. Keigo had crouched beside you. And from the sound of it, was attempting to mimic your technique. You didn’t look at him. Not yet. Another plant, another perfect cut.

Rustle. Scoot.

Was he getting closer ? You blinked. You felt him now. His shoulder bumped yours once. Then again, more intentional this time. “Do you mind? ” you murmured without looking.

“I’m helping,” he said, far too proudly for someone who’d just snapped an entire Sunveil stem in half.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, exhaled slowly. “That one’s useless now.”

“Eh. They grow back.”

You finally glanced at him. His hands were stained with pollen, a clumsy fistful of wilted blooms held in one palm. He looked very pleased with himself. You rolled your eyes and returned to your task. “If you’re going to keep leaning into me like that, at least be useful.”

“Oh? So I am leaning into you?” he asked, smug.

“You’re practically crawling inside my cloak.”

He chuckled, a low sound near your ear, and leaned just a bit more. You stood abruptly. There was a grunt , followed by a small thud. You turned to find him sprawled slightly sideways, having lost his balance the second your weight shifted. One of the crushed plants still in hand, his other palm braced in the dirt. You stared down at him, unimpressed.

“Wow. Great form.”

He looked up at you, winded and unrepentant. “I was conducting an inspection of the moss quality, thank you.”

You stepped around him with a shake of your head, smirking to yourself. “Uh-huh.”

“You don’t appreciate my efforts.”

“Oh, I appreciate them,” you said with a dry laugh. “You just have no idea what you're doing.”

He stood, brushing his hands off on his pants. “That’s not true. I’m very good at crouching next to pretty women while they do all the work.”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Excuse me?”

“See?” he grinned. “ Very good at it.”

You pointed to a patch a few feet away. “Go crouch over there.”

He started to move, but not without mumbling, “Rude.”

✧

“Thank you for trying, Keigo.” You said it sincerely, tucking the last sprig of Sunveil into your pouch, brushing your fingers off against the hem of your cloak. He paused, halfway through pretending to dust something off his knee, blinking like he didn’t expect you to say it.

“Trying?” he echoed, standing up beside you. “Excuse me, I’m an excellent assistant.”

You raised a brow. “You nearly uprooted a rock and called it medicinal.”

“It looked... determined.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I think you scared more plants away than you actually picked.”

He leaned in, shamelessly close now, his shoulder bumping yours as you both began the slow walk back through the forest. “Can’t blame them. I’d hide too if you were this mean to me all the time.”

“I’m not mean,” you muttered.

“Oh? Then what’s that look?” He gestured to your face with a grin.

“It’s my ‘tolerating you’ face.”

“Beautiful face, then.”

You stumbled slightly over a root and felt his hand dart to your lower back, steadying you with practiced ease. “Careful,” he murmured, and his voice was suddenly much lower, much softer. “Can’t have you face-planting after all that flawless harvesting. What would the forest say?”

You tried to brush it off, heat crawling up your neck. “Well maybe if someone wasn’t hovering so close–”

“ Hovering ? I was protecting. Big difference.”

“From rocks? Plants? Yourself?”

“From wolves. And bad vibes,” he said, deadly serious, but the grin on his face betrayed him.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile too hard. But gods, it was getting difficult not to. “I’m just saying,” you added, “this whole cryptic guardian of the woods thing you’ve got going on… it’s a little over the top.”

Keigo glanced sideways, amused. “Says the woman who nearly got lost again .” You opened your mouth to argue, but he suddenly stepped in front of you, walking backward now, the moonlight glinting off his cheekbones, hair glowing like spun gold. “Still,” he said, that cocky smirk softening just a fraction, “I didn’t mind the company.”

You stared at him, heart thudding. “Not even when I made fun of your harvesting skills?” you asked, trying to keep the tone light.

He tilted his head. “Especially then.”

You looked away. Gods. You were in trouble . And he knew it. “Soooo,” you drawled, stepping carefully over a root and side-eyeing him, “you have a hawk, right?”

Keigo raised an eyebrow, hands tucked behind his head, clearly amused by the sudden question. “That’s the one you’re leading with?”

“Well, I’m trying to learn more about my creepy forest stalker.”

“Affectionate,” he murmured under his breath with a grin.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make me take the thank-you back.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I have a hawk. She’s the biggest of the bunch… flies the highest, too.”

You hummed. “That’s the one people see the most, huh?”

“Usually. She likes the dramatic entrances,” he said, glancing at you. “Must be where I got it from.”

You laughed lightly. “Oh, so you admit to being dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he said, deadpan. “I’m theatrical . It's different.”

You raised a brow, dodging another low-hanging branch. “She got a name?”

His eyes flicked toward the trees above like he could spot her. “Takane.”

You blinked. “That’s... pretty.”

He shrugged. “She picked it.”

“She picked it?”

He grinned. “Well, I suggested a few. She only shrieked at the ones she hated.”

You tried not to smile too hard. “Sounds like a very healthy relationship.”

“The healthiest. We co-parent a group of misfit sparrows and one suicidal magpie.”

You actually laughed at that. “Gods, you really are the bird whisperer.”

“Hey, you’re the one planting snacks for them,” he teased. “Moonwort, chamomile... I saw that millet sprout near your windowsill.”

You looked horrified. “You’re watching my millet ?” He just grinned and shrugged innocently. “Are you jealous of the birds?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Only a little. They get more of your attention than I do.” 

You rolled your eyes, trying (and failing) to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Well maybe if you stopped leaving blood in my garden and actually knocked on my door like a normal person–”

“Normal’s boring.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, glancing sideways, his tone dropping just a little, “you let me walk you home anyway.”

You opened your mouth, then promptly shut it. Dammit. He was winning. Again. And the worst part? You kind of wanted him to. But reality had to set in at one point… "About that keigo..." your tone shifted, he noticed. 

His smile faltered, not all at once, but in pieces. Like a curtain pulled too quickly, not yet ready to fall. “Hmm?” he echoed, quieter this time. His head tilted as if trying to read your mind. “What do you mean?”

You chewed on your bottom lip. “I just think… maybe it’s best if you don’t come all the way back with me.”

Keigo didn’t answer right away. The tension, subtle before, folded itself into the air like mist settling in your lungs. His shoulders stiffened, and though he was still walking beside you, something shifted in the way he moved, like he was pacing himself now, calculating. “Because of them?” he asked eventually. His voice was still calm, but flat, too even to be natural.

You didn’t have to ask who “them” was. “I’m not saying I agree with them,” you said carefully. “I just… I don’t want you getting into more trouble. And I need people to trust me.”

He stopped walking. You took two more steps before realizing and turned to see him standing there in the dusk, his golden eyes burning through you like twin suns. “So what,” he said, voice low, “I help you, protect you, carry your damn baskets, pick herbs I don’t even need … and I’m still the thing you’re not supposed to be seen with?”

“It’s not like that–”

“Isn’t it?”

You stared at him, heart racing. “I’m trying to be smart , Keigo. You think I want any of this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes you look at me like you do.”

Your breath caught. He stepped closer, not too close, but just enough to make your spine straighten. “And sometimes,” he added, softer now, “you look at me like I’m about to ruin your life.”

“…Maybe I’m not sure which it is,” you said, barely above a whisper.

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then, with a quiet huff of breath, he turned away and started walking again, his voice thrown back over his shoulder…  “I’ll walk behind you, then. That way, no one will see.”

The wind blew gently through the trees. You stood there, alone in the path, feeling like the worst kind of coward. You reached for the basket, fingers grazing the woven handle, but he didn’t budge.

“Keigo,” you said softly. “I can carry it.”

His grip only tightened, just slightly. Not out of defiance… but something quieter. Something that trembled under the surface. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, not meeting your gaze.

You blinked, caught off guard by the way his voice cracked around the edges. “No, don’t apologize. Please.” Your hand hovered near his on the basket, unsure whether to pull away or press in closer. “You have every right to be upset.”

Finally, he looked at you. His eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were tired. Hurt. Like he was bracing for you to walk away again, and already missing you for it. “I just…” he exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking. “You say you want space. But when you look at me like that…. like I matter… I forget what I’m supposed to be to you.”

You swallowed hard. “You do matter.”

“To who?” His voice was gentle, not accusatory. “To you? Or the girl you’re supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’m scared. Not of you. Just… of how everything feels with you.”

His expression flickered… something deep and unspoken behind his eyes. He finally let go of the basket handle and instead reached forward, slow, almost reverent, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered near your jaw, warm and calloused.

“You make it really hard to leave you alone, y’know,” he whispered.

“I’m starting to think you’re not actually trying that hard,” you replied, lips twitching into the smallest smile.

His own smile cracked through then, crooked, soft, worn. “Maybe I’m not,” he murmured, thumb gently grazing your cheek. “Maybe I never was.”

Your breath hitched, heart rattling against your ribs. He was so close again, and yet he wasn’t pulling you in or backing away. Just waiting. Watching. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe you were walking a thin, sharp line between ruin and something that felt like fate.

But when you placed your hand lightly over his, leaning into the warmth of his palm… he didn’t pull away. His hand was still on your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing the skin beneath your eye like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His other hand had found your waist somewhere along the walk back, and now, now he was standing far too close, the hem of his cloak brushing your knees, the heat of him practically seeping into your bones.

His eyes flicked down to your lips. You felt it in your chest. A flutter, then a full-blown ache. You shouldn’t. You couldn’t. But your head tilted anyway. Keigo leaned in too… his brows drawn, a single breath between you, his eyes slipping shut. You were one second away. One second from losing every last bit of sense you’d fought so hard to hold onto. Your lips barely parted.

BOOM.

A thunderous explosion cracked through the quiet air, loud, harsh, unmistakably from the direction of the town . You both jolted back, breath caught. His hands left you instantly, eyes snapping open, already scanning the horizon. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Not from the sound.

From him. From what almost happened.

“What was that…” you whispered, chest rising and falling too fast. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still locked on the far edge of the trees…on the glowing lights beyond the mist. And when he finally looked at you again… he didn’t look like he regretted it. He looked like he was just waiting for the next chance.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. One second, you were staring into his eyes, reeling from what almost happened. The next, you were grabbing the basket from his hands like it weighed nothing and running . Bolting through the trees, skirts gathered in one hand, the other clenched around the handle, your heart thundering loud enough to drown out everything else.

" WAIT–! "

You heard him shout your name, sharp, desperate, a sound that twisted something in your chest. But you didn’t stop. You couldn't. The smoke rising in the distance, the blast echoing in your ears, it all pointed in one direction.

Home. Something had happened. Something bad.

Your boots hit the earth hard, breath ragged, hair whipping behind you. The forest blurred into a mess of green and fog, but your legs didn’t falter. You didn’t feel the branches scrape against your skin or the ache already building on your pounding feet. You kept running.  You didn’t recognize this path.

The ground was uneven beneath your boots, damp earth and twisted roots grabbing at your steps as you ran. Branches clawed at your arms, fog thick around your legs, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. You had no idea how you ended up here, this was the opposite end of your cottage, a direction you’d never taken. And yet you kept running. Your breath came in sharp, frantic bursts, your heart beating loud and fast in your ears. You felt sick with adrenaline, with panic. The trees finally began to thin, the edge of town looming just beyond… 

And then you saw it.

Smoke.

Billowing upward, dark and heavy, staining the pale sky like a wound. It was coming from the religious building , the largest structure in town. The very one where the Elders gathered. Your stomach dropped. The image of it… majestic and cold, so stoic just days before, was now blurred by heat and flame, silhouettes of people scattering in the square.

You pushed yourself harder, faster. You had to get there. You had to help. The town square buzzed with chaos. Dozens of people stood in clusters, surrounding the religious building like nervous moths circling a dying flame. Some were crying, others murmuring in frantic confusion. The air reeked of ash and smoke and fear, and for a moment, you froze.

You clutched the basket to your chest. Then, slowly, you stepped forward, slipping between anxious shoulders and trembling arms. Faces turned to you, confused, relieved, questioning.

“What happened?” you asked a woman with soot on her cheeks.

She only shook her head. “We don’t know. We heard a crash… then screaming. The Elders haven’t come out.”

You looked at the thick doors, half-ajar and breathing out smoke like the building was alive and dying all at once. Your grip on the basket tightened before you dropped it carefully to the stone, letting the weight fall from your arms. Your feet moved before your mind could stop them.

“Apothecary– wait!” someone called, but it was too late.

You ran in. Smoke hit you like a fist to the lungs. The moment you stepped over the threshold, the heat warped around your face, your cloak clinging to your skin like wet parchment. Coughs choked your throat, but you forced your legs to move, stumbling further into the smoke-filled corridors.

You had to find someone, anyone. But something was wrong. This wasn’t just wood smoke. The scent clawed at the back of your throat, sour and coppery, like burnt herbs… or blood . You pressed the sleeve of your cloak to your face and pushed forward. The fog of ash rolled in waves, glowing faintly orange in the places where beams of fire still licked the ceiling. The building moaned, no, it screamed , like it remembered something ancient and terrible.

Glass shattered somewhere deep inside. A gust of wind? A collapsed frame? Then you saw it.

Burned into the stone of the central prayer hall… not just blackened, but warped, was a sigil. Circular. Symmetrical. Too precise for a natural fire to make. You’d seen something similar once in an old tome tucked in the back of your mother’s apothecary journals, but it hadn’t been labeled. You stopped. Your feet felt heavier. The smoke here smelled… different.

A soft, metallic tang filled your nose… familiar but hard to name, until you looked up and saw the burned remains of crushed lavender and bonewort in the offering bowls. Ritual herbs. Used for cleansing. Or summoning. Your stomach turned. You weren’t just walking into a disaster. You were walking into a secret. But there were no bodies. No injured clerics. No screaming. Just the whisper of wind curling through the gaps in the ceiling and the slow drip of water through scorched beams.

And that smell again… acrid, earthy, like blood and burnt flowers.

You turned to leave. Only to find the door behind you was gone. Swallowed by smoke. Just as you turned, heart pounding, the floor beneath you shifted, moved. You barely had time to look down before a hand latched around your ankle. You screamed. A frail, scorched voice rasped beneath you.

“ Help… ” You dropped to your knees, coughing violently from the smoke, and found yourself face to face with one of the elders, the sharp-eyed woman always at the High Table, now barely recognizable beneath soot and blood. Her robes were half-burned, her hair tangled with ash, and her eyes… wide , filled with something far more terrifying than pain.

Terror.

You grabbed her arms, yanking her upright… She was so light, like a doll of sticks and cloth. Her legs dragged uselessly as you pulled her toward the nearest hallway.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you– come on, we need to move–!”

She clutched your shoulders, voice a cracked whisper in your ear. “ It wasn’t… an accident. ”

Your blood froze. “What– what do you mean? Who–?”

But her head slumped forward.

You shook her, frantically trying to keep her awake, but the smoke was getting thicker, your throat seizing up. You didn’t have time. You threw her arm over your shoulder and pushed forward, toward the corridor that might still be open. The door was a glowing silhouette through the haze. You didn’t know if you could make it. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t stop. Not even when your muscles screamed or when your lungs felt like they might collapse.

The smoke stung your eyes, clawed at your throat, but you kept pushing through the heavy heat, the weight of the elder in your arms growing more unbearable with each step. You staggered forward, the world around you spinning as flames crackled behind, closing in fast. Somehow, you made it to the threshold.

Light… real light, spilled in as you stumbled out into the open, the crowd parting like ghosts. A chorus of gasps echoed around you, but it was distant, as if underwater.

You dropped to your knees. The elder slipped from your arms and hit the ground with a dull thud. And then everything tilted. The last thing you saw were wide eyes staring back at you, fear and awe tangled into one. Then the world turned black.

✧

You felt weightless. Not like falling… more like floating, suspended in some thick, unmoving air. The sky above you was a washed-out gray, bleeding into a horizon that didn’t seem to end. You stood barefoot on what looked like water but didn’t ripple beneath your steps. Every sound was muffled, distant, like you were underwater yet breathing just fine. Then you saw it: a door. Standing upright in the middle of the nothingness.

You approached cautiously, your steps making no sound. The handle was cold, metal biting into your palm as you turned it and pushed it open… darkness. A hallway stretched in front of you, lit by flickering candle sconces. Each flame pulsed with your heartbeat. You walked forward, drawn by a sound, soft flapping, like wings brushing against stone.

A room opened at the end. He was there.

Keigo stood with his back to you, half-shrouded in shadow, a long table before him lined with strange, shimmering feathers. He turned slowly, golden eyes glowing unnaturally bright in the dimness. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Your body moved on its own, stepping closer, closer, until his hand shot out and caught your wrist, the same one he held in the dream before. He leaned in, too close, his voice brushing against your skin like a whisper… 

“You came back.”

You tried to pull away, but your feet were stuck. The feathers on the table were now covered in blood. And when you looked down… so were your hands.

Your breath hitched, chest rising in panic. You were going to scream… had to– but before the sound could rise, his hand was on you, palm warm and steady as it gently covered your mouth.

“Shhh,” Keigo whispered, voice barely audible but firm. “Don’t. You’ll wake them.”

Wake who? Your eyes darted behind him, trying to make sense of the room, shapes shifted in the darkness, silhouettes curled like sleeping figures along the walls. It smelled like iron and smoke and something ancient. His golden eyes searched yours, and for a terrifying moment, he looked almost sad.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your cheekbone unconsciously. You shook your head, voice muffled under his hand. He seemed to understand anyway. “No, you don’t need to talk,” he said. “Not here. Not yet.”

Your heart pounded so loudly it echoed in your ears. He slowly removed his hand from your mouth, and your voice came out broken and small. “…Is this real?”

His lips parted like he wanted to lie… but didn’t. “…Would it matter if it was?”

Your throat tightened. “Why me?”

A beat passed. Then, quietly, like an admission “I don’t know how to leave you alone.”

He leaned in again. Just like before in the forest, same look in his eyes, same ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. His face was so close now, you could feel his breath graze your skin, warm and steady. His hand hovered, not quite touching your jaw, but close enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Was he going to… ?

You jolted awake. Your body screamed in protest, every limb stiff and aching. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as your eyes flew open, and for a moment, you couldn’t place where you were. The world swam in and out of focus, ceiling, candlelight, blurred movement.

✧

Pain radiated through your back, your legs, even your ribs. The scent of ash still clung to your skin, faint but stubborn. Your mouth was dry, throat sore, lungs heavy like you’d swallowed smoke. You winced and tried to sit up, bad idea. A spike of pain shot down your side.

Where…? 

You were in someone’s home. Not yours. The blanket over you was unfamiliar. The room was warm, gently lit, quiet. But your heart? That was chaos. Not just from the physical pain. But because of him. Because of the dream. Because he almost kissed you again. Because deep down… You weren’t sure anymore what was real. You barely have time to gather your scattered thoughts before the door bursts open with a sharp thud. Footsteps thunder down the hall, and a familiar voice breaks through the quiet. You hear your name being screamed in a slight panic. 

Ela storms in, her face flushed with concern but her eyes bright, a stark contrast to the drained exhaustion still clinging to you. She carries a small satchel with bits of dried herbs poking out, no doubt the Sunveil you brought to town, now spread around to help those still recovering.

“Oh my– are you okay?” she asks, rushing over to your bedside, her voice gentle but urgent.

You try to offer a reassuring smile, but it falters under the weight of everything… the fire, the dream, Keigo’s haunting presence. Ela kneels beside you, brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead.

“Don’t try to push yourself too hard,” she murmurs, her warmth a small comfort in the haze of your pain.

For a moment, you just let yourself breathe in the moment, grateful for this anchor amid the storm of your thoughts. Ela settled in beside you, her hands gentle but steady as she tended to your fevered brow. “After the fire, the whole building eventually collapsed. Just as things looked hopeless, a heavy rainfall came through… perfect timing, really… and put out the last of the flames.”

She paused, brushing your damp hair back with a sigh. “That was three days ago. You’ve been out cold ever since, barely stirring.” You blinked slowly, the weight of those days pressing down on you. Three days trapped between sleep and strange dreams, the world slipping by without you. Ela’s presence was a quiet anchor, a reminder you weren’t alone even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you passed by… and instantly regretted it. Yikes.

Your reflection looked like a ghost… eyes sunken, ringed with red, dull in a way that made you feel even more exhausted. Your hair was tangled beyond repair, knotted from days of tossing and turning, damp with sweat in places, and completely unmanageable. Your lips were cracked, dry. Your skin looked pale and waxy. And your leg… wrapped tightly in fresh bandages, but still swollen beneath the layers. You didn’t look like someone who’d saved an Elder. You didn’t look like a healer. You looked broken. Bruised. Like someone who'd barely made it out alive.

✧

It was the next day when you finally said the words aloud. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Ela and her mother both froze, her mother pausing mid-stir with whatever tonic she’d been making, Ela looking up from the folded cloth in her lap.   “Are you sure?” her mother asked gently, exchanging a look with her daughter.

You nodded, slow. “I’m feeling better.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. You were standing. You could speak without your voice shaking. You hadn’t coughed in hours. The bandages were tighter, cleaner. You were breathing on your own. But you didn’t feel better. Not where it mattered. Not where the smoke still clung to the edges of your mind like ash, where the sound of timber splitting still echoed between your ears, where those dreams still clutched at your ribs when you blinked too long.

Ela followed you to the edge of their property, her expression tight with something like worry. “You’ll come back if you feel worse?”

“I’ll be fine.” You weren’t.

You told yourself the air would be clearer once you reached your cottage. That it would smell like herbs and dry books, not scorched wood and antiseptic. But when you reached the door and placed your hand on the knob, your chest tightened so suddenly it stole your breath.

You didn’t feel better. You just wanted to be home. Even if nothing felt safe anymore. You limped the entire way home, each uneven step echoing in your bones, the pain sharp and pulsing beneath the bandages wrapping your leg. The pathway felt longer than you remembered, every tree looming like a silent witness to the weight dragging behind your heels.

The fog had returned, denser than usual, swallowing the edges of your vision in a soupy blur. It twisted around your ankles, climbed the folds of your cloak like ghostly fingers. And yet… it wasn’t unwelcome. Not entirely. It had always been part of your walks home, part of your routine. Only now, it seemed to breathe heavier.

Your hands trembled as you held them close to your chest, your basket long abandoned at Ela’s. You weren’t ready to carry anything today. Not even a bundle of herbs. Not even yourself, really.

The cottage came into view through the mist, small, weather-worn, familiar. It should’ve made you feel safe. Instead, your heart twisted. You weren’t sure if it was dread… or longing. You needed answers. About the storm. The fire. The sudden, terrifying collapse of the town’s holiest place. But more than that… you needed answers about him.

Keigo. His name felt dangerous in your head.

The way he stared at you like he’d known you forever. The way he touched you like he never wanted to stop. The dream. The dreams. The gifts, the silence. The blood. You didn’t understand any of it. You weren’t even sure you wanted to understand it. But your heart… traitorous and tender, it ached for things you couldn’t name.

And somewhere beneath all that fear, buried under the exhaustion and soot still caught beneath your fingernails, you missed him. You reached the steps of your door, gripping the handle like it might disappear beneath your fingers. You pushed it open.

Everything inside was still. Dust motes hovered in the shafts of late afternoon light. Your herbs were drooping slightly, as if waiting for your return. The place smelled faintly of jasmine. Of him.

You limped inside and shut the door behind you. No answers came. Just silence. Heavy and familiar.  But maybe, just maybe, that silence wouldn’t last.

You peeled the damp cloak from your shoulders, fingers aching with each movement. The familiar creak of your chair called to you, habit more than comfort. You took a step toward your desk, fully prepared to start planning, to figure out what you needed to do next… 

A single rose.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was lying there like it had grown from the wood itself, perfectly centered atop the parchment and scattered notes you'd left behind. No vase. No note. Just the bloom… fresh, fragrant, soft petals still curling at the tips.

A rose. But not the ones you’d seen in the forest. No, those were white. Innocent. Untouched. Like little ghosts brushing your fingertips. This one… was different. This one was red. Deep, blood red. The kind that bled into shadow. The kind that meant something. You swallowed hard. He must have seen you admiring them. Of course he had. Keigo was always watching. Always seeing.

The thought should’ve scared you. You were still recovering, body raw from fire and fever and exhaustion. But instead, your chest felt tight with something else, something warmer, heavier. He had left this here. He had chosen this color. You reached out, fingers brushing the edges of the rose, careful not to damage the petals.

Why this one? Why now?

And why, despite everything, did your heart flutter at the thought of him stepping foot in your home again? Like the fire had never come. Like the fear had never scorched your soul. Like this rose wasn’t a warning… but a promise. You cradled the rose in your hand, the stem smooth beneath your fingers, no thorns. Of course. He wouldn’t leave thorns. He was careful like that. Too careful.

You placed it in the smallest glass vase you owned, one you usually used for drying herbs. It stood there perfectly upright, as if it belonged. As if it had always been meant for this space. A perfect fit. You stared at it for a long moment before turning away. No. Not now. You had something else to do. 

The curtains in your room swayed faintly from the draft as you stepped past them. Behind the wardrobe, hidden by a loose wooden panel you had carved out yourself years ago, was the one place no one in town would ever think to look. Your secret. You reached into the dark crawlspace and pulled out a small wooden chest, worn but still intact. The latch clicked softly as it opened. Inside… 

A treasure trove of forbidden knowledge. Old books, their pages yellowed and filled with cramped handwriting. Symbols and inked diagrams, pressed herbs folded between parchment, titles long since rubbed away…
Rites of Night Passage.
Identifying the Dead That Still Walk.
The Binding Tongue.
Children of Feather and Fang.

Your fingers traced each cracked spine with reverence and unease. You weren’t a witch, but in this place, with this knowledge, they’d burn you just the same. You were an apothecary. That was all. That’s what they let you be. But you needed more now. Because something was happening. Keigo was not normal. He was something else… beautiful, dangerous, unexplainable , and if no one would tell you what he was, you’d have to find out yourself.

You lit a small candle and began to flip carefully through the pages. If there was even a sliver of truth in these texts… you’d find it. You had to. Before someone else did. You plucked the thickest book from the box, Children of Feather and Fang. The leather cover was darker than the rest, aged and stiff, with curling edges and an odd texture beneath your fingertips. Something about it made your stomach twist. You hadn’t dared open it since you were young, when your mother warned you that even knowledge could be dangerous.

You laid it carefully on the floor beside your bed, letting the curtain drape over the room like a veil, a poor attempt at comfort. The pages crackled as you turned them, parchment dry, brittle, stained in places where something old and dark had seeped through.

The first few chapters were laughable. Religious fables, fire-and-brimstone parables about creatures born of sin and shadow. Feathered beasts sent to seduce and destroy. Fang-ridden demons who lived among humans, mimicking them, hiding from sunlight. You kept reading.

A passage caught your eye, illustrated with a detailed sketch of a man with birdlike eyes, surrounded by dark winged silhouettes.

They are neither wholly beast nor wholly man, but something in between. Gifted with tongues to speak to birds and eyes that see through the dark. Creatures of impossible swiftness and strange beauty, their presence stirs the wind and chills the skin.

Your heart skipped. You flipped faster, fingers trembling. Another passage:

Often they will offer gifts, trinkets, rare flora, precious metals, all as means of testing the boundaries of affection. Once their interest is caught, their fixation is absolute. They do not understand human limits. They do not obey them.

The air around you felt suddenly thin. You turned another page.

Some claim they enter dreams. That they can pull a soul from their body in sleep and whisper truths into their blood. It is not known how they choose their prey. But once chosen, the victim is marked.

You froze. Marked. Your eyes dropped to your arm, where the faint shape of a handprint still lingered from the dream you’d convinced yourself wasn’t real. Where Keigo had grabbed you, not roughly… but with the kind of force that seared into memory.

You stared at the page. The words swam.

They are watchers. Lurkers. Listeners. Their affection is possessive. Their hunger, worse. Feather and fang are but the beginning.

You slowly closed the book. "Oh no," you whispered to yourself, voice barely audible.

Because suddenly… everything made a little too much sense. You sat still for what felt like hours. The book was shut, but its words clung to you like cobwebs, sticky and insistent. You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to feel like you did, like your skin no longer belonged to you, like the air in your lungs was heavy with truth you had desperately tried to unsee. You ran a hand down your face, trying to press the thoughts back into your skull, but they surged forward regardless. One after another.

The first time you saw him… your  back turned, blood on his hands, and no weapon in sight. You convinced yourself it had to be a knife or a trap you missed in the underbrush. But there was no wound on him. There never was. He always looked pristine beneath the cloak... except for the blood. How did he kill the beast…?

His cloak. God, that same cloak that always smelled faintly of iron and wild wind.

The way he growled, actually growled , when you grabbed him that night in the woods. It hadn't been entirely human. And then… how fast he changed. How he softened. How he looked at you like he wanted to speak but didn’t trust himself to open his mouth.

And you… stupid, desperate for connection, had brushed it off. Laughed it away. Told yourself he was just a little... peculiar. A little too intense. A little too quiet, too quick, too pale, too nocturnal. Too everything. Your arms wrapped around yourself. Not from cold, but to stop the shaking.

You remembered the strange sound… wet, guttural, gurgling … that made the hairs rise on your neck as you hid behind a tree that night you were looking for Bitterthorn. You knew what feeding sounded like. You were a healer. You’d heard enough dying breaths to recognize it.

You remembered how he looked in candlelight. Not admiring. Hungry. Like it stirred something deeper. His skin glistening…  Your breathing picked up.

Keigo. That name. You never found it in your record logs, not in any town registry, not in any past census, not in any hunting guild. And it wasn’t just uncommon… it was nonexistent. He was nowhere. Like he didn’t exist.

Your chest tightened as the pieces clicked together. Everything you told yourself not to think about… all the uncanny moments, all the near-kisses that felt like seduction and hypnosis all at once, all the silent stares and nocturnal visits, the flowers, the dream...

Oh, the dream.

Your fingertips tingled where he’d touched you. You felt your stomach twist remembering the way he held your face, the way your name sounded from his lips, the way his presence in that vision was too real to be dismissed as fantasy.

You were unraveling. You were so tired. You had been trying so hard to stay sane, to stay good, to do your job, to please the elders, to save your neighbors, to stay human in a world that demanded divinity. But somewhere along the line, you had let something ancient and dark inside your home. Into your heart.

You stood abruptly, staggering slightly. The sudden movement made your vision blur. Your hands went to your temples as you whispered, “What am I doing… what have I done…” The room spun. Not literally—but the weight of the realization tilted your axis all the same. Your legs felt boneless. Your thoughts frantic.

You didn’t want to believe it.But you had all the evidence. And worst of all? Some part of you wasn’t afraid of him. Some part of you… was afraid of what that said about you.

You sat back down… slowly this time. The weight of your thoughts too heavy to stand under. Your hands were trembling as you opened the book again, flipping to the page with the old, smudged sketch of a creature you could no longer deny looked exactly like him. Eyes too bright. Features too sharp. An elegance that bordered on inhuman. But still… there were gaps.

Where were his fangs?

You ran a finger along your bottom lip absentmindedly, staring blankly ahead. You tried to remember, every time he smiled. Every time he leaned in, whispered something in that low, effortless voice. He'd smirked, he'd chuckled. But never opened his mouth wide. Never laughed with teeth. Never yawned. Never ate in front of you.

Never. Does he hide them? Is that even possible? Then came the harder question… the one that settled in your chest like rot. 

Why hasn't he killed me yet?

You sucked in a sharp breath. You’d read the warnings in every dusty text on creatures born of blood and shadow: they tempt, they feed, they leave nothing behind. Yet here you were. Still breathing. Still whole. Still… watched. That word alone made your shoulders curl inward, like something was behind you right now. You didn’t dare turn around.

Your mind spiraled. He’d had so many chances. The night you passed out at your desk. The dream. The dreams. The forest. The time he grabbed you, held you to the tree, pressed too close, too hard. You should’ve felt fear. But you hadn’t. Not truly. Not until now. Because now, you were thinking clearly. You were alone. And you were remembering.

You remembered the way his eyes lingered in candlelight, golden and too focused, like he didn’t blink. The way his skin caught the moon like polished silver. You remembered that growl , the guttural one when he held your wrist too tightly. You remembered the blood on his cloak… and how there’d been no body.

You heard something die. You knew it. But you let it go. Because he was beautiful. Because he was gentle… when he wanted to be. Because he left you flowers. Because he made you feel something. And that, that was what terrified you most. You leaned forward, burying your face in your hands.

Like someone who had erased their existence. Or never had one to begin with. You exhaled shakily and looked at your bookshelf. All your careful studies. All your research. All the things you’d learned to avoid... and now invited into your garden.

He hadn’t hurt you. Yet. But how much longer would yet last?

You hesitantly opened the book again, the aged parchment crackling slightly under your fingers. Your heart pounded harder than you wanted it to as you flipped past warnings, sketches, and crude field notes until you reached a heading scrawled in dark ink, jagged and urgent:

"Marks of the Children: Entry Points and Aftermaths."

Three full pages. Ink-stained, smudged at the corners like someone had spent too long thumbing through them. You stared.

Page One: Fatal Sites.

A charcoal sketch of the human body, side profile and full frontal. Dark Xs marked the worst of it…
Carotid. Femoral. Inner thigh. Subclavian.
You winced, reaching up to your own neck as your fingers hovered over the base of your throat. The image annotated in fine, meticulous print:

“The most direct access to major arteries. Victims lose consciousness within seconds, death within minutes. Typically no struggle. Often associated with feeding frenzy.”

You swallowed thickly and flipped the page.

Page Two: Tolerable Sites.

The same figure, this time marked in soft blue ink.
Wrist. Shoulder. Inner bicep. Hip.
Next to each mark was a note, less clinical, more personal. Almost like journal entries.

“Wrist: cleanest. Allows quick sealing. The skin there is soft, thin. Reusable.”
“Shoulder: less ideal. Bruising common. Scar tissue buildup after multiple attempts.”
“Inner bicep: intimate . Used during bonding rituals in older texts. Often accompanied by eye contact.”

You touched your own arm without thinking, running your fingers over the skin near your shoulder, then your wrist. Why did that entry sound familiar? You couldn’t stop. You flipped to the last page.

Page Three: Symbolic or Ritual Marks.

No full-body drawing this time. Just sketches of scars, crescent-shaped, paired punctures, faded and shallow. Neck. Behind the ear. Ribcage.

“Symbolic marks rarely meant to kill. More often signs of claiming, warnings to other predators, or part of dreamwalking rites.”
“Recipients often experience vivid dreams, hallucinations, and unnatural attachment to the feeder.”

Your breath hitched. Dreamwalking rites? You pressed your hand to the back of your neck, then your ribs, your breathing growing faster as you scanned the page for more.

“Some victims report a phantom pain near the site, even when no mark is visible. Others feel heat or tremors in the area during full moons or proximity to the source.”

Your hand trembled as you dragged it down your side. There was nothing there. But why did it burn ? You closed the book slowly, heart hammering, fingertips ghosting over your skin as though they’d already been marked. You weren’t imagining it. You couldn’t be. And if you were… Then why did every page feel like it had already happened?

You flipped the page with a strange urgency, the parchment cold against your fingertips… almost like it knew what you were looking for. The ink here had faded, but the header stood out in an angular script, harsher than the rest of the book… 

“Rituals of Banishment and Purification.”

Your eyes scrolled hastily through it… paragraphs on cleansing oils, drawn circles of herb ash, phrases in a language no one alive should still know. But there… etched in the center of the page, drawn perfectly by hand, was the sigil.

The same one. Your blood turned to ice. That same circular, symmetrical shape. Four sharp points like thorns pressed inward, curling slightly, like fangs. The outer ring layered with runic glyphs you couldn’t read, but had seen. It was the same symbol burned into the central prayer hall’s stone floor. Not scorched. Not cracked. Warped. Like the building itself had recoiled from it.

Your fingers hovered over the page.

“This spell is said to cast out all unclean spirits,” the annotation read in tight, slanted script, “including monsters, creatures of shadow, and corrupted souls bound to mortal form. Use with caution… may provoke violent reaction. If performed incorrectly, the ritual may backfire, drawing the creature deeper into the physical realm.”

Your eyes flew wide. Backfire. The building hadn’t burned down from the inside, it had collapsed in on itself. You saw it. You smelled it. The smoke was thick and oily. And underneath it all, that stench … not quite fire, not quite blood. Something... wrong. You read further, hand clutching your chest.

“Those most vulnerable to corruption must remain outside the circle. If the circle breaks, the purification cannot complete. The creature may flee, or worse, be strengthened.”

You blinked, dazed. The memory of the symbol carved into the stone floor returned, too precise to be made by fire, too deliberate to be coincidence. You remembered feeling sick as you stepped over it, like your own lungs recoiled from the space. That wasn’t just a fire. It was a failed ritual. A failed banishment. Your thoughts turned to the elders. How they’d remained untouched. How they'd pulled you in afterward. The looks they'd given you. They knew something. You were sure of it now.

Your gaze dropped back to the sigil. Beneath it, a final, half-faded line:

“If done correctly, all spirits of shadow shall be driven away. But if the heart of the monster remains bound to the earth…”

You stared. Bound. To the earth. To someone. You swallowed hard, the implication choking you more than the smoke ever had. They tried to cast something out, and failed. It didn’t die. It didn’t vanish. It was still here. Still close. Your heart thundered. Was that what he was?

And worse… what if he wasn’t the thing they tried to banish? What if he was something else entirely? You slammed the book shut so hard the sound echoed through the house. Your stomach churned with nausea, thick and rising up your throat. You'd tried before… gods, you tried . The note. The silence. The locks. But he hadn’t stayed away.

He wouldn’t. You needed another way. Something permanent. A warding spell? A potion? Maybe… maybe there was a plant that repelled his kind. There had to be. Something sharp-smelling, something sacred. Maybe running away would work. Maybe it wouldn’t. Your thoughts spiraled like ink dropped in water, each idea dissolving before it fully formed.

You pushed off the desk, your legs unsteady as you stood. You’d barely made it two steps when your body froze. The hairs on the back of your neck rose all at once. Not from wind. Not from fear. From presence . You swallowed hard, the weight of the room suddenly shifting, like air pressing in on all sides. Every instinct screamed the same thing… 

He’s close. 

Chapter Text

The silence in your cottage was oppressive. Not peaceful or comforting, but still, like the world was holding its breath. You didn’t move at first. You told yourself it was nothing. The wind, maybe. A trick of the air. The weight of everything you’d just read. You slammed that book shut for a reason.

But the goosebumps on your arms didn’t go away. Your breath hitched. You stepped away from the desk slowly, carefully, like something might snap if you moved too fast. The wooden floor creaked beneath your foot… loud, too loud. You hated that sound.

The air shifted again. You spun. Nothing. Curtains unmoved. Door still shut. Windows latched tight. But you felt it. That pressure again, not on your skin but beneath it, crawling through your ribs like you were being watched from the inside out.

"Keigo...?" you whispered… hating how small your voice sounded.

No answer. Your eyes darted to the corners of the room. Shadows. Shapes. Your own fears given form. That ridiculous red rose sat in its vase like a warning. You took a shaky breath, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady yourself. And then, from behind you, a soft, barely-there sound. Like feathers brushing against the windowpane.

You turned, heart hammering. Still nothing. Only the stormy scent of rain left over from days before, the chill from the fog still clinging to the glass, the eerie red tint of the rose catching the flicker of your desk candle. But deep down, you knew… He had been here. Or worse– 

He never left .

You couldn’t breathe.

No– you were breathing … too much, too fast. The air in your lungs felt thin, like it wasn’t doing its job, like your body had forgotten how to use it. Your mind spiraled through too many thoughts, too many warnings, too many pieces . Keigo. Vampire. Fire. Rituals. Dreams. The rose. The sigil. The blood. The NO. Everything felt like it was pressing down on your skull at once. You backed away from your desk, chest rising and falling with shallow desperation, your hands trembling as you reached for the edge of the shelf to steady yourself. Tears began to form in your eyes blurring your vision… 

You were losing it . Or maybe he was making you lose it. Was this some kind of curse? Had he hexed your mind? You felt raw. Skin peeled back. Unmoored. And then… 

Tap.

You froze.

Tap. Tap.

Not at the door this time. Not from the front. From the garden. Your heart stopped. You hesitated only a second longer before grabbing your cloak, wrapping it tightly around your shoulders. Candle still in hand, you stepped toward the back door. Your feet were moving, but your mind screamed no . You hadn’t willingly gone into the garden since the fire. Since– 

Tap.

You pushed open the door. The air was damp with the last of the evening mist, the chill brushing against your face like icy fingers. Everything looked... untouched. Quiet. Still. Except for the gentle rustling near the corner planter. You took one step forward, eyes squinting through the fog. And that’s when you saw her.

A hawk.

Not just any hawk… his . You’d only caught glimpses of her before, circling far overhead, shadow sweeping the ground like an omen. But now she was perched delicately near the low stone planter by the back fence, claws carefully shifting aside a handful of leaves from a tightly grouped cluster of green stalks. One claw tapped insistently at the soil, almost like she was trying to draw your attention.

She was… beautiful.

Soft pale feathers beneath the sharper brown patterns of her wings. Striking gold eyes. Graceful, calm, measured. And very, very much watching you. Your breath caught. The air felt slightly less hostile. You stepped closer. “…Hmm,” you exhaled slowly, the edge in your voice smoothing just a little. “You’re quite cute…”

The hawk tilted her head, blinking. Her feathers puffed out slightly, then settled. You lowered the candle a bit to get a better look. The plant she was pawing at… your brow furrowed. You recognized it. Starshade. A rare sedative when harvested correctly, dangerous in the wrong hands, but with the right preparation… Your thoughts slowed. The hawk’s presence, strangely, was grounding. Her gaze didn’t feel invasive the way his did. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t watching you to corner you. She was telling you something.

You crouched slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “He sent you… didn’t he?”

No answer, obviously. But the hawk stepped back from the plant just enough to give you room. You plucked a small stalk, careful, practiced, then whispered, “Thank you.”

The hawk blinked again. One blink. Two. Then she spread her wings and leapt into the sky. You stayed there a long moment after she vanished into the fog, still holding the stalk of Starshade between your fingers. You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t feel alone anymore. And, for the first time in a long while… you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. You stood with the stalk of Starshade pinched gently between your fingers, blinking after the hawk as she disappeared into the mist-choked sky. The garden was quiet again. Still. Just you, the soil, and the faint hum of something stirring behind the veil of fog.

The candle in your hand had long since flickered out. You hadn’t even noticed. With a soft breath, you stood up and turned toward the back door, eyes heavy, body cold. You just needed to go inside. Just needed to breathe again. Your hand reached for the knob.

SLAM.

The door flew shut. Right in front of you. You didn’t scream… but your entire body jerked . You stared at the door, frozen for half a second before lurching forward, both hands gripping the knob. You twisted it, pushed, pulled… nothing .

“Come on,” you whispered, panic rising like bile in your throat. You rattled it again, harder this time. “Come on– open, open, open–” It wouldn’t budge. The fog thickened around your ankles, the sudden drop in temperature crawling up your spine like frostbite.

You felt it. He was behind you.

Not the way you sensed someone watching you through your window. Not the way the forest sometimes felt haunted. Not even the way your dreams had wrapped around your mind like smoke and heat. No. This was real . You felt the pressure in the air shift. The way your hair lifted slightly at your nape. The presence.

Him.

You didn’t dare turn around. Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “K-Keigo…?”

Silence.

“Did she make you feel better?” His voice was low. Disarmingly calm. It was the kind of tone you’d use if you were admiring a painting. Or a pet. Or a problem. “...Did she make you feel safe? ”

Your grip on the door tightened. “You sent her,” you said, throat dry.

A beat passed. And then, so soft you almost missed it… “Yes.”

Something about that single word made your chest tighten. Because it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t threatening. It was… almost gentle . But that gentleness only made your fear rise faster. You slowly turned your head, not all the way. Just enough to see the edge of him behind you. A silhouette against the fog. Cloaked. Still. His golden eyes catching what little moonlight crept through the clouds.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your breath hitched. He took one step closer. “You were crying earlier,” he said quietly. “Was it for them? Or was it for me ?” Your mouth opened, then closed. You didn’t know what the truth was. You didn’t know anything anymore. His voice dropped even lower, the kind of tone you weren’t meant to hear this close to your ear, “Do you want me to go… or do you want to ask me to stay?”

You turned fully, heart slamming against your ribs. Because now he was actually here with you. Inches away. Waiting.

“I want you to unlock my door.” Your voice cracked only slightly. Quiet but clear.

Keigo stood behind you, far too close. You didn’t need to turn around to feel him. His presence pressed into your spine, warm and unrelenting despite the night’s chill. “Hmph,” he exhaled, not quite a laugh. “Funny, huh. It seems like I’ve been asking for that exact same thing.”

His voice dipped lower, almost amused, almost cruel. Your hand still gripped the doorknob, but the cold metal wouldn’t budge. You swallowed hard. You felt it, the weight of his meaning. He wasn’t talking about doors anymore. “I didn’t ask for any of this,” you whispered. “I didn’t–”

“I know.” His breath was at your ear now. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

You turned your head slightly, only to find him already staring, eyes golden, gleaming faintly in the dark like a predator’s. The hawk was still perched behind him, silent. “Then why–”

“Because you’re the only thing that’s ever made me hesitate.”

Silence.

He reached past you, slowly, deliberately… and with a soft click , unlocked the door himself. He didn’t push it open.

“You can go inside now,” he murmured. But you didn’t move. Because now, the real question wasn’t how to open the door. It was whether you wanted to. You didn’t move.

The door stood open just a crack now, the air from inside brushing your face, familiar and warm, but not nearly as warm as the presence behind you. Why weren’t you going inside? You told yourself it was fear. That it was rational, survival-based hesitation. But your fingers weren’t shaking anymore, and your breath didn’t come in gasps. Your skin was burning in places where it hadn’t even been touched yet.

You could feel him. Not just the heat, not just the weight of his gaze, but him . Every part of him honed in on you, as if there was no one else in the world worth noticing.

You swallowed. One step, and you’d be safe. Relatively. Alone again. So why… why did your hand hover in the space between you and him? You didn’t even mean to raise it. Your fingers, traitorous things, twitched toward his cloak, then paused, frozen mid-air. Would he let you touch him? Would that break something? Would you ?

Your breath caught. And then… he moved. Just barely. But enough. Enough that when he leaned in, his chest brushed your shoulder, and your fingers made contact. You flinched, but he didn’t. No.. he got closer.

Did he just… Your eyes widened. Did he just lean into your touch?

You turned your head to look at him properly and… He was right there. Closer than before. His face only inches from yours now. You couldn’t see all of him, but his lashes cast soft shadows under his eyes, and there was the faintest tilt to his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. The air felt too thick to breathe.

“Careful,” he said softly. His voice wasn’t teasing this time. “You keep looking at me like that, and I might think you’ve changed your mind.”

You should’ve pulled your hand back. You should’ve stepped inside. You should’ve said something. But you didn’t. And neither did he. He just stood there, still as stone, watching you, like he was waiting. For you to run. For you to reach. For you to decide . You weren’t sure which of those would kill you faster. Keigo’s silence wasn’t comforting. It was heavy. You didn’t dare look back. “I’m going inside,” you muttered, finally finding the strength to push the door shut.

But it didn’t move. You blinked, trying again. Still stuck. There was a sound then… low and deliberate. A soft exhale, almost a scoff . You could feel it before you even heard his voice, like pressure in the air pressing down on your spine. “Oh?” he said, smooth but tight. “ Now it’s wrong?”

You froze. The edge of the door trembled in your grip as you kept your eyes forward. But his footsteps… slow, deliberate… moved behind you. Not loud, but close enough that you could feel them. The heat of him. The tension bleeding into the space between your shoulder blades.

“It wasn’t wrong,” Keigo murmured, “when your eyes begged me to stay. When you leaned in. When you watched me like that.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“When you let me touch you… when you wanted me to–”

“I said stop ,” you snapped, spinning around, finally meeting his gaze.

His expression wasn’t angry. No, it was worse. He looked… wounded . Offended. Eyes sharp, mouth tight, fingers twitching slightly under his cloak as if itching to move, to lash out or retreat… you couldn’t tell.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” you said, your voice hoarse. “This… whatever this is – it’s dangerous.”

Keigo tilted his head. “Not for me.”

God, that made it worse. You stepped backward until your back hit the doorframe. “I’m going to pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t flinch. “You can lie to them. You can even lie to yourself. But you won’t lie to me , little apothecary.” Your heart stuttered. “You’re scared,” he said simply, taking one final step toward you. “But not of me.”

You didn’t respond. The moment dragged, filled only by the thundering in your ears. Finally, he stepped back… just slightly, just enough for air to return to your lungs. “You know where to find me,” he said, voice like velvet and venom, before vanishing into the fog without a sound.

You stood there for a long time after, hands clenched at your sides, the door still wide open. You went back to your desk in a daze, barely noticing how your hands trembled as you set the lamp down. What the hell just happened…

You sat, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles went pale. Your mind kept circling back to it.. his voice, low and warm like candlelight, the soft hold on your face in the forest, his thumb brushing along your cheek like it meant something. It was so… gentle. Like he cared. No… like he wanted to care. Like he was trying .

Did he… like you?

You glanced across the room. The rose still sat in its vase, proud and bold, defiant against the gloom of the apothecary walls. But one petal hung loose now… just barely clinging on. Scarlet, velvety, trembling at the edge of its stem. You stared at it. You needed to calm down. Breathe. Think. There’s got to be a logical explanation– 

KNOCK KNOCK.

You flinched so hard your chair scraped against the floor. Your heart felt like it was about to stop. Your breath caught mid-thought. That sound wasn’t loud, not exactly… it was measured . Two deliberate raps against the wood. Too calm. Too composed. Not thunder. Not wind. Someone was at your door. And something told you it wasn’t a patient.

You got up slowly, every nerve in your body straining as you approached the door. Your hand trembled on the knob. You turned it with a soft click and eased the door open, just a sliver—just enough to see who… 

You froze. Guards. Not two. Not four. At least a dozen. Standing in formation just beyond your threshold, their eyes blank and unreadable under iron helms, their hands already on hilts, staffs, and scrolls of warding. Before you could so much as inhale, the front line pushed forward… 

They barged in.

“What the hell–!” you stammered, stepping back instinctively.

One of them turned sharply, armor creaking. “You will keep your mouth shut and only speak when spoken to.” 

Well. There goes that. They didn’t wait for questions. They spread through the room like smoke, spilling through the hallway, two heading directly for your workbench, another peeling off toward the bedroom.

“No, don’t touch that–!” you started, but the same guard gave you a sharp glare that made your mouth clamp shut.

You stood there helpless as gloved hands rifled through your belongings, upending drawers of dried herbs, peeling open parchment bundles, even flipping through your notes with the delicacy of wild boars. They skimmed your journals. They sniffed your vials. One of them tugged at the neatly arranged bookshelf like it offended them personally.

“Weirdos…” you muttered under your breath.

One turned over the bird guide. Another lifted the empty jasmine vase, frowning. A third moved toward the back room. Your hidden box. You felt your throat tighten. They were looking for something. Or someone. And you had a sinking feeling they already thought they’d found it. It happened fast. Too fast. The guards in the back room had gone silent… a kind of silence that made your stomach drop before your mind caught up.

You heard it. The shift in their stance. The scrape of a box being dragged out from behind the curtain. The ripping of cloth. The low, “What in the Saints’ name…”

Your blood went cold. No. No no no. You didn’t think… you ran. Your feet barely touched the floor as you darted for the room, panic slicing clean through your exhaustion. “ Wait– don’t–! ”

They turned.

One held the book open… Children of Feather and Fang … its ancient spine cracked, the hidden ink glowing faintly under the candlelight. Another held your mother’s tome, the page with the burned sigil still bookmarked. The third reached for the rest of the stack with a look on his face like he’d found proof of the apocalypse.

“She’s a heretic,” one of them said, voice like rusted steel.

“No,” you said too fast, too defensively. “It’s research, I– !”

The first guard dropped the book onto the floor with a heavy thud and drew his baton. “ Monster sympathizer. ”

Your body turned on instinct, run …  you only made it a few steps before someone shouted, " Take her down! "

Boots thundered behind you. Then– crack . A sharp pain burst across the back of your skull. White-hot, blinding. Your legs gave out. You hit the ground, vision spinning. A face leaned over you, blurred at the edges.

“Should’ve burned her place weeks ago,” someone snarled.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was the edge of your mother’s journal… open, exposed… betraying you.

✧

Your eyes fluttered open slowly. Too slowly. Not from sleep, not from pain, but from dread. Because even before your senses adjusted, you already knew… This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.The first thing you noticed was the silence. The kind that pressed against your skull, muffling your heartbeat, your breath, even your thoughts. The second was the cold … a bone-deep chill that radiated up from the floor. You were seated on something slick. Glass, maybe. Wet glass. The surface glistened beneath your fingertips as you pushed yourself upright, the hem of your gown soaked through.

Your eyes finally focused. Gray. Everywhere. The air itself looked fogged, like breath on a mirror. There were no walls, no sky, no horizon. Just a vast, hazy emptiness stretching in all directions… like you’d been dropped in the middle of nothing. You stood slowly, your knees trembling. The sound of your movements echoed faintly, bouncing back at odd angles. Your bare feet pressed against the cold, glass-like surface. The mist shifted with your movement, curling around your legs like smoke, clinging to your skin.

It felt like a dream. But too vivid. Too still. Too aware. You swallowed hard. "...Keigo?" you whispered.  Your voice barely traveled, like the fog devoured it before it could even leave your lips. No answer. But something… someone… was watching. You could feel it. Your breath caught. The sound of his voice shattered the quiet like a stone thrown through still water. You turned slowly… he was there.

On the other side of the glass. Close, but not close enough. Hands pressed flat to the surface like he could push through it. Like he could tear it apart with sheer will.

“I have to get you out,” he said, and the words weren’t just a promise. They were a threat. To whatever held you here. To anyone who stood in his way.

You moved. You forced yourself to your feet, the cold glass floor chilling your skin through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Every step toward him felt surreal, like walking through a waking dream. Behind you, the gray expanse stretched endlessly, but your focus was locked on the figure pressed against the other side of the glass. His fingers splayed, mirroring yours, separated by the fragile barrier. The faintest warmth seemed to pulse beneath his touch, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if you could feel his hand through the cold surface.

Your mind reeled back to the last thing you remembered before everything went dark… the chaos, the smoke, your desperate flight, and then that crushing blow.

“It might be too late, Ke…” you began, but your words were swallowed by the sudden thunder of his voice.

“I COULD KILL THIS WHOLE TOWN TO GET YOU OUT!” His roar shattered the silence, the force of his rage trembling through the glass like an earthquake. His eyes, wild and burning, bore into yours, raw desperation flaring with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were trapped, but so was he… both prisoners of this invisible wall. And yet, the promise in his words was undeniable: he would tear down everything to save you. Your lips trembled as you reached your hand higher on the glass, fingertips barely aligned with his through the barrier…You wanted to cry.

Your throat burned from holding it back, the pressure building behind your eyes. Everything felt like it was closing in… this cold, endless place, the weight of what was waiting once you woke, and him. The boy who shouldn’t care this much. The monster who swore he’d destroy everything for you. You were going to die. Or worse. Live caged and silenced for the rest of your life, branded unnatural by people who would never try to understand.

And suddenly… BANG. He slammed his fist into the glass. You flinched, the noise echoing so loud it rattled your skull.

“Keigo– !” you cried, but he didn’t stop. Another bang. Then another. “ Keigo, please! ” You pressed both hands to the glass now, pleading, desperate. “ You’ll get hurt– ”

A deep, aching crack split down the center. Long. Jagged. It crawled like a vein of lightning through the barrier between you. He didn’t even blink. His face was twisted with fury and something worse… fear. Like the thought of not getting to you in time was the only thing keeping him breathing. Like your pain physically wounded him. “Stop,” you whispered, voice cracking, your palms flat and useless against the splintering wall. “ Please. Just stop. ” But he only raised his fist again.

One final hit…
CRACK.

Louder than thunder, sharper than any wind. It echoed across the void like a scream. And then…
SHATTER.

The glass cube exploded outward with a sound like ice breaking beneath your feet. Light refracted off a thousand razor shards suspended midair for only a breath, just long enough for fear to stab into your lungs. But they never touched you.

In an instant, you were pulled. Arms wrapping tight. A cloak swallowing your body. A body… his… bracing over yours, shielding you as the glittering danger dissolved into nothing. You were trembling. He wasn’t. His hold was firm, grounding, suffocating. His scent was familiar: wind, earth, and something faintly sweet… like crushed jasmine.

You were under his cloak. You were in his arms.

Finally.

Finally close to him. Finally touching him. Finally… his.

You clutched the folds of his clothing without thinking. He was so warm. So real. The roughness of his chest beneath your cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing. His heartbeat was frantic. Or maybe it was yours. Your lips parted, breath shallow, throat dry. So many questions. Why now? Why you? What even was this place? Why did this feel... right?

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

His head bowed beside yours, his voice low, strained, barely a whisper, “ You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’ve got you. ”

And still, his arms didn’t let go. You pulled back just enough to see him…  really see him.

The shadows played along his features, soft and silvered from the afterglow of whatever magic had just shattered your world. His cloak still wrapped around you both like a shield, but it was the way he looked at you that made your breath catch.

Keigo. The falconer, The monster, The mystery, The man who could kill you without even touching you…

… looked at you like you were made of starlight.

Like you were a miracle. His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t waver. Those golden eyes, burnished amber rimmed in umber, were wide, unblinking, drinking you in like he’d been parched for centuries and you were the first drop of water to ever exist. You lifted your hand slowly, fingers trembling, and pressed your palm to his cheek.

Warm. Rough with stubble. Real. His breath stuttered. Just slightly. You traced the edge of his jaw, sharp, defined, like it had been carved from marble and not flesh. Your thumb grazed the faint scratch at his temple, a reminder that even something divine could still bleed. He didn't stop you. He didn't even blink. His arms just stayed locked around your waist like letting you go would unravel the earth itself. You brushed your fingertips along the bridge of his nose… slightly crooked, maybe from an old break. Beautiful in its imperfection. He leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like your hand belonged there.

Maybe it did.

His skin was impossibly smooth beneath your touch, save for the scruff lining his chin, the delicate hollow of his throat where you could see the frantic flutter of a pulse. His lips parted, breath hitting the space between you both… warm, wanting, wordless. He hadn’t said anything, not really.

But he didn’t need to. No one had ever looked at you like this before. Not with hunger. Not with danger. Not with need. But with reverence.

“Keigo…” His name fell from your mouth like a prayer.

He swallowed. His arms held tighter. His nose brushed yours, barely. And still… his eyes never left yours.

You didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t hesitate. Your hand was still on his face, fingertips curled against his skin… and you leaned in. Slowly at first, like testing fate. Your lips hovered over his for a suspended heartbeat, trembling from how close you were. From the weight of it. And then you kissed him.

Keigo didn't waste a single second.

He met your mouth like he'd been waiting his entire life for it… no, starving for it. His arms tightened around you, crushing your body flush to his as his lips moved against yours with open, desperate hunger. The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming, firm and hot and real , tasting like something forbidden and rich, like smoke and blood and rain.

He groaned into you… low, guttural, needy. Your hand flew to his hair, tangling into the strands at the nape of his neck. It was softer than it looked… fine, silken, and thick between your fingers. You pulled, just slightly, needing more.

That noise he made… A growl , pure and ragged, poured into your mouth. His hand fisted at your waist, dragging you even closer, his hips pressed fully to yours. The fabric of your dress wrinkled in his grip, the heat of him seeping through your every layer like a fever you wanted to burn from.

The kiss deepened with every passing second… messy , sloppy , almost desperate in how it collided over and over again like neither of you could get enough. His nose bumped yours, your teeth grazed his lip, a breathless whimper escaped from your throat and he swallowed it like it was sacred.

You gasped, but he chased your mouth like he was possessed. You'd never kissed anyone before. But gods… this felt right. Too right. It was clumsy in the way first kisses always were… too much teeth, a little too much tongue, lips swollen and parted as you both struggled to find some rhythm… but it didn’t matter.

Because Keigo kissed like he’d dreamed of it. Like he was sinking. Like you were the only thing that could bring him back.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn’t with grace, it was with restraint, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, breathless, lips slick and bruised. You clung to him, your fingers still tight in his hair.

His voice came low, wrecked, right against your lips., “…I’ve wanted that for so long.”

You barely had time to breathe. Still trembling from the kiss, you leaned into him… arms sliding around his waist, face buried in the hollow of his throat. He was so warm . You wanted to stay like that, just for a moment longer. Just long enough to believe this was real. His hand rose to cradle the back of your head, his breath shuddering out like he didn’t know how to let go either.

And then… 

A sound … a crack, a hum, a shift in the air. Like something in the fabric of the world had snapped . You felt it. He felt it. You both froze. The ground trembled beneath you, and the world around you began to fracture .

“No… ” you whispered, clutching him tighter.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, panic etched in his face, eyes wide. The light was draining from the space around you, a low roar building like a thousand winds at once.

“No, no… Keigo, please–!”

Your arms tightened around him, but your fingers were already slipping… like something beneath you was yanking you away . A force you couldn’t fight. Your body jerked backwards, your heels skidding across the slick surface of that strange, wet floor… 

“ I’ve got you! ” Keigo yelled, grabbing your wrist with both hands.

Your other arm flailed, reaching for his chest… he was so close. So close. But it was like the world itself was unraveling, peeling you backward like a thread being pulled from the seam of your dream. The light behind him was bleeding into black, and his grip was slipping, slipping… 

“ Don’t let go! ” you cried, desperation cracking your voice.

“I won’t! ” he snarled, every muscle in his arm pulled taut as he held on, face twisted with effort.

And still… still it wasn’t enough. A second surge of force hit, like a wave of pressure slamming into your chest, and your body jerked again, this time violently… and your fingers slipped.

“ NO! ” You screamed, reaching out.

He lunged forward, hand outstretched, mouth open like he was yelling your name… but no sound reached you. The glassy world shattered again, this time around you , everything turning to blinding white… And just before it swallowed you whole, just before you lost sight of him, you saw his face one last time… Eyes wide. Hand reaching. Mouth still whispering your name.

And then… nothing.

Cold sweat clung to your skin like a second layer. Your eyes flew open, but all you could see was stone.

Dark. Damp. Heavy. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something rotting . You tried to move… but your arms wouldn't budge. Your wrists were bound tightly with coarse rope, the burn of it biting into your skin with every twitch. Heavy iron shackles were clasped over your ankles, the cold metal leeching into your bones. You could barely sit up, let alone stand. A faint, metallic clinking echoed with every tiny movement you made.

Your heart slammed against your chest. Where were you? The room was dimly lit by a single torch flickering across the stone wall. The light danced in slow, haunted patterns, barely illuminating the bars in front of you. A cell. You were in a cell.

The floor beneath you was wet… slick with a mixture of water, blood, and gods-knew-what else. You could smell the decay in the cracks of the stones. Your throat burned with thirst, and something buzzed in your ears… panic, rising like bile.

You tried to steady your breathing. Think. The dream… Keigo. The glass. The kiss. The warmth. Your eyes welled with tears at the memory… only to be replaced by dread when you realized the only warmth now was your own feverish skin.

You were alone. Chained. Shackled. Underground. And no one was coming.

The footsteps began as a faint tremor, like thunder behind thick glass, drawing closer, heavier with each passing moment. You couldn’t tell how long you’d been in that cell. Two hours? Three? More? Time had become as warped as the shadows pooling along the stone floor.

Then, a flicker of firelight caught on polished leather. The guards arrived first, four of them, stoic, armed, eyes narrowed with something that wasn’t quite fear but not quite indifference either. Like they were told you were dangerous but hadn’t decided if they believed it yet.

And then he stepped into view. The High Elder. He was draped in ceremonial robes of deep crimson, so clean and regal it offended the filth of the dungeon. Thick embroidery of gold thread shimmered at his cuffs and collar, his pendant swinging like a holy noose around his neck. You knew that pendant… an artifact of judgment. One reserved for public trials. Executions.

His eyes met yours… cold, calculating, but lit with something disturbingly pleased. “Hmph.” He scoffed, stepping just close enough to peer down at you through the rusted bars. “I always knew there was something wrong with you.”

Your throat was dry, your lips cracked, and the stink of mold and rot filled your nose. You barely had the energy to raise your voice. “…What’s going on?”

He smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going to be cleansed,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The people are afraid. The Council is afraid. And I… ” he placed a hand to his chest like a saint– “I am merciful. So merciful, in fact, that I’ve convinced the others to spare your life.”

Your heart pounded. “But,” he continued, “only if we burn the monster out of you first.” You didn’t even have the strength to respond.

He stepped closer, crouching now, the metal bars mere inches from your face. “You thought we wouldn’t notice?” he whispered. “The rituals, the forbidden texts, the blood on your hands? We saw what rose from the ashes of the chapel. That was not the work of an apothecary.”

Your stomach dropped. You remembered the sigil scorched into the stone. The way it warped the world around it. The way the fire never seemed natural.

“Where is he?” he asked suddenly. Sharply. “That… creature. The one who’s been leaving you gifts like a lovesick dog. The one you’ve let into this town.”

You stayed silent. You didn’t move. You just stared. He smiled again. And this time, it made your blood run cold. “No matter,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll find him. We’ll burn you both. And this time… we’ll finish the ritual.”

He turned without another word. The guards followed. And once again, you were left in silence. Alone. With the echo of footsteps fading like a death sentence.

The days, if you could even call them that, bled into each other like a fever dream. There was no sun, no moon, just the constant damp cold of the dungeon and the bite of iron against your wrists. You were chained at three points… wrists above your head, ankles bound together, iron looped through a ring bolted to the wall behind you. You couldn’t sit fully. You couldn’t stand fully. You existed in an awkward, slumped angle, back aching, muscles trembling with fatigue.

The iron was cruel… thin enough to dig into your skin, thick enough to keep you from pulling free. Your shoulders burned constantly. Your knees had long since gone numb. You couldn’t even curl up for warmth. All you had was the stone, the mildew, and the ache.

Once… maybe twice… they opened the cell door. No words. Just a clatter of keys and a pair of boots scraping the floor. They left behind a bowl. Some kind of porridge. If you could even call it that.

It was cold. Watery. Gray. And it was laughable. You couldn’t reach it. Your wrists clinked and strained whenever you tried, the chain groaning against its anchor. You got close… once. So close the edge of your fingers brushed the rim of the bowl. But you couldn’t bend down far enough. You watched it sit there, steaming slightly in the cold air, until the heat faded, and the top formed a thin skin. Eventually, it spoiled. You could smell it… sour and faintly sweet. And then it was gone. Taken by the guards the next time they passed.

No explanation. No pity. You were starving. Not just in the body, but in your mind, in your soul. You hadn’t dreamed since that last night. Since him. And now? Now it was just stone. And rot. And silence. You didn’t even know how long it had been. But your body remembered. And the weight of that memory was beginning to crush you. You didn’t know how much longer your body could take this. You were slumped as far as your restraints would allow, legs trembling, chin tipped to your chest as your thoughts spiraled slow and low like smoke in the back of your skull. Your lips were dry. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. It was hard to tell if your eyes were open or not, everything looked the same down here: dark, gray, still.

You were dying. You knew that. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no panic left in you. Just the slow, cold recognition of what was waiting… inevitable and quiet. But as your body gave up, your mind still clung to something else. Not hope.

Questions. Questions that scraped against your ribs more viciously than hunger ever could. The Elders. The ritual. Why now? Why you? They had always been secretive, guarded, drowning in that pious superiority… but the way they scrambled to finish that spell during the fire, the symbol they burned into the prayer hall’s stone, the looks they gave you after ...

None of it made sense. Why was it so important to get rid of him ? Keigo. You thought of his name like a wound. He barely even talked to people. Lived in the woods. Quiet. Distant. And yes, strange, powerful, terrifying at times, but he wasn’t violent. He didn’t hurt anyone. Not until they came after you.

Was it the rumors? Was it you ?

You remembered the way he looked at you in that dream… wild and protective, rage in every inch of him as he shattered the world to reach you. That was dangerous. But it wasn’t evil. He cared.

Didn’t he? Your lips trembled. You tried to lick the cracks in them but your tongue barely moved. What was he? What were they so afraid of? And if Keigo really was the monster they painted him to be… why were you still here? Why hadn’t he killed you? Used you?

You were nothing. Just a girl in a garden. An apothecary with too many questions and not enough answers. So why did he keep coming back? Your eyes closed. Your head tilted against the damp wall, the stone too slick to offer real comfort. You didn’t know if you were shivering or just shaking from exhaustion anymore. But as your thoughts faded into the quiet between your heartbeats, one thing pulsed low and loud beneath everything else.

They were hiding something. And you were too tired to keep pretending otherwise. Your head lulled back, muscles giving out one by one, vision a dizzy blur of shadows and stone. You were going to black out, you knew it. The pain, the thirst, the cold, all of it pressing in, shrinking your world to a single pinprick of light. Until… 

CRASH. 

The sound was deafening. Something metallic, something massive… slammed against the outer walls with such force it echoed through your skull. Your body jolted on instinct, the surge of adrenaline slicing through your stupor like lightning through dry bark. And then… 

CLANK.

The cell door. You flinched hard, eyes snapping open in time to see the rusted iron bars swing wide.

They never opened that door. Ever. But there it was, gaping like a mouth about to consume you. You didn’t even have time to scream. The guards poured in, six of them at least, boots stomping on wet stone, formation too clean to be chaotic. Two of them grabbed your arms without a word. The others stayed close… eyes sharp, hands twitching near the hilts of their blades.

Your wrists were unshackled. The heavy chains dropped to the floor with a thick, wet clatter, metal links echoing across the cell. You barely had time to blink before rough hands clamped down and yanked you forward.

“What the… HEY–!”

You barely managed the words before another hand, gloved, massive , slammed over your mouth. Your scream was swallowed whole. Panic clawed through your chest as your legs stumbled, dragging against the ground. Your bare feet slipped on the slick floor, knees knocking, vision still hazy from starvation and sleep-deprivation. You kicked back weakly, but it was useless.

“Shh,” one of them hissed near your ear, low and final.

Your heart thundered. You didn’t know where they were taking you. You didn’t know why. But as they pulled you deeper into the underground halls, away from the cell, away from the dim flicker of torchlight, you realized something even worse. They weren’t saying anything. No prayers. No accusations. No commands. Not a word. Like they already knew the ending. Like it was decided. And you? You were just the offering.

The guards didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their grip was iron as they hauled you forward, your toes barely brushing the ground, your body too weak to offer resistance. Chains dragged behind you, clinking against the stone with every step, a cruel fanfare that echoed in the narrow corridor like a death knell.

You were cold. Not from the temperature, but from the ache that had settled deep inside your bones. The hunger. The thirst. The sheer exhaustion. You had lost all track of time. Hours? Days? You remembered a single cup of watery porridge… thick, tasteless, and served in a chipped wooden bowl you couldn’t even hold properly due to the chains cinched tight around your wrists. It sat untouched beside you, mocking your decline.

Now you were being moved. You didn’t know why. You weren’t sure if this was your execution or something worse. The halls twisted, torchlight flickering along damp stone walls that pressed too close together. The smell of rot and incense danced in the air, something dead buried just beneath something holy. You gagged. There was nothing to throw up, but your body tried anyway, folding in on itself, only for one of the guards to yank you upright again like you weighed nothing.

Your head lolled to the side, blurry vision catching glimpses of symbols burned into the stone. Wards. Runes. Protection? Imprisonment? Your breath quickened. Something deeper than fear stirred inside you now.

They stopped. A door loomed before you, massive, carved from dark wood, ringed with burn marks along the frame like it had once caught fire and somehow survived. One of the guards knocked once. A deep, echoing boom that made your knees quake.

Then, it opened. The room beyond was vast and circular, candlelit and heavy with heat. Velvet curtains hung from the walls, and the air shimmered with smoke. You weren’t sure if it was from incense or something less explainable. Three figures stood in the center, robed in crimson and gold.

The Elders.

They turned in unison to face you as you were dragged in. Not one of them smiled. Not one of them blinked. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t know if you were high in a tower or buried deep beneath the town… everything was disorienting, hollow, and surreal. But the fear? That was real. Heavy and clawing.

They didn’t say your name. They didn’t need to. They were the kind of people who only needed to look to condemn you. And they were looking. You were in trouble. You were in deep, inescapable trouble. The heavy door thudded shut behind you, sealing in the suffocating silence like a tomb. The guards shoved you forward, your knees hitting the cold stone floor with a painful crack. You winced, chains rattling with the movement, but didn’t dare lift your eyes.

“Let’s have a chat,” one of the Elders finally said, his voice unnervingly smooth.

You looked up slowly, vision adjusting to the hazy light. The three Elders stood in a triangle before you, one woman, two men, all robed in blood-red silk with threads of gold catching in the candlelight. They looked like they’d been carved from the same unforgiving stone as the walls. Unyielding. Cold. The woman stepped forward. Her eyes were dark as coals, sharp as flint. “The falconer. Start talking.”

“…What?”

“The man who lurks in the forest. The one you’ve been seen with. The one who gives you gifts like a smitten fool. Don’t play stupid, girl,” she hissed.

“I– he’s not– I don’t know who he really is,” you said quickly, throat dry, voice hoarse from disuse. “I barely know him.”

Another Elder scoffed, pacing behind you like a lion sizing up prey. “You barely know him, yet he leaves you tokens. Hairpins. Flowers. Follows you like a shadow. And somehow you expect us to believe you know nothing?”

“I don’t! ” you snapped, the frustration cracking through your fear. “He just… started showing up! I never asked for it!”

The man behind you leaned closer to your ear. “And yet you accepted every gift. Let him in. Let him linger. Are you a fool? Or are you conspiring with him?”

Your eyes shot to the woman again. “Conspiring with what, exactly? You think I’d willingly consort with someone I can’t explain, someone who terrifies me?”

A beat. Then… 

“Terrifies?” the third Elder finally spoke. The oldest. His voice was dry like parchment, and twice as brittle. “So you do feel it. The presence. The wrongness. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Felt it.”

You swallowed hard, saying nothing.

“We’ve known something unnatural was stirring,” the woman said again, circling now, arms folded. “But it wasn’t until you started receiving nightly visitors that the wards around this town began to fail. Strange fog. Dead animals. The fire.”

Your blood ran cold.

“It all began after you brought him here,” she hissed. “So I’ll ask again… what is he? ”

“I. Don’t. Know!” you yelled, the metal cuffs biting into your wrists as you tried to shift. “He won’t tell me! I’ve asked, he changes the subject, he disappears for days! You think he tells me anything?!”

The eldest Elder raised a hand, silencing the others. He stared at you for a long time. Like he could see straight through your skin into every hidden fear. His tone was quieter than the others, but heavier. “Do you understand what you’ve done by letting him in?”

“I didn’t–”

“He’s ancient,” he said slowly. “Older than any of us. He wears the mask of man, but he is not. And you brought him here. ”

“I didn’t bring him–!”

“You welcomed him!” the woman snapped.

You shook your head, near tears now. “He would’ve come whether I wanted him to or not. He always finds a way in.”

The three Elders went silent. And that… that answer, for the first time, unsettled them. You saw it. Just for a second, the flicker of fear behind their eyes. You hadn’t expected that. The woman stepped back. The eldest closed his eyes, murmuring something under his breath. The third crossed his arms and turned his back to you completely.

“…He hasn’t fed from you, has he?” the younger man asked suddenly.

Your eyes widened. “What?! No! Absolutely not!”

“Then why are you still alive?” the woman muttered.

“I don’t know…” you whispered. “I ask myself that every day.”

A long, cold silence fell again. They didn’t believe you. But more than that, they didn’t know either. And that terrified them. The silence didn’t last. With a sharp clatter of steps, the younger male Elder stormed toward you, fingers twisting into your hair before you had a chance to flinch. He yanked your head back, forcing you to look up into his angry, sunken eyes. You gasped, both at the pain and at the sheer violence behind the gesture. His knuckles dug into your scalp, and your neck ached from the strain.

“Then tell me,” he hissed, low and venomous, his breath hot against your cheek, “what do you know about the ritual?”

“I… I don’t–!” Another sharp tug. You bit down a cry, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“What do you know about the sigil?” he snapped. “The one burned into the holy ground. The one only a witch would recognize.”

“I’m not a witch!” you choked out, heart racing, the pressure in your head unbearable. “I’m just an apothecary–!”

“An apothecary who owns restricted texts,” the female Elder snarled from behind him. “Rituals. Monsters. You think we didn’t notice what you were hiding?”

“I had to know what he was–!”

“ And why would you need to know that if you weren’t in league with him?! ” she barked.

“I was scared!”

The Elder holding your hair sneered. “Scared? Is that what you call it, when you fool around with a monster in the forest? When you let him wander in and out of your life like he owns it?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. Your breath caught. “…You’ve been watching me?” you whispered, horrified.

The eldest Elder finally opened his eyes again. His voice rang out cold and damning. “We have no choice, child. You’ve been claimed. You should have come to us the moment you sensed it. But instead you played with fire. With darkness.”

“I didn’t know!” you cried, voice cracking now. “I didn’t know what he was! I didn’t ask for any of this! I’m not like him, I don’t want–!”

“You don’t know what you want,” the younger Elder hissed. “You’ve been touched, infected by whatever foul bond he’s placed on you. The ritual didn’t work because you’re protecting him. ”

“What ritual–?” you whispered again, through ragged gasps.

The man gripping your hair finally let go, and you crumpled forward with a grunt, chains clinking as you fell back to your knees. Your body trembled, and for the first time in days… you felt cold in your bones. Not from the damp, not from the fear.

But from realization. They were going to kill you. Not because they knew something for certain… but because they didn’t. And that terrified them more than anything else. The eldest Elder stood now, slow and deliberate, his dark robes dragging against the stone as he stepped forward. The others flanked him like shadows… silent, cruel, unmoved.

His voice was low. Clear. “You will be burned before the sun goes down,” he said. “The first public execution in a very long while.”

Your breath hitched. He crouched before you, ancient knees creaking, until he was just at your level. You could see his lined face clearly now, those expressionless eyes set deep into his skull. There was no rage in his voice, no fire, no madness. Only certainty.

“To let everyone know,” he continued, with a sickening calmness, “that their sweet little apothecary is a monster. ”

The word struck like a slap. Your lip trembled, your shoulders sagging with disbelief. “You can’t…” your voice cracked, “you can’t be serious.”

But they already were. The female Elder’s jaw tightened. “Let this be a lesson to any who think they can harbor dark creatures. He marked you. We all saw the signs.”

“I’m not marked!” you cried. “He’s not even–! I never let him–!”

“You think the people care for technicalities?” the younger Elder sneered. “They saw him. Near you. Speaking to you. They talk. They see the gifts. The flowers. The way your eyes wander. They’ve all begun to wonder. You let this happen.”

“No, no, please–please–!”

You tried to crawl backward, even as your chains dragged taut behind you. “You’re wrong–! I never hurt anyone, I never…!”

The eldest Elder raised a hand. You flinched, instinctively, but he merely nodded toward the guards.

“Clean her up,” he ordered coldly. “Dress her. Bind her mouth when the time comes. She will not have the chance to charm the people as she did us.”

He turned and began walking toward the doors. “The demon won’t come for her now,” he said over his shoulder. “Even he must know…”

The walls shook. Just barely. It could’ve been in your head. But… it wasn’t. The torchlight flickered. The Elders stilled. You swallowed hard, chest rising and falling in panic. You felt something. Pressing against the edge of the air. Curling inward like smoke under the doorframe. They hadn’t even opened the doors yet. But you already knew. He was coming.

The next thing you felt was water. Warm. Almost too warm. You were too dazed to ask questions as unfamiliar hands undid the heavy shackles from your wrists and ankles, though you noticed the thick bruises left in their place. You didn’t speak when they stripped the stained, torn remains of your gown and guided your body into a shallow bath.

The scent of lavender and sage stung your nose, herbs you once used for calming anxiety and easing breath. Someone remembered. Steam curled softly around the chamber. The stone walls echoed nothing but silence. It should’ve been peaceful, maybe even comforting, if not for the reality you knew was waiting just beyond these walls. There was no mercy in the Elders’ plan. This was only... preparation.

You kept your eyes low as they scrubbed your arms, your back, your legs. One woman was humming faintly. Another gently worked a cloth around the wounds on your shoulder. You didn’t look at them. But one voice drew your attention.

“Any preferences…?” a soft tone asked from behind you.

You glanced up, and your heart caught in your throat. You knew her. A year ago, maybe a little more, you’d treated her for a severe hayfever reaction. She could barely breathe when she came to your cottage, eyes red, chest tight, nose bleeding. You remembered the way her hands shook. The way her mother was crying.

And now she was standing there, brush in hand, sorrow in her eyes, gently fingering a small section of your damp hair. You tried to speak… tried to say anything … but your throat was raw. And she just smiled, like it hurt her to do it, and continued to work.

“You gave me thyme tea,” she murmured after a long silence. “And fennel.”

You nodded. She swallowed, then looked at the other women. “We’ll braid it back. Keep it off her face.”

No one argued.

They moved carefully. Reverently, almost. It was surreal, how delicately they handled you. Like they were preparing a bridal ceremony. But you knew the truth. You weren’t being honored. You were being offered.

A soft robe was wrapped around you, clean and ivory. You stared at your reflection in a metal basin, your eyes were sunken, lips dry, skin washed out. But your hair… your hair was beautiful. Braided like a crown.

You didn’t feel like a monster. But you looked like a sacrifice.

You sat still as the last ribbon was tied at the base of your braid. The young woman’s fingers lingered there, hesitant. No one else was speaking. Your eyes stayed on the glinting surface of the water. It barely reflected your shape, just a blurred shadow framed in white.

“…My hairpin,” you said suddenly, voice rasped and dry.

There was a pause. Then, “Excuse me?” The woman at your side looked startled, confused.

You swallowed hard. “Please… as my dying wish. Allow me to wear my hairpin.”

The words hung in the steam like something sacred. The other women turned to look at you, eyes wide and silent. She stared at you a moment longer, then gently nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Her voice was soft, nearly cracking.

She turned away quickly, as if afraid you’d see the emotion behind her eyes. You looked back at your reflection, or the hollow version of yourself it presented, and let out a quiet breath. You didn’t know if they would return with it. But if you were to die by fire, you’d rather face it with a piece of him close. Even if he was a monster. Even if you were.

They dressed you in silence. The gown was sheer… thinner than anything you would’ve chosen. It floated like mist around your body, catching light with every shift of movement. You’d expected coarse burlap or stiff ceremonial robes, something heavy and scratchy, but this... this was delicate. Almost kind. Almost mockingly beautiful.

It wasn’t until they stepped back that you noticed your reflection in the polished brass mirror, propped against the far wall. You barely looked like yourself. Your hair had been braided up carefully, pinned in place with soft hands, likely out of guilt rather than duty. And there, nestled among the plaits, was the hairpin.

Your breath caught.

They’d found it. Actually found it. You didn’t know where they had to search, your home? the garden? the floorboards?...but there it was. The metal gleamed with the faintest hint of floral etching, shaped after the jasmine flowers you once told him about. It nestled like a secret in your hair.

A thank you, maybe. A quiet mercy. Or an admission of something they weren’t allowed to speak. You stared at yourself. Your skin looked pale against the fabric. Your eyes were dull from days of imprisonment and little sleep. But you stood, a fragile echo of defiance wrapped in white.

If they wanted a monster to burn, they could have a ghost instead.

The room they dragged you into this time wasn’t like the others. It was colder. Cleaner. The walls were carved with symbols you recognized from the old texts, the ones meant to bind, contain, weaken. You felt them in your bones before you even crossed the threshold. And then the door shut behind you with a final clang. The three elders were already there, seated behind a long table. No candles, no fire. Just pale light spilling in from high, narrow windows and reflecting off stone. Their eyes bore into you like knives.

"You’ve been silent long enough," one of them said, Elder Ren, the one who always spoke as if each word cost him something. “And we’ve grown tired of your games.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you whispered.

Elder Mae stood, her movements precise. “Then allow us to make this simple for you.”

She stepped around the table, voice like a blade gliding through silk. “You will walk out onto that stage by sundown… just as planned. You will kneel, in that pretty little dress, and we will burn the monster from your bones.”

You swallowed.

“Or,” she said, stopping in front of you, “you bring him to us.”

Your throat went dry.

“You know who we mean,” Elder Jorin snapped from the corner. “The falconer. Whatever he is, he does not belong here.”

“I don’t know what he is,” you said, too fast. “I don’t–”

“But he comes to you,” Mae interrupted, her voice like honey laced with venom. “He listens to you. You’re his tether. And we will use that.”

They were too close now. No guards. No threats. Just a choice.

“You call him to the binding circle,” she said. “You do it quietly. And if it works, you walk away.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Jorin smiled. “Then we burn both of you.”

You could hardly breathe. “You expect me to betray him?”

“Betrayal,” Ren muttered, “would be letting that thing run loose and letting more people die.”

They didn’t understand. Or maybe they did, and didn’t care.

"Choose quickly," Mae said, turning back toward the table. "The sun waits for no one."

And just like that, the room was empty again. You were alone with the echo of their offer. Burn… or lead him straight into a trap.

In that moment, everything felt real , cruelly, unmistakably real. The walls weren’t just stone anymore; they were a coffin. Your own skin felt like it didn’t belong to you, the sheer fabric of your execution gown clinging to your arms like silk spun from shame. You were going to die. Or worse, you were going to lead him to his death.

You had been many things these past weeks, numb, frantic, confused. But maybe… maybe you’d also been deranged. Too detached to truly see the rotting truth underneath the surface. Too stubborn to acknowledge how far things had unraveled. You thought you were keeping yourself grounded… avoiding the garden, hiding the books, locking the doors, but it was all sand slipping through your fingers.

Because of course you knew what he was.

You’d known. From the very first encounter. The way he moved, the way the birds responded to him, the way his eyes gleamed unnaturally in the dark. The scent of iron on his clothes, the way he’d spoken to you like he already knew you… it all pointed to the unholy, to the impossible. To fangs and shadows and ancient blood rituals that no one wanted to admit were still alive in this world.

But he wasn’t a monster. No. The monsters were upstairs, dressed in ceremonial gold, spinning lies with silver tongues. They called themselves divine, but had no hesitation in ripping apart a healer, a woman who had given them years of her life.

Keigo… if that was even his name… he had never lied to you.

He’d brought you gifts, protected you, made you laugh when you should have cried. He’d touched your face like you were sacred. Kissed you like the world could collapse around you and it still wouldn’t matter. And now they wanted you to hand him over. Like he was nothing.

He was a vampire , yes.

But he was more of a man than any of those religious swine playing god. You clenched your fists, chains rattling softly at your sides. You didn't know what you were going to do yet. But it sure as hell wasn't going to be what they expected. You didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. That was the truth, solid, terrifying, and steady like a pulse against your ribs.

Not just because he saved you. Not just because he looked at you like no one ever had. But because in some quiet, twisted way, he saw you. He always had. And even if it was only for a handful of moments, a few stolen glances, a petal-soft kiss, a shared silence beneath the trees, it was more than anyone else ever gave you.

If this was it… Then this was it.

You’d go out with no regrets. None. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, lashes brushing your cheeks like feathers, and you let yourself feel everything all at once. The fear. The calm. The guilt. The strange sort of love that had bloomed somewhere it shouldn’t have.

You thought of Ela. Of the promises you whispered to each other as girls, we’ll get out one day, we’ll start a new life somewhere far, we’ll never let them take us. You thought of the time you cut your finger and she made a dramatic show of pretending it was fatal. Or when you both snuck into the priest’s wine and swore it tasted like rotten berries and fire. You were always the careful one. And still somehow, here you were. Shackled, dressed like a lamb for slaughter, about to die not for a sin… but for knowing someone they feared.

You looked down at your hands. They’d healed people. Grown medicine from mud. Held his face. Touched his chest like you might break the curse with kindness. They would not be used to betray him.

If he came for you… Gods forgive you, but you hoped he did.

✧

“So. Your decision?”

The words struck you like a slap, sharp, final, echoing louder than they were spoken. You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. You lifted your chin slowly, the weight of the hairpin gentle but grounding.

“I’d rather burn,” you said flatly. “Than ever give you the satisfaction.”

A hush fell over the room like ash. One of the elders shifted behind the podium, jaw twitching. Another exhaled slowly, as though you’d confirmed some long-feared truth. The third, the oldest, gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned bone white.

Cowards, all of them. You saw the fury that simmered behind their ceremonial robes. For all their control, they wanted you to scream, to cry, to beg for your life. But you had nothing left to give them. They’d already stolen everything.

They didn’t speak again. Before you could catch another breath, the guards appeared, faceless, armored, mechanical in how they approached. Hands gripped your arms, firm but not rough. No dramatics. No drawn-out rituals.

Just the inevitable. Your feet moved forward, not by will but force. You didn’t ask where they were taking you. You already knew.

The steps were long. The corridor was cold. And somewhere outside… The people were already gathering. You stepped into the cold air, and it hit you like truth. The sheer gown offered no protection, your skin prickled instantly, the chill sweeping through the thin fabric and sinking into your bones. And yet, that sharpness was… grounding. Real. Almost a relief. You were still alive. For now.

The square was full.

Packed with faces you knew and faces you didn’t. The same faces that used to greet you kindly in the market, the ones who smiled when you handed them medicine or mended their sick children. Neighbors. Patrons. Friends. You'd read once that public executions were a form of spectacle, something twisted, something brutal, something meant to excite. But this wasn’t that. There was no cheering. No screaming. Just... silence. A heavy, dreadful silence.

They didn’t look at you like a monster. They looked at you like you were already dead. Like this wasn’t justice. It was a funeral.

The butcher stood off to the side, his wife gripping his arm. Ela was somewhere in the crowd, you could feel her presence, even if you couldn’t spot her through the blur. There was sorrow in their faces. And something worse: helplessness.

A platform had been built in the center of the square. Tall, dry wood stacked beneath it like the bones of some sacrificial pyre. The rope at your wrists tugged forward, and your bare feet followed instinctively, stepping over loose stones and wilted petals dropped by frightened children.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. You only kept your eyes on the sky, searching for one final bird.  And wondering if he could see you now.

They bound you to the post like they were preparing an offering.It stood in the center of the pyre, thick, ancient wood darkened with smoke from rituals long past. You weren’t the first to be tied here. Maybe not the last.

The guards were silent as they worked, their hands mechanical. You didn’t struggle. Didn’t beg. You stood tall as they took the coarse rope and looped it around your waist, then higher, under your arms, across your chest. Tight. Unforgiving. They tied knots not like jailers, but like butchers. Like you were something being trussed, not tried. Your hands were drawn behind the post and bound at the wrists. Then your ankles. A final loop was drawn around your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to keep your head tilted up, exposed. Humbling. Dehumanizing.

A wooden wedge was wedged beneath your heels, forcing you slightly forward, your back arching with discomfort. Another knot, this one laced at your midsection and cinched so tightly you thought you’d retch. Your gown, once graceful, now clung to you like it was mourning. Even the hairpin, they had let you keep it, felt like a cruel adornment now, catching the last of the sun’s light as it sank lower, inching toward dusk.

The firewood around your feet crackled dryly in the breeze. One elder approached, not bothering to mask the disgust on his face. He held a torch unlit, but his presence was a warning all the same. "Let the people see," he muttered. "Let them remember."

You didn’t speak. Your lips were too dry. Your eyes scanned the crowd, just once, then returned to the sky.

If this was the end, then let the stars be the last thing you saw. The elder stepped forward, his robes heavy and glinting with stitched gold. He looked theatrical against the setting sun, shadows crawling beneath his eyes, face painted with something grim and resolute. The torch in his hand remained unlit, but its presence was felt like a second sun. The square was silent. No coughs. No whispers. Just the hollow wind scraping across stone.

He raised his hand.

“People of the blessed veil,” he began, voice echoing with that practiced, oily cadence of authority. “We gather here not out of cruelty… but out of necessity. ” He paced slowly, back and forth before the pyre. “In times like these… when storms fall from cloudless skies, when pestilence creeps in through windows and takes our children in the night, we must ask ourselves: why. Why does misfortune follow us? Why do the righteous suffer?”

His eyes flicked to you, bound and unmoving. “Because of her. Because of the rot that festers behind a healer’s mask. A serpent in white.” You said nothing. You didn’t have to. They wanted a monster. They would see what they believed.

“She who consorted with unnatural things. She who brought dark things into our midst. She who used her knowledge… her unnatural insight … to poison our hearts, lull us into comfort… all the while opening the door to evil.” He stopped at the edge of the crowd. His voice dropped into a fervent hush. “The falconer,” he hissed. “He has no past. No records. No ties to the divine. A creature of the forest. And she , this so-called apothecary, welcomed him. Hid him. Protected him.”

A murmur stirred in the crowd. Shame. Fear. Something twisted between them like thread. He turned to face you fully now. “We gave her our trust. We gave her our homes, our families, our sick, our children. And this is how she repays us?” He held the torch high. “Let this be a warning to all who would consort with the unholy. Let her ashes serve as scripture.” He nodded to one of the guards. A flame sparked behind you. And the world grew very, very still. A breath. A heartbeat. That was all it took.

The torch never touched the wood.

It slipped from the elder’s hand before it could even be lit. Not dropped. Not fumbled. Plucked , as if the air itself had turned against him.

The crowd didn’t understand at first. They craned their necks, curious, confused. The guards standing closest to you hadn’t moved. You could hear their breathing, heavy, steady… too steady. Like they were holding their breath. Like they weren’t breathing at all.

And then, a sound.

It wasn’t a scream. Not at first. It was a crack. Bone? You weren’t sure.

Then came the scream. And then another. And another.

One of the guards nearest the elder collapsed. Just dropped. Like a puppet with its strings cut. His body made a dull thud against the stone as he hit the ground, blood spilling from his nose, his mouth… his eyes. You flinched. You saw the moment the elder realized something was wrong. He turned, barking orders, voice rising into hysteria. Another guard behind you fell. Clutching at his throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

Then it was chaos.

Someone screamed your name. You didn’t know who. People pushed and shoved, trying to flee. The square became a sea of bodies, tripping over each other in blind terror. You couldn’t see past the flames that had ignited somewhere off to the side. The sound of metal hit the ground, a sword, dropped from dead fingers. Then another thud. Then… 

Blood. Hot. Sudden. Spattered across the front of your gown. You gagged. Not from fear. Not from pain. But from the smell. Rich, iron-thick. Too much of it. The bindings on your wrists were still there, digging in. You tried to twist, to look behind you, to see… 

He was there. Of course he was.

Keigo. His cloak clung to him like shadow, his eyes glowing. Not from the firelight, not from rage, something older. Something inhuman. His boots were soaked in blood. You didn’t know whose.

You saw his hands, clawed, taloned. Still shaking. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. The moment he turned toward the remaining guards, they dropped their weapons. One tried to run. He didn’t make it three steps. His body snapped against the wall like a ragdoll. You opened your mouth to speak. To plead. But something in your chest clenched. Somewhere, in the chaos of your thoughts, you didn’t want him to save you.

Not like this. Not with this carnage. Not if it meant becoming the very nightmare they thought you were.

You whimpered, “Keigo…” He didn’t look at you right away. He was staring at the elder, who now knelt on the ground, robes soaked, whispering rapid prayers. “Please,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “ Just spare them. Please. ”

Your words trembled against the fire and smoke. Finally, finally, his eyes found yours. And for a moment, the storm stilled. His breathing slowed. The tremor in his clawed fingers quieted. He stepped toward you. One hand rose, slow, cautious, toward the ropes that bound you. He didn’t speak. But he looked at you like a man remembering what it was to be human.

And the world held its breath. You were scared. Not of him , not exactly. But of what this meant You couldn’t just run away with him. Not now. Not after everything. The blood. The smoke. The dead. Even if he reached for your hand now, offering a way out, a future, something terrifying and warm … where would you go?

What kind of life could you live with someone like him? But he wasn’t a monster. Not to you. Not even now. The thought barely settled before… 

Screaming. From the outer ring of the courtyard. Your head whipped toward it.

Twenty… no, twenty-five guards. Fully armored. Helmets reflecting torchlight. Spears. Shields. Boots pounding the earth. Running. Charging. At you. Your blood froze.

“ KEIGO– !”

But he was already stepping in front of you. No wings to shield you. No powers to call on. Just Keigo. His breath steady. Stance wide. Hand resting on the hilt of the blade you hadn’t even noticed he carried, sleek, obsidian-handled, strapped under his cloak. He said nothing. But his expression… Gone was the teasing, gone was the quiet charm. What replaced it was cold, pure resolve. The kind you could taste in the air.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to speak. “Stay behind me.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. They came fast, boots slamming the ground like thunder. You didn’t want this. You wanted to scream for them to stop , to tell them you weren’t worth it , that they didn’t have to die .

But you couldn’t. The first guard lunged. Keigo dodged. Effortless. Too fast. Then steel flashed in the torchlight. One down. Another screamed. You didn’t see how. Blood sprayed across the packed dirt in a wide arc. Two more fell. Then another. The rest hesitated, but only for a moment.

He didn’t hesitate at all. The fabric of the ceremonial gown pressed tightly to your skin, damp with sweat. The hairpin in your braid trembled with your shaking. This wasn’t just about saving you anymore. This was about ending it.

And Keigo, no mercy, was going to burn the world down to do it. You were scared. Terrified. The screams had long since faded, swallowed by the wind and smoke. Whatever hadn’t burned had been torn apart. The guards were gone. The elders… gone. The crowd had fled. The square was empty. No chants, no prayers, no gasps. Only silence. And the smell of blood. And ash. You were still tied to the post, though the flames had never touched you. The ropes were half-charred, your wrists raw from the struggle. You should’ve been dead. And maybe part of you still was.

But you weren’t alone. Not really. He was standing just a few paces away, right where the chaos had ended, where it had begun. Keigo.

Not with wings, not with fangs bared or cloak billowing like some monster from a storybook. Just a man. His chest rising and falling. Blood on his hands.He looked at you like he always did. Intently. Carefully. Like you were the only thing in the world worth saving. And you hated how warm that made your chest feel.

Was this… worth it? The thought pulsed through you like a heartbeat. Was this … this destruction, this pain, this love , worth the cost? Your mouth opened, cracked lips parting. But no words came. Only your heartbeat, pounding in your ears. And the soft crunch of his boots on the blood-wet ground as he walked toward you. Slowly. Measured. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like you were still a frightened creature in a trap.

And maybe you were. His hand reached for you. And you didn’t flinch. Not this time. He stepped behind you, silent as the grave. You barely heard the knife slide from his belt, just the faint scrape of metal, then the soft snick of the first rope being cut. The cords fell limp, brushing against your skin. The pressure on your arms lessened, but the pain bloomed as blood rushed back into your limbs. He worked quickly, efficiently, yet somehow still gentle.

The final knot slipped loose. Your shoulders sagged. And then, your knees buckled. You didn’t mean to fall. It was just everything catching up at once: the cold, the fear, the sheer weight of still being alive. Your body slumped forward, but before you could hit the ground, his arms were there. One around your waist, the other catching your shoulder.

You weren’t even sure how he’d moved so fast. For a heartbeat, your forehead rested against his chest. You could feel the thrum of his heart, steady. Strong. The only thing in your world not trembling. His voice didn’t come right away. His hand lingered at your lower back, holding you up, anchoring you.Then, barely above a whisper, he murmured against your hair…  “I’ve got you.” Not a declaration. Not a boast. Just a fact.

“Keigo…?” Your voice trembled, barely audible over the ringing in your ears. “What’s going to happen now? Do I run? Where will you go?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there. Then his arms, already wrapped around your waist to keep you from falling, tightened. One hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you flush against him, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a dangerous whisper, more breath than sound.

“You’re not going anywhere.” You froze. “I’m not letting you go again,” he said, his grip firm but not painful, possessive. Final. “Not after what they did. Not after they touched you. Not after they thought they could take you from me.”

Your heart pounded. “Keigo–”

“No.” His eyes burned, even in the fading light. “You’re mine. You’ve been mine. And I should’ve taken you the second they threatened you.”

“I– Keigo, I’m not some thing to be taken–”

His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up with a gentleness that betrayed the fire simmering beneath his skin. “No. You’re not. ” His voice softened for a heartbeat. “You’re more than that.” A pause. His thumb grazed your cheek, his gaze locking on your lips like they were the answer to every question he never asked. “…That’s why I’ll protect you however I have to. Even if it means burning this place to the ground.”

He stepped closer, there wasn’t any space left between you, and leaned down, lips nearly brushing your ear. “You don’t need to run,” he murmured. “You just need to stay by my side.”

You swallowed hard, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, though your voice trembled with uncertainty. “But how will I even…? I’m not like you,” you whispered, the weight of your doubts crashing down. “I’m not... what if I can’t resist? What if I’m just... a temptation? A weakness for you?”

Before you could finish, before the words could even fully leave your mouth, Keigo’s arms were suddenly around you, strong and unyielding. Without warning, he scooped you up, his grip firm but careful as if you might shatter. “Wait– no! Put me down!” you protested, heart racing in shock and panic, struggling against him, but his hold was ironclad.

He didn’t answer. His only response was a low, urgent voice, barely above a growl “I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”

Your protests faltered as he started moving, dragging you away from the cold open air, away from the eyes and dangers that lurked nearby. You kicked softly, trying to wriggle free, breath hitching with both fear and something else, something confusingly like relief.

“You can’t just take me like this,” you whispered, voice breaking.

He tightened his grip just enough to remind you who was in charge, his eyes dark and unreadable as he glanced down at you. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said softly, almost harshly, “because I don’t want to lose you to those fears. You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

Your chest tightened, mind swirling in a storm of emotions, anger, fear, longing… tangled together as he carried you away, leaving no room for doubt. Cradled in his arms, the world suddenly shrank to just the two of you. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest, but amid the chaos, something surprising settled over you, a quiet softness.

His breath was warm against your skin, slow and steady, a sharp contrast to the iron grip that held you. You felt the faint brush of his lashes against your cheek as he leaned his head just slightly closer, almost as if seeking reassurance himself. Your fingers tentatively traced the edge of his collar, marveling at how unexpectedly soft the fabric felt beneath your touch. Then, your hand slipped up to the bare skin of his neck, smooth, cool, and faintly rough with the shadow of stubble.

You caught yourself, a breath caught in your throat as the intimate closeness pulled you deeper than you expected. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady and strong, grounding you despite the chaos around. For a moment, you let yourself forget the fear, the running, the rules you thought you had to follow. You just focused on the softness… the way his body molded protectively around yours, the way his presence whispered that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone anymore.

The steady beat of his heart against your ear was hypnotic, a soothing rhythm pulling you away from the storm inside your mind. Your body, heavy with days of fear, pain, and running, finally gave in. The tight knot of tension in your muscles slowly unwound as exhaustion claimed you. Your eyelids fluttered shut, the world around you blurring into soft shadows. You rested your head against the curve of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath you, a lullaby more comforting than any words.

His arms tightened slightly, as if afraid to let go, but also careful not to disturb the fragile peace settling over you. The weight of the day, the nightmares, the fires, the chains, began to dissolve, replaced by the quiet warmth of being held.

In that moment, all your worries faded, replaced by a fragile, precious calm. And as you slipped deeper into sleep, you felt something you hadn’t dared to feel in a long time: safe.

✧

You blinked. The sun was different here. Softer. Golden. It dappled through tall trees and glinted off the water of a lazy river, winding slow and gentle through an open meadow. Grass brushed at your ankles. The breeze carried the scent of jasmine and something… nostalgic.

You took a breath, and it didn’t hurt. Where was he? Your eyes scanned the tree line, the curved bend of the riverbank, expecting to see him, waiting, watching. But he wasn’t there. Not yet.

The sound of water trickling over smooth stones pulled your gaze. A woman stood at the edge of the river. She had her back to you, her hair twisted up in the same way yours used to be as a child, loose, pinned with something delicate. She wore white. The fabric danced in the breeze, slow and weightless. You stepped forward, your boots somehow silent in the grass.

Closer now, your heart thudded with a strange anticipation. Her posture, the curve of her shoulders, it was so familiar. A ghost memory pulled at your ribs. She turned. You froze. Eyes like your own. Softer. Sadder. Kinder. You didn’t need her to speak. You knew.

“...Mom?”

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just smiled, softly, like a secret only a mother could hold. Her eyes shimmered in the sunlight, the warmth of her expression catching you off guard. No judgment. No fear. Only the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in years. You blinked rapidly, breath catching.

Your first thought… You’d died. You’d died and this was heaven.

Why you were here, why you’d earned such softness… you had no idea. Your hands went to your chest as if expecting to find blood, rope burns, the sting of fire still clinging to your skin. But there was nothing. Just skin, warm and whole.

“Is this…” you whispered, afraid to finish the question.

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the river. Her hands clasped in front of her like she had all the time in the world. You stepped closer, hesitantly, feeling small in a way you hadn’t since childhood.

You stood beside her now. Her scent was familiar, lavender and sage, the same oils she used to rub into your temples when you were sick. You swore you could feel her hand brushing your hair back, even though she hadn’t moved. You didn’t want to speak again. You didn’t want to break the moment. But you had to. “Am I…” your voice trembled, “...am I gone?” Still nothing. But her smile faltered, just slightly. Her eyes found yours again. And when she reached out, her fingers barely grazed your cheek.

“No,” she said softly, at last. “But you're close.”

Your stomach dropped. The breeze suddenly felt colder. She looked at you with something mournful, something distant, like she couldn’t pull you closer even if she wanted to.

"There's still time," she murmured.

And then… her hand slipped from your skin, and her image rippled, like water disturbed.

You blinked, and she was gone. Just the river remained. Quiet. Still. Was she ever really there? You were alone again. But not for long. You felt him before you saw him, his presence, the weight of it, the way your skin prickled with awareness. Keigo. Of course he found you, even here. The river vanished like smoke.

You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a world swallowed in black. Your feet were moving before your mind could catch up. Running. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know from what. But something inside you, deep and ancient, urged you forward. Breath coming in ragged gasps. Bare feet slapping against cold, damp stone. Your hands fumbled in front of you, searching for a wall, a tree, anything to anchor you, but the dark gave nothing.

Nothing but the sound. The softest steps. Behind you. Deliberate. Measured. He wasn’t chasing. Not exactly. He was following. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world.

“Stop,” you whispered, but your body didn’t listen. “Keigo, please…”

You didn’t know if you were begging him to catch you or let you go. Your chest burned, your legs trembling with every step, but still you kept moving. The air clung to your skin like molasses. It felt wrong here. The kind of wrong that sat in your marrow. Familiar and foreign at once.

Why were you running? You trusted him. Didn’t you? Your steps faltered. That sound again, closer now. You turned. Slowly. Breath hitching.

He was barely a silhouette, lit only by some faint, impossible light, tall, composed, patient. He didn’t speak. Didn’t demand. Just stood there, head tilted slightly like he was watching an animal in the wild. Or maybe a flame. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them. Felt the weight of them like chains around your ankles, a hand pressing softly over your chest.

He was waiting for you to decide. So why couldn’t you move? Why did it feel like if you reached out, you might burn? Would you like her to speak first, or him to? The silence cracked. Footsteps, closer now. Steadier. Confident. Then his voice, low and teasing, coiled through the dark like smoke… 

"Wakey wakey."

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat. The hairs on your arms stood on end. His voice had no business sounding like that, warm and sweet, like syrup dripped over a knife’s edge. It made your knees weak, made your heart thunder against your ribs like it wanted out.

“You sleep too much,” he said, closer now, so close you could hear the slight rasp in his tone. Like amusement. Like restraint. “Even in dreams, you run. That’s not very polite.”

You turned your head slowly, just in time to see him step out from the shadows. His face was soft in the faint glow, almost tender , but there was something else beneath it. Something unreadable. Something hungry. His eyes locked with yours. He wasn’t smiling.

"Come here."

A command, not a request. And your feet… they almost obeyed.

“No.” The word cracked through the stillness like lightning, sharp and trembling. “This isn’t right…” you said again, backing away, your hands trembling at your sides. “This… this isn’t real. It can’t be.”

Keigo didn’t move at first. His eyes flickered, not hurt, not angry, just watching . Waiting. His expression unreadable. “You always say that,” he muttered, stepping forward anyway. “And yet you always end up here. With me.”

“Because you drag me here!” you snapped. “You twist things, bend them, I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep anymore, I don’t know what’s in my own head, and you…”

You choked on your own breath, heart hammering. His eyes darkened. “I never force you to feel anything,” he said slowly, stepping closer again. “Don’t confuse the way you want me with the way you fear yourself.”

You flinched. “You’re manipulating me,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, then, suddenly, he moved. His hand shot forward, fingers brushing your wrist. And that’s when it hit, The cold. The rush of air, the jerk in your chest, the burning pull from the dream… You gasped, a ragged, high sound, lungs dragging in breath like you were surfacing from deep water… 

You were awake.

And your wrist still tingled from where he touched it. You blinked. Once. Twice.

Wooden beams. A slanted ceiling. The soft scent of pine and smoke and something faintly sweet, like old herbs and sun-warmed leather. This wasn’t your room. This wasn’t any room you knew. Your chest seized as panic stirred. Your head pounded, hard , a dull, pulsing ache that throbbed behind your eyes. You tried to sit up, but… 

You couldn’t move. Not because of ropes. Not chains. But something worse. A strong arm, no, two, wrapped around your middle from behind, solid and firm, keeping you in place with terrifying ease. Your breath caught. Warmth radiated against your back. The faintest rise and fall of breath behind you. A chest, steady and warm. Legs tangled loosely with yours, one draped casually over your thigh, anchoring you in place like he knew you'd try to flee.

You froze. A quiet breath ghosted against your ear. His breath. Your heart thundered so hard it made your vision blur. Every part of you was screaming to move, to run, to fight, and yet… his grip was not cruel. Not violent. Just unrelenting.

“Don’t.” His voice was low. Rough. Barely awake, but deeply aware. “Don’t move. Not yet.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were pressed against him. His skin was warm beneath the loose edge of your borrowed nightgown, your bare shoulder exposed against the crook of his arm. Your lips parted. Nothing came out. Not yet. His breathing shifted. Slower. Deeper. You could feel it change, how his chest expanded more deliberately behind you. How his arms, once loosely draped, began to tighten. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say: I know you’re awake.

You stayed still. Rigid. Maybe if you didn’t move… But then, a slight shift of his hips. His thigh pressed closer to yours, the warmth of his skin burning through the thin nightgown. His arm curled further around your waist, fingers splaying wide just beneath your ribs. And then he moved again. Barely. Almost like a stretch. Except it wasn’t a stretch.

You felt it. The slow, unhurried drag of his body against yours. His breath deepened further, the tip of his nose brushing against your neck now as he adjusted again, this time deliberately, almost lazily, like a man savoring something.

“Don’t…” you whispered, voice barely audible, throat dry. He hummed. Low. Content. Sleep-warm. His lips grazed the shell of your ear, not a kiss, not quite, but something far too close to it. “I said don’t ,” you snapped, heart thundering as you tried to pull away.

He followed easily, fluid as water, tightening his hold again. He sighed into your hair, like you were the pillow he’d been searching for all night.

“You smell like forest,” he murmured.

You nearly yelled . “Keigo–!”

“Mmh.” He sounded utterly unfazed, eyes still closed as he shifted his hips again… again , this time pressing his entire body flush against yours.

Your whole body went stiff. “I swear to the gods if you don’t stop moving– ”

Now his eyes opened. Barely.

Just a sliver of gold gleaming through heavy lashes. His voice dropped, almost apologetic. “Sorry. Just… you’re soft.”

SOFT?! Your jaw dropped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He blinked slowly. “You’re in my bed.”

“I WAS UNCONSCIOUS–”

“Still are,” he muttered, burying his face in your shoulder with zero shame. “Must be. You’re yelling, but you’re not running.” He grinned against your skin, and the bastard had the nerve to nuzzle you. “Cute.”

You flailed, trying to worm out of his arms, but it was like being held by a very smug boulder.

“I swear if you keep touching me–”

“Then what?” he said sleepily, breath warm on your neck. “You’ll melt?”

You screamed internally. He was going to be the death of you. You yanked your arm. Nothing. You squirmed, trying to twist out from under the heavy weight of his limb. Absolutely nothing. “Gods…move,” you hissed, trying to shimmy downward, but his other arm, previously slack across your waist, suddenly looped tighter, much tighter.

You froze. “Keigo.”

“Mmh?” His voice was the epitome of fake innocence, muffled somewhere against your shoulder. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay.” You tried to wiggle again, only for his hand to casually slide from your ribcage to your hip like he was guiding you, like you were the one misbehaving. “Let go.”

He sighed, deeply , like you were disturbing his sleep. “I’m keeping you warm.”

“I don’t need–!”

“But you’re shaking,” he murmured, all concern and zero guilt, the way his fingers lingered just barely above your thigh proving otherwise.

You felt your entire body flush with rage, or embarrassment, or some horrifying, soul-shaking combination of both. “Keigo, if you don’t move your hand –”

He finally leaned back just far enough to look at you. Gold eyes half-lidded, lashes still damp from sleep. Hair a mess. Expression soft, dangerously soft. “Why are you so jumpy?” he asked, and his smile was slow, like he already knew the answer.

You glared. “Because you’re a nightmare.”

He tilted his head, his nose brushing yours. “You say that,” he murmured, “but you’re still under my blanket. Still in my arms.” You let out a strangled, furious noise and yanked again, hard . He didn’t budge. Not even a little. In fact, he snorted. “Are you… trying something?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, immensely.”

You slapped at his arm. “Let. Go.”

“Make me.” You kicked your legs, thrashed your shoulder, elbowed his ribs (he dodged it), and tried to twist away, but the man might as well have been carved from tree bark and smugness. “Are you done?” he asked, utterly unbothered.

You collapsed against the mattress in defeat. “I hate you.”

His grin widened. “You say the cutest things in the morning.”

You were still confused as to where you were… this was his home? He didn’t… sleep in the mud ? Because that’s how he carried himself. All feral scowl and bloodstained boots. You glanced around slowly, wooden walls, a few shelves, a pile of furs by the corner. A table with dried herbs bundled neatly. It wasn’t big, but it was lived-in. Sturdy. Warm. What about the birds? Did they have their own room? Were you going to die here?

“ You think too much. ”

You froze. “Huh?”

His voice was low, lazy, like it had just woken up too. “ You think too much, ” he repeated, somewhere behind you. His breath tickled the back of your neck.

Your brain was officially melting. Were you going to die here ? Or pass out from secondhand embarrassment? Hard to tell. “Well, I have a lot to think about…”

Your voice was strained, tight, like your sanity was holding on by a single, fraying thread. Keigo didn’t answer at first. He shifted behind you, his chin now resting lazily on your shoulder. His breath brushed your skin in soft intervals. Steady. Relaxed. Smug. “Mmhm,” he murmured. 

“I am literally tied to your chest.”

“I’m not stopping you from thinking,” he said, far too pleased with himself.

You opened your mouth, then shut it. Your thoughts were racing. Spiraling. The burning. The dream. The offer they gave you. The choice you made. Him. And now this. Wrapped in the arms of the man, the monster , they were ready to burn you alive for.

“Don’t you have… things to do?” you asked finally, trying to keep your voice even. “Blood to drink? Villages to terrorize?”

He hummed against your shoulder. “Tempting. But no.” You stared blankly ahead. “I think I’ll stay right here,” he added after a beat, voice dipping lower. “You’re my priority now.”

Your stomach flipped. “You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“And you’re mine, ” he said, grinning against your neck. That shut you up. Which only made his smile grow wider. You squirmed, trying to pull away from his hold, but Keigo’s arms tightened just enough to keep you close, not cruelly, but possessively. His breath was warm against your ear as he spoke, voice low and almost teasing. “I mean it… you’re mine, ” he repeated, but when he saw your confused look, he quickly added, “Not in a scary way! More like… um… the way hawks get territorial over their favorite snack.”

You blinked, utterly baffled. “Yeah, like, if you were a tasty mouse, I’d keep you safe from the other hawks,” he added with a crooked grin. “So, don’t run away. Because I kinda like having you around.” You couldn’t help but let out a small, reluctant laugh despite yourself.

Keigo’s grip softened just a bit, but the possessive gleam in his eyes didn’t fade. You pushed harder against his arms, your frustration bubbling up. “Keigo, seriously, let me go! I need to think. I can’t just be ‘yours’ like some… some bird’s snack.” Your voice cracked with the tension, the mix of exhaustion and confusion making you more desperate. 

He held you firmer, his grip steady but not rough. “Hey, hey, calm down,” he murmured, trying to soothe you, but there was an edge to his tone. “I’m not letting you wander off into danger. Not again.”

You glanced away, biting your lip, trying to slow your racing thoughts. “It’s not about danger. It’s about me… needing space.”

Keigo’s jaw tightened, but after a pause, he sighed softly. “Fine. But I’m not far. Not now, not ever.” His eyes searched yours, almost daring you to argue.

You finally managed to wrench yourself upright, breath ragged, limbs sore. Keigo’s arms slackened just enough to let you sit, barely. Blinking past the sunlight bleeding through the wooden slats in the walls, you looked down at the bedspread.

Feathers. They were everywhere.

Long ones. Downy ones. Some tangled in the fabric, others drifting with every movement. You reached out and plucked one from your lap in disbelief. “…You weren’t kidding,” you muttered, holding the delicate thing between your fingers.

Behind you, you heard him chuckle lowly, still sprawled like a cat in the nest of blankets and feathers. “Yeah. I've been collecting for… well… a while.” That sent a strange little shiver up your spine, and you promptly shoved the thought aside.

Turning back to the rest of the room, you scanned for an exit, your brain catching up to the fact that you were most definitely in his home. Everything was wooden, carved roughly but with care. The walls were lined with various satchels, bones, hanging herbs, and dried meat. A few old books were stacked in the corners. No windows low enough to reach. Then your gaze landed on the only visible exit: a small, low door... currently blocked by a very broad-shouldered vampire who was now smirking at you from his lounging position.

Your eyes narrowed. “Of course,” you muttered.

Keigo stretched lazily, arms above his head, muscles flexing as he reclined further. “Problem?”

You looked back to the exit, then to him, then back again. “…The only way off this bed is over you.”

He looked absolutely delighted. “Mmmh. Sounds right.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You’re the worst.”

Keigo only grinned, folding his arms behind his head, feathers shifting beneath him. Your eyes darted around the hut again, walls, ceiling, floor. No trapdoor. No back entrance. Not even a loose board you could kick out. Damn him. Damn him and his well-constructed hermit shack.

You turned back to face him, arms folded, a scowl pulling at your lips. “The village,” you said, trying not to sound desperate. “Is it… still in one piece?”

Keigo’s golden eyes opened slowly, fixing on you with that unreadable calm. He blinked once. Then again. His head tilted slightly, and he let out a long sigh as if the question had been inevitable. “Unfortunately,” he murmured, voice low. “Yeah. Most of it.”

You blinked, throat tightening. “ Most ?”

He sat up finally, resting his elbows on his knees. His hair was still tousled from sleep, and he raked a hand through it slowly before continuing, “The elders are dead. Some of the building’s gone. But the people? They’re alive. Scared shitless, probably. But alive.”

You didn’t know what to say. That shouldn’t have brought relief, but it did. “And Ela?” you asked quietly.

He met your gaze, and for the first time since you’d woken up, his face softened. “She’s fine.” A breath caught in your chest. You nodded slowly, glancing toward the door again. Keigo’s expression shifted. “You’re not going back,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say I was.”

“You were thinking it,” he muttered, standing now. His full height towered above you. “That little head of yours doesn’t stop turning. Always thinking of everyone but yourself.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That’s not true.”

“It is. ” His voice was firmer now. “You’re worried about them. About me. About everything. But not once have you asked what you want.”

You didn’t have an answer. So instead you asked the only question that felt safe, “…Why am I here, Keigo?”

His eyes searched yours, as if debating what to tell you. Then softly, almost too softly, he replied, “Because I couldn’t let them take you.”

“But…” you started, your voice trembling, unsure if it was from fear or the weight of everything crashing down.

His eyes sharpened, the softness gone in a blink. “Did you want to die?” he cut in, the words like a whipcrack, sharp and sudden. His tone was harsh, almost biting, nothing like the man who held you under his cloak, who kissed you like he meant it, who looked at you like you were the last thing in the world he still believed in.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. He inched closer, each movement deliberate. “Because that’s what would’ve happened. If I didn’t show up when I did, they would’ve burned you. ” His jaw clenched. “ Alive. ”

“I didn’t think they would actually–”

“No,” he interrupted. “You didn’t think. You never think when it comes to yourself.” The silence that followed was thick. “I told you before,” he murmured, quieter now but just as firm, “I’m not letting go again.”

You looked away, heart pounding. The weight of his words crushed you in a different way than the chains ever did. “I wasn’t trying to die,” you finally whispered. “I just… didn’t want you to be hurt.”

Keigo’s breath caught, and for a moment, he looked like he didn’t know whether to scream or kiss you again. “Too late for that,” he said hoarsely.

“So I’m just supposed to live here now….” The words slipped out slowly, like your brain was finally catching up to what your body had been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes. You blinked around the small wooden space again, the feather-littered bed, the bundled herbs, the dried meats hanging from the ceiling beams. His home. His hideout. His trap .

Keigo didn’t answer at first. He was up out of bed at this point, leaned against the doorway now, arms crossed, golden eyes half-lidded and unreadable. He looked calm, too calm. Like this was all perfectly rational to him. Like he hadn’t just plucked you from the jaws of death and stashed you in a hut in the middle of gods-know-where like some… kept thing .

You stared at him. “Was that your plan? I’d get almost executed, you’d swoop in all dramatic, kiss me like you’ve done it a hundred times, and now I just… what? Cook stew and collect firewood while you go out and brood in the woods?”

He arched a brow. “...I mean. Not stew. I was thinking more of that bread you make. With the honey?”

Your mouth dropped open. “You’re insane.”

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward you, hands still in his pockets. “Maybe.” Another step. You backed up instinctively. “But you’re alive.” His voice softened just slightly. “You’re safe.”

“And trapped. ” You gestured to the hut. “In the middle of nowhere. With a man who won’t answer a single straightforward question!”

He shrugged. “You didn’t ask one.”

You blinked. Your eye twitched. “You are unbelievable. ”

“I get that a lot.”

You turned your head away from him, trying to think, trying to breathe. “This can’t be happening,” you muttered. “I should be dead. I should be dead, not, not kidnapped by some half-feral bird man with a martyr complex. ”

Infront you, Keigo snorted. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You whipped around. “This is not normal.”

“I’m not normal.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

His smile curved lazily at the corners, but his eyes, those eyes, remained locked on you. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

“I’ll make tea,” he said casually, already walking out the door.

You gawked at him. “You’re not serious.”

You heard him shout. “I am. You like tea when you’re overwhelmed. Figured it’s the least I can do before the full breakdown hits.”

You stared at the door for a long, long moment. Gods help you. Maybe you were the insane one. You stayed frozen for a beat, listening to the soft creak of the wooden floorboards as he walked. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, your shoulders slumped.

You exhaled shakily. Silence. The cabin was… quaint, if not eerily quiet. A little too neat for someone like him. The walls were lined with dried herbs and woven baskets of things you couldn’t identify. Old paper, flint, rope. You scanned the space with cautious eyes, taking in every detail.

And then your gaze caught on the bundles of meat strung up carefully near the back wall, some still drying, others wrapped in cloth. His birds. Of course. You could imagine him slicing it thin with too much precision, feeding them by hand. You wondered if he named all of  them. If he spoke to them. The image made your chest tighten for reasons you didn’t want to name.

You glanced at the makeshift perch near the small window, feathers, dark ones, littered the floor beneath it. You pulled the blanket around your shoulders tighter. Gods, what was your life now? Was this truly safer than what waited for you in the village? The chains, the fire, the screams? Or had you simply traded one kind of prison for another? Somewhere behind the wall, you heard the soft clatter of ceramic. Water pouring. Tea. As if that made anything normal again.

You stared at the door, the firelight flickering over your knuckles. What would happen if you ran? You didn’t even want to think about it. About him. About the things you’d let happen, willingly or not. The dreams. The fire. The feel of his arms. His breath against your neck. The way he touched you like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already. You dragged your fingers through your hair, hesitating as you reached the end of a loose, barely held-together braid. It was clumsy, uneven, definitely not your own.

Your heart stuttered. Did he…?

You turned to the nightstand beside the bed. Like everything else in this strange little hut, it was carved by hand, rough around the edges, but sturdy. Functional. Personal. Your hairpin lay right on top. You blinked, staring at it. He must’ve… taken it out while you were unconscious. Laid it down carefully, not tucked away or tossed aside, but displayed. You picked it up with a strange sense of reverence. The weight of it felt different now.

You turned toward the rest of the room, as if it would offer you answers. His bookshelf was tucked in a corner near the hearth, crammed with volumes so old you feared touching them might make them crumble. A few bore strange symbols etched into their spines, others were written in languages you only vaguely recognized from your mother’s old texts.

And they weren’t just religious or magical. Some were journals. Histories. Ancient, banned folklore. One book in particular stood out, its cover bound in a worn, deep brown leather, the pages uneven and gilded faintly at the edges. You reached for it without thinking, running your fingers along the spine.

There were no titles on the outside. Nothing to mark who it belonged to. Just the scent of age and something faintly metallic. Below the shelves were even more things, boxes, carved to hold god knows what. Trinkets, polished stones, small metal things that gleamed in the firelight. Trinkets that didn’t belong in a cabin like this. Trinkets a man like him had no business owning.

You knelt down, brushing a few feathers away from the baseboard. A dagger glinted beneath a folded cloth. Not ceremonial, used. You didn’t dare touch it.

And then… you heard it. The soft creak of the door behind you. You turned slowly. He was standing there with a clay cup in each hand. His eyes locked on yours. Not a word. Not yet. He just tilted his head ever so slightly, gaze flicking down to the pin in your hand. You held it tighter.

“You kept it,” you whispered, voice catching in your throat.

His smile was almost imperceptible. “I never throw away what’s mine.”

He came closer, slow, steady steps over the creaking wood floor, and placed just one cup on the bedside table. It was a simple ceramic piece, a little uneven on the sides like he’d crafted it himself. Steam rose lazily from the surface, curling in the cool air of the cabin. The scent of herbs and honey drifted toward you, soothing, familiar. Something meant to calm you down.

You stared at it for a moment, then glanced at his hands. Empty. Of course there wasn’t a second cup.

Of course.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He just stood there, looming near the bed, gaze unreadable, his presence heavier than it had any right to be. Not threatening. But full. Saturated. You didn’t touch the tea.

“You made that for me?” you asked, voice low.

“I’ve got nothing else to offer,” he said simply. It wasn’t self-pity. Just fact. You looked up at him. His hair was still a little mussed, his eyes darker than they were outside in the sun. In here, you could really see the inhuman glow behind them, buried but unmistakable. Like candlelight pressed into a man’s gaze. “And if I don’t drink it?” you asked.

He lifted one shoulder. “Then it’ll get cold.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way he looked at you, like he was taking inventory. Like he was waiting to see if you'd push him again. Run. Accuse. Cry. Or stay.

You looked back down at the tea. Warmth. A small gesture. Something human. A poor distraction from the fact you were standing in a cabin built by a creature that could end entire villages. Still, your fingers reached for the cup anyway. You didn’t lift it. Just held it. And he watched the whole time.

“Keigo…” your voice was barely above a whisper, fragile in the wooden stillness of the room. The cup trembled slightly in your hands. “I can’t… I can’t stay here.”

He didn’t move. Not at first.Then slowly, like something inside him shifted, he stepped closer. Not too close, but just enough that the warmth of his presence returned, soaking through the air between you like sunlight through a fog.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “You can.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “Keigo, I have a life. People. Responsibilities–”

“They left you to burn.” His voice was calm. Not cold. Not angry. Just brutally honest. “The people you gave your life to. The ones you healed, protected. They chained you up and called you a monster.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “That wasn’t all of them.”

“But it was enough.” His eyes softened, but it was the kind of softness that scared you. The kind that came with certainty. Possession. Promise. “I can give you everything you need,” he said, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes. “Shelter. Safety. Freedom from their rules, their punishments. You’ll have food, quiet, space to breathe. My birds won’t bother you. The bed’s warm. I won’t touch you unless you ask.” Your breath hitched. That part wasn’t what you expected to hear. He took another small step forward.

“I’ll build you a new apothecary if you want. You can keep doing what you love. I’ll bring you anything. Everything. You never have to beg or break yourself for people who don’t care if you live or die. I do.”

You looked down at the cup again. “Keigo…”

His hand brushed the back of your wrist, so gently it almost didn’t happen. “You don’t have to decide tonight,” he murmured. “But I need you to understand something.” You looked up. “I didn’t go through hell just to drop you back into it.” His jaw tensed slightly, his voice dipping low. “You are not going back there. Ever. Not while I’m breathing.”

And something about the way he said it, like a vow etched in blood, made the air in your lungs stop short. Your fingers hovered over the rim of the teacup, the warmth of the steam barely reaching your skin. You weren’t cold, not physically, but there was something gnawing at you from the inside. Something old. Something blooming.

“You know…” you murmured, voice quieter than intended. “Ela was the one who actually pointed you out to me.” You didn’t need to look to know Keigo had gone still. He was always still, but now it was different. Listening. “She didn’t know who you were. No one really did. Just said there was this man, ‘the falconer’who always lingered near the garden wall. Right past the old fence where the herbs grow wild.”

The silence stretched.

“I used to laugh. Said she was being dramatic. We had this whole joke that maybe the birds were trained to spy on me or something.” He shifted slightly. Barely. But enough that the floor creaked under his weight. “I started to notice it after,” you said, more to the teacup than to him. “Little things. A shadow at the corner of my vision. A shift in the wind. A shape where there shouldn't be one.”

You finally looked up, and his golden eyes were waiting, like they’d always been there. Watching. Waiting.

“I thought I was losing it,” you said. “But I guess I wasn’t, was I?”

Keigo didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was so quiet it barely registered as speech. “No.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “Why me?” His gaze dropped, then returned. He didn’t answer. You gave a hollow laugh, brushing hair from your face. “Was it the garden? Or the way I talk to plants like they're people? Or was I just… convenient?” Still no answer. Your voice cracked. “Say something.”

He stepped closer, carefully. Slowly. “You were never convenient.” You hated the way your breath hitched at that. His tone was gentle now. Steady. “I watched because I didn’t know how else to be near you. Because it wasn’t safe, for either of us, if I stepped closer.”

Your throat tightened. “And now?”

His voice was a whisper. “Now it’s too late.”

You looked back down at the tea, heart hammering, your reflection rippling in the surface. You both sat at the edge of the bed, your knees just barely brushing. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was thick with tension, with a thousand questions pressing against your ribs, but none daring to break the stillness first.

So you did.

“When did you build this place?” you asked, glancing around at the wooden beams, the hand-carved edges of furniture, the odd shape of the windows that let in the fading golden light.

Keigo didn’t miss a beat. “’Bout 175 years ago.”

You blinked. Your head turned slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”

He tilted his head like you were the one being strange. “Give or take a few years. Lost count around the thirty-year mark.”

You stared at him. Really stared. The angled line of his jaw, the loose blond strands brushing his cheek, the way he sat so casually, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, arms resting lazily on his thighs, like he hadn’t just dropped the weight of two centuries on your lap. “What the hell,” you whispered.

He laughed, soft and dry, almost sheepish. “I mean, it wasn’t all at once. Just started as a little hunting shack, then a bird perch, then another room, then a roof. Took about… forty years to get it livable.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Keigo. That’s not, normal.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

You shifted away just slightly. “And you didn’t think to tell me this… before?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant at the time. You were busy trying to figure out if I was going to eat you or not.”

Your face twisted. “Still am.”

He smirked, leaning back on his palms. “Then I guess I’m losing my touch.”

You stared at the floor for a moment, letting the quiet settle back in. Then, with a sigh, you muttered “175 years…”

“Yeah.”

“How are you not… bored?”

“Oh, I am.” He grinned. “Why do you think I hang out in your garden?”

You smacked his shoulder. Lightly. He laughed. Not the unsettling, mysterious laugh he used to have, but a real one. Warm. Human. Well not really…

Gods help you. You gave a long, deep sigh, the kind that carried weeks of sleepless nights and half-formed thoughts. Your shoulders slumped slightly, your fingers curling tighter around the warm cup between your palms. So many questions clung to your throat, but something told you the answers wouldn’t come easy. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Still, you took a sip. The warmth spread down your chest, coating your ribs like velvet. The blend was delicate. Familiar. Floral, with the tiniest hint of bitterness from dried lemon balm, but perfectly balanced by the subtle sweetness of honey. Your brows lifted, impressed despite yourself. You set the cup down slowly and looked at him. Keigo didn’t even try to look innocent. That smug, lopsided expression stretched across his face like he’d just won some unspoken game.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’ve been in my cabinets.”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Lavender. Chamomile. Lemon balm. Elderflower.” You ticked off the herbs on your fingers. “That’s my blend. You’ve watched me make it.”

“I watch a lot of things.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes held that same lingering intensity that always left you unsure if you should lean closer, or bolt.

You stared at him.

He grinned wider. “Don’t look so scandalized. I steeped it at the right temperature.”

You blinked. “And you remembered the honey.”

“Two teaspoons. Not stirred until after the second minute. Don’t insult me.” Your jaw dropped slightly, part horror, part begrudging admiration. He leaned in, just a bit, that same maddening glint in his gaze. “If it makes you feel any better... it’s not stalking if it tastes good, right?”

You took another sip. Scowled into the cup. Damn him. It was perfect.

“Also uh… all your clothes are here” You nearly choked. Coughing into your hand, you barely managed to set the cup back down before whipping your head toward him, eyes wide.

“ What? ”

Keigo looked entirely too pleased with himself, lounging back on one hand, the other gesturing lazily toward the wooden chest in the corner of the room. “I said all your clothes are here. Not all of them, obviously, just the ones I figured you’d want.” You blinked. Twice. Then again, slower this time, as if that would somehow clarify the meaning of his words.

“You figured ?”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Favorite nightgown, that grey linen wrap you keep thinking about mending but never do. Couple things you wear when it rains. The one with the neckline that drives me crazy….”

You stood up so fast the blanket slipped off your legs, your hands flailing in disbelief. “ What the hell is wrong with you?! ”

His smile didn’t budge. If anything, it grew sharper, corners twitching with amusement. “You don’t have to be so dramatic,” he said, almost laughing. “I folded them.”

“ Folded– oh, well that just makes everything better!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Gods forbid my kidnapper has no manners!”

“You weren’t kidnapped,” he said, voice calm but pointed. “You were rescued. From a very public execution, by the way. You’re welcome.”

“Oh yes, sorry, let me write you a thank you letter for stealing my life and my undergarments –!”

He blinked, visibly holding back a snort. “Okay, those I didn’t pack.” You stared at him, deadpan. “...On purpose,” he added with a wink. You swore your soul left your body for a moment. He chuckled, stretching like a cat across the bed. “I just thought, you know, we’d be honest with each other. Now that we’re living together.”

“You’re insane ,” you breathed.

“And you have very soft socks,” he murmured, barely audible.

Your mouth dropped open. He was so dead. “What if I tried to escape huh? What would you do then?”

Keigo’s smile twitched, just slightly. The kind of twitch that told you it wasn’t really a smile anymore. He looked up at you, golden eyes slowly narrowing with something unreadable. Not cruel. Not mocking. Something darker. Something quiet. “I’d find you.” His voice wasn’t loud. In fact, it was terrifyingly calm. You took a small step back, your breath hitching as the air in the room seemed to still around you. “I always do,” he added, eyes locked on yours. “You think the forest would hide you from me? You think any village would keep you safe? You wouldn’t even make it past the river before I had you right back in my arms.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. Keigo leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, that gaze still locked on you like a predator indulging a fantasy. “I wouldn’t hurt you. You know that.” His tone softened again, disarmingly so. “But I would drag you back. Cold, wet, screaming… I’d still carry you the whole way home.”

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to argue or scream, but he wasn’t finished. He stood slowly. Deliberately. “And then,” he murmured, standing close enough now that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, “I’d tie you to the bed until you understood that this–” he gestured lazily between your chest and his “--isn’t temporary.”

You swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a whisper. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve always been serious about you.” His voice dropped, his breath brushing your lips. “You just never paid attention.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your hands clenched at your sides. You hated that you were trembling, and worse, you hated the part of you that wasn’t trembling out of fear. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening for something beneath your skin, your pulse, maybe, or the subtle shift in your breathing. Then, softly, dangerously…

"But you’d never leave me, right, pretty girl?"

You couldn’t look away. His eyes bore into you, glowing faintly in the low light, filled with something desperate and possessive wrapped in honeyed charm. The kind of intensity that left you frozen, unsure if you wanted to run, or let him swallow you whole. Your mouth opened, then closed. He stepped in closer again, no room to breathe, no air between you. The bedframe hit the back of your thighs.

"Say it."

His voice dropped to a whisper, his fingers brushing the curve of your waist now, barely touching, like he wanted to make you feel it without giving you anything to push away. Your lips parted, but the words stuck. You hated how your body leaned slightly into the warmth of him, how your pulse betrayed you. His smile twitched again, this time amused. Gentle. Mocking.

"That’s okay," he murmured, leaning closer, "I can wait. I have all the time in the world." And then his hand lifted, knuckles brushing your cheek. "But you’ll say it eventually." His thumb traced the edge of your lip, watching your reaction like it fed something deep inside him. "Because you already know it’s true."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Tense. Hot. And all you could think was, If you lie to him now, he’ll know. If you tell the truth… you might never get out of here.

“So am I getting a house tour or am I confined in this room forever?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, low, amused, and maddeningly fond. “Confined?” he echoed, raising a brow as he took a small step back. “You make it sound like I’ve shackled you to the bed.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You basically did.”

He tilted his head, clearly not sorry. “You were squirming.”

You crossed your arms. “Because you wouldn’t let me up.”

“You were warm.” He said it so plainly, so unapologetically, like that explained everything.

It almost did. You took a breath and jabbed your thumb toward the rest of the cabin. “So? The rest of the place? Or do I get to spend the rest of my life guessing what’s behind door number two?”

That made him grin, genuinely grin. His fangs flashed ever so slightly when he did it. “Fine,” he said, with a sweeping gesture toward the hallway, “but don’t get too excited. It’s just wood and bird feathers.”

“Sounds like paradise.”

“You joke, but wait until you see the spot I gave the ravens.”

Your steps slowed. “Wait. You’re not kidding?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the door and gestured you through like a gentleman. You hesitated, just slightly, then walked past him, brushing against his arm. His smirk didn’t fade as he closed the door behind you. You followed behind him slowly, bare feet padding against the smoothed wood floor. It was warm beneath you, worn, well-sanded planks that had clearly been shaped by hand. The whole place had that lived-in feel, not messy, but not obsessively kept either. Just… personal.

Each step into a new space revealed something more peculiar, more intimate. The hallway alone had carvings lining the edges of the beams, delicate grooves etched with precision. Birds mostly, but there were also curling vines and blooming flowers, a few unfamiliar sigils tucked into corners, like secrets too shy to be named. You brushed your fingers over one, a looping spiral feathered at the ends.

He glanced over his shoulder. “That one’s for protection. Don’t touch it too long.”

You blinked.  “Why?”

“It bites back.” He didn’t elaborate.

The living area wasn’t large. A firepit sat sunken into the floor, ringed by smooth stones and a few overstuffed cushions that looked well-used. A low shelf housed bundles of dried herbs, strange wooden tools, and a small collection of jars, some filled with preserved petals, others with glittering bits of bone or stone.

And then there was the table. Only one. Carved from a single tree trunk, its uneven edges still rough and bark-clad on one side. It had no chairs, just a long bench he probably carved in the same sitting. A lone mug rested on it, half-full. No photos. No paper clutter. No inkpots. No books here, aside from one worn one on the bench that he clearly used as a coaster.

You were still trying to process. This was his home. This wasn’t some predator’s den or vampire’s lair. There were no chains, no bones in corners, no scent of rot. Just... wood. Earth. Quiet.

“There’s a rain collection basin out back,” he said as he opened the next door, “you can use it for washing. I heat it if I’m feeling civilized.”

The back room had a curtain, not a door. Beyond it, a large wooden tub carved right into the floor, lined with resin. A few folded cloths. Soap he probably made himself. The faint scent of cedar and mint. You couldn’t help it. “You made all this?”

“Mhm.” He didn’t even turn around. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

You studied the walls as you walked. No metal nails, only wooden pegs. Everything had been carved, whittled, smoothed by hand. This entire place was a love letter to solitude and survival. You started to think about what life here might actually entail. What would you eat? How would you keep warm in the winter? Could you really spend the rest of your life locked away in this tucked-away cabin with a man who, well, a vampire, who spoke in riddles and dragged you off from your own execution like it was a casual afternoon errand?

He pushed the door open without ceremony. It was… your workroom.

A modest space, probably no bigger than a pantry, but filled to the brim with apothecary tools. The shelves were lined with glass bottles and dried plants, some local, some rare. There was a basin tucked into the corner for washing, and a little window carved open to the forest beyond. You could see the sunlight speckling through.

The back wall was lined with a handmade cabinet. The wood had been painted white long ago, now chipped and peeling like old bone. But the handles were shaped like blossoms. You touched one gently. “You made this?” 

 He shrugged from behind you. “You needed somewhere to keep your poisons.”

 “They’re remedies .”

 “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out. But beneath it, your thoughts raced. You counted herbs. Noted the location of tools. Thought about water, about heat, about seasons and how you’d get supplies. You didn’t know how far you were from town. Didn’t know if you could survive out here without losing your mind. And yet…

Everything you needed was here. You turned slowly, eyes catching his as he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. You stared at the little wooden cabinet across the room, your fingertips grazing the edge of one of the drawers. It stuck slightly, warped from humidity or time. You gave it a gentle tug, and it opened with a groan like it hadn’t been touched in years, though it had to be recent. He made this for you. Inside were neatly folded cloths, empty vials, and a mortar and pestle, clearly used, but clean. Prepared. Expectant.

But for what? You swallowed hard and looked at your hands. The same hands that had ground herbs for fevers, wrapped broken bones, soothed burns, mended wounds. The same hands that the entire village once trusted. Children had tugged at your sleeves. Elders had bowed their heads when you walked by. People came to you hoping , and you gave them reason to keep hoping.

And now… Now your patients were gone. Your people were gone. Or maybe not gone, maybe they were still in that village, still breathing, still waking up with scraped knees and winter coughs and aching hearts. But they would never come to you again.

Not after the trial. Not after the fire. Not after the screaming. Not after they looked you in the eye and said monster . You sat down, heavily, on the edge of the low table. The wood was warm from the sun filtering through that narrow window. Dust floated gently in the air. It smelled like thyme and cedar.

Could you even be an apothecary anymore? What was an apothecary with no one to care for? No one to heal? The silence was too loud. You could hear the beating of your own heart in your ears, slow and dull, like a memory that wouldn’t leave. Your eyes drifted to the basin in the corner, the water still and dark. For a moment, you didn’t see your reflection, just the ripple of a life you didn’t ask for.

You had wanted to help people. Just help. And now, even if you tried to go back… would you ever be trusted again? From the doorway, you heard Keigo’s voice, soft, unreadable.

“You still can, you know.”

You looked up. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. You followed him wordlessly, your bare feet brushing against the smooth, cool wood as he opened the back door of the cabin. You half-expected dense trees, shadows, maybe the sound of animals scurrying into the underbrush.

But the light hit you first. Soft and golden, it spilled over everything like the sun had been waiting for you. The air shifted. Warmer. Sweeter. The smell of dew-kissed blossoms, mossy stone, and wild herbs clung to the wind. It was… beautiful.

A small pond stretched just a few paces away, tucked in the natural curve of the landscape like the earth had folded its hands around it protectively. The surface shimmered with reflected light, still and perfect, a mirror of the sky. Tiny lily pads floated near the edges, a few purple blossoms blooming atop them, delicate and serene. Around the pond, flowers bloomed in colors you didn’t even realize could exist in this part of the forest. Some you recognized, lavender, baby’s breath, even golden calendula, but others were wild, untamed, blooming like they belonged to an ancient kind of magic that time forgot. And yet, somehow, they thrived here. Untouched.

Birdsong fluttered in from somewhere above. Not frantic, not urgent, just the slow, peaceful hum of a place that wasn’t meant to be found. You didn’t realize he’d reached for your hand until his fingers gently laced through yours. You blinked up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something softer on his face. A hint of pride. Or… maybe something more.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, coaxing. “There’s more.”

You didn’t even think. You let him lead. The warmth of his palm against yours was grounding. Strange how steady he was now, how unshakable. Like none of the chaos before this existed. Like you weren’t supposed to be burned alive just hours ago. He guided you along a narrow path behind the cabin, the scent of blooming chamomile and sweetgrass brushing past you like whispers.

And as you turned the corner, you saw it, a tucked-away alcove shaded by thick boughs, with a bench carved from an old log and dozens of hanging bundles of drying herbs swaying from an overhead beam. Every detail carved by hand. This was where he dried things, you realized. Where he must prepare, if not for eating, then for living. Preserving. Keeping the little things that mattered.

Your fingers gripped his just a little tighter. This wasn’t a prison. It was a sanctuary. And yet the question still loomed in the quiet, sanctuary for who? He led you further down a stone-lined path, hand still in yours, looser now, but not gone. You followed quietly, your feet brushing against soft moss and petals that had drifted from the trees above. It was peaceful, like the air had thickened with sunlight and something sacred.

A soft whistle broke the silence. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a simple call, one you barely recognized until the response echoed back from the trees above. Then came the flutter. A gentle rush of feathers and movement, and suddenly, they were everywhere.

Birds. Not just any birds, but his birds.

The ones you’d seen in passing, circling above your garden, peering through branches like protectors in the shadows. Hawks, doves, sparrows, one impossibly large raven that perched on the low branch of a crooked tree like it had been waiting for you. There were nests woven into the upper beams of the wooden shelter tucked against the hill, a handmade aviary, covered in soft netting, more open than enclosed. It wasn’t a cage. It was a home. A refuge.

“Careful,” Keigo said, voice warm. “They’re shy with strangers.”

You turned to him, he looked different now. Lighter. His shoulders weren’t hunched in defense. His jaw wasn’t clenched. There was a glow to him here, standing among them, the way someone looks when they’re finally surrounded by the only ones who understand them. The large hawk swooped down from above, landing just shy of your feet with a few strong flaps of its wings. You jumped back slightly, startled, but Keigo crouched down, extending his hand.

“She likes you,” he said. “She never lands that close to anyone.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Is this the one who came to the garden?”

He nodded. “The same. I send her when I can’t be there.”

You knelt beside him, eyes on the bird. She was stunning, sleek feathers, dark flecks, eyes sharp and deep. She didn’t blink. Just watched you. Measured you. You reached out slowly, too slow, and the hawk tilted her head. “She won’t bite,” Keigo murmured. “Not unless you try to take her dinner.”

You hesitated… then gently stroked her back, your fingers ghosting over the soft, dense feathers. Warm. Alive. “She’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Keigo smiled again, really smiled this time. “Yeah. She’s my best girl.”

You looked up at him, something soft blooming in your chest. “How many do you have?”

He turned to the trees. “Too many. Some come and go. But most stay.”

You followed his gaze. They were perched in every corner of the space, watching, preening, dozing in the sun. Some nested close together. Others alone. It was… bizarrely peaceful. A tiny dove fluttered down next, landing on Keigo’s shoulder and nuzzling against his cheek. You tried not to laugh, but the sight of it, him, fanged and all, covered in birds, was almost too much.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, biting back a grin of his own. “I’m very feared, you know.”

“Oh, yeah. Terrifying. ”

He turned to you, and for a moment, the light shifted. “You’re the first person I’ve shown this to,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?”

“They don’t like visitors,” he shrugged. “And neither do I.”

You were quiet for a beat, listening to the birds call to one another in distant melodies. “…Thank you,” you said softly.

He looked at you, long and careful. His voice was low when he answered. “You’re welcome, pretty girl.”

You lingered in the moment, trying to memorize it, every color, every sound, the faint warmth of his hand still holding yours. It didn’t feel like captivity. It didn’t even feel like reality. The way the sunlight filtered through the trees and bathed the whole enclosure in gold… it felt like a memory, already slipping from your fingers.

Keigo didn’t let go. He led you deeper along the winding path beside the bird haven, passing a few handmade perches and feeding trays carved from wood, still dusted with seeds and dried fruits. You caught sight of little bowls of water balanced on flat rocks, glinting like glass.

"You really built all of this?" you asked quietly, half-distracted by the rustle of feathers overhead.

He nodded. “Every bit.”

You eyed a carved beam with a feather pattern etched all along the edge, delicate, detailed, unmistakably done by hand. “God,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re not just a stalker. You’re a perfectionist.”

He laughed, a soft, genuine laugh that curled at the edges. “Takes one to know one. You don’t exactly grow medicine with your eyes closed.”

Fair. But still. “I just… I didn’t think you were like this.”

“Like what?” he raised a brow, that teasing glint back in full force.

“Warm,” you said flatly.

His mouth twitched, almost like it hurt to smile too wide. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You turned your attention back to the birds as they shifted on their branches, ruffling feathers and chirping. The quiet hum of the clearing made you feel small, like everything outside this forest was a bad dream. Or maybe this was.

“Do they know what you are?” you asked suddenly, eyes fixed on the hawk now circling overhead.

Keigo didn’t look away from you. “I think they just know I feed them. Maybe that’s enough.”

You felt your throat tighten. Maybe that’s all it took. To give, to protect, to be soft in silence. You finally looked back up at him. “They love you.”

His jaw flexed. A breath escaped him. “That’s more than I can say for most.”

The words lingered. Hung in the warm air between you like a thread pulled taut. You weren’t sure if he meant the town. Or the elders. Or people. Or… you. But he was still holding your hand. Gently, without thinking, you squeezed it. He blinked, surprised, maybe. And then… he squeezed back. He led you a few more steps forward to a hollowed-out trunk shaped almost like a seat. “Come here.”

You sat without protest, your fingers brushing the mossy wood beneath you. He crouched beside your legs, resting an elbow on his knee, studying your expression like it was another map to read.

“They’re not coming for you again,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him. “How do you know?”

“I’d kill them before they got the chance.”

His tone was calm. Not angry. Not boastful. Just matter-of-fact. Like it was already decided. “…Okay,” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

He reached for your hand again, this time not to guide you. Just to hold. You let him. And for a moment longer, you just sat in the quiet with him. Among the birds. Among the calm. Not apothecary. Not vampire. Just… two people. Safe, for now. He tilted his head toward the trees. “Pretty place to fall in love, huh?” he said softly, like a joke he wasn’t sure you’d let him tell.

And your heart, already cracked wide open, gave the smallest, most terrifying flutter. “Fall in love?”

The words left your mouth before you could catch them, clumsy and too loud in the hush of the clearing. They hung there like smoke, curling up between you both, undeniable and awful. His head turned slightly, eyes narrowing, just a fraction. And for the first time since you’d woken up in his strange wooden world, you felt exposed. Why did you say that?

You looked away instantly, heart in your throat, mouth dry. “Forget it. That was–stupid. I didn’t mean… ” Keigo tilted his head, not saying anything, just watching you unravel. His expression unreadable, unreadably calm. You hated it. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you rushed on, suddenly very interested in the moss between your boots. “You just– You said it first, so I…I was just repeating it, like a question. Not like–”

“Are you done?” You froze. He didn’t sound mad. He just sounded… amused. Which, somehow, was worse . You braved a glance up.

The way he was looking at you, like he could see straight through the frantic scramble of your thoughts, like he liked seeing you like this… It made your stomach twist.

“You always talk this much when you’re flustered?” he asked, his mouth twitching at the corner.

“I’m not flustered,” you lied. Terribly.

He leaned in just a bit, arms resting on his knees again, and it was almost unbearable how close he was without touching you. “No?” His voice dropped, soft and low. “Then why can’t you look at me?”

You were looking at him. Kind of. Sideways. Through the blur of your own internal screaming. Keigo gave a breath of a laugh. “Didn’t mean to scare you, pretty girl. I just meant–” he paused, gaze flicking to your lips for half a second too long before meeting your eyes again–“the forest’s nice. Peaceful. Good for healing. Good for falling into things.”

“Like ditches?” you deadpanned.

His smile cracked wide. “Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his arm lightly. “You’re the worst.”

You sat beside him near the edge of the pond, the sun cutting through the trees in soft golden beams. It was the first time the silence didn’t feel charged… just quiet. Safe. Which was probably why your brain finally decided to catch up and flood with everything you’d been bottling up.

“So,” you started, turning your head to look at him. “Do the birds actually… listen to you? Like, commands and all?”

He glanced sideways, amused. “Some of them. Not all. They’ve got personalities, y’know. Can’t force anyone to obey.”

“Huh.” You frowned thoughtfully. “So they’re like coworkers.”

Keigo chuckled, head tilting back against the tree behind him. “Meaner than coworkers. And messier.”

You let that sit a moment before the next question tumbled out. “Okay, but what about the vampire thing, do you sleep in a coffin?”

His eye twitched. “Seriously?”

“It's a valid question!”

“No, I don’t sleep in a coffin. I sleep in a bed. Like a normal person.”

“Do you burn in the sun?”

“I tan, thank you very much. Just slowly. And I avoid direct sunlight on hot days because it makes me cranky.”

“…Can you turn into a bat?”

He squinted at you. “Why do humans always go there?”

You shrugged, stifling a smile. “Because it’d be cool.”

“I’d rather not shrink into something with a three-inch wingspan, thanks.”

“Fair,” you nodded solemnly. “But would you tell me if you could ?”

“No.”

Another laugh from you, light and breathless. “Do you eat garlic?”

“I don't eat anything.” He leaned toward you, conspiratorially. “But one time I ate an entire garlic clove to prove a point. Started projectile vomiting like crazy afterwards.”

“…Was the point that you have no gag reflex?”

He blinked. Then smirked. “Do you want an answer to that?”

You flushed instantly, swatting at him. “ Keigo! ”

He laughed, genuinely, this time. Loud and real and right from his chest. God, he was infuriating. You turned away, pretending to inspect the pond. “Okay. But how old are you, actually?”

“Old enough to build a house before your great-great-great-grandmother was born.”

You shot him a dry look. “Helpful.”

“What? It’s true.”

You exhaled slowly, your curiosity still rumbling under the surface. You just… scooted a little closer. A small, barely-there gesture. But he noticed. Of course he did. “So uh… you would break in a lot?”

He gave you a slow, amused glance, like he couldn’t quite believe what you’d just asked but also wasn’t surprised in the slightest. “…Define ‘a lot,’” he said, dragging the words out with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Your jaw dropped a little.  “What?” He tilted his head, still lounging lazily against the grass as if you weren’t actively accusing him of multiple crimes. “You left your windows unlocked. That’s practically an invitation.”

“I live alone! I didn’t think someone was gonna sneak in and watch me sleep! ” 

“I wasn’t watching you sleep, ” he said, holding back a laugh.

“You weren’t?” you narrowed your eyes.

He paused. “Okay… I wasn’t always watching you sleep.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

He leaned closer, voice teasing. “You sleep like the dead, by the way. I once knocked over an entire mug and you didn’t even twitch.”

“You knocked over a mug?! Where??”

“In your kitchen.”

“…I remember that,” you muttered, face still buried. “I blamed it on a draft…” Keigo looked far too pleased with himself, watching you with sparkling eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.” 

You gave him a half-hearted glare but couldn’t keep the corners of your mouth from twitching up. “So you just, what? Came and went as you pleased?”

His grin softened, just a touch. “Only when I missed you.”

That shut you up. Not in a bad way, just in a way that left your heart stuttering like a broken metronome. He said it so simply, like it wasn’t strange or unthinkable. Like it wasn’t horrifyingly romantic in a slightly criminal kind of way. “…You’re lucky I’m too tired to unpack that right now,” you said, finally.

“Mm. I’ll take it.” You leaned back on your hands and stared up at the dappled sky. Maybe you were getting comfortable. Maybe that was terrifying. Or maybe, just maybe… it was inevitable.

“Stealing my clothes is weird tho…”

He didn’t even blink. “ Borrowing. ” His tone was flat. Unapologetic. Like you were the one being unreasonable.

You stared at him, mouth open. “ Keigo. You hid them. ”

A beat. Then a shrug. “They smell like you.”

You almost choked. “That’s not helping your case.”

He turned his head, pretending to examine a birdhouse like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You watched him for a moment as he ran his hand along one of the perches, a beautiful grey dove nuzzling into his knuckles. His eyes were soft, somewhere far off, too quiet for the Keigo you were starting to get used to. The sky above had gone pink with the setting sun, and for the first time in what felt like months… things felt still.

You broke the silence. “That ritual the elders tried to use on you… what would’ve happened if they actually went through with it?”

His hand paused. For a beat, the only sound was the gentle flutter of feathers and the rustling trees. Then he glanced at you, something unreadable in his gaze.

“It was doomed from the start,” he said finally, voice low. “Outdated. Weak. Probably copied wrong half a dozen times over the years.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “They didn’t realize what they were dealing with.”

You shivered, not in fear, but something else. Something colder. “So… it wouldn’t have worked.”

“No,” he said. “Not on me.”

You frowned. “Then why were you even there? Why let them get that far?”

He looked at you again. Longer this time. “Because you were there.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Keigo tilted his head back, gaze on the sky. “They didn’t know that the minute they touched you… it was already over.” Your heart thudded. His next words were softer. “I would’ve leveled the entire mountain to keep them from hurting you.”

“…You sort of did.”

He gave a dark little chuckle. “Not even close.”

You weren’t sure if that was a warning or a promise. “Im really not gunna see anyone but you for the rest of my life?” Keigo didn’t answer right away. You’d asked it half-jokingly, trying to mask the gnawing ache beneath the words with a crooked smile. But he just stood there, still crouched near the dove, running one knuckle under its chin. His silence made your stomach twist.

Then he looked up at you. Golden eyes half-lidded. A smile curling the corner of his lips, one of those soft, dangerous ones. The kind that looked gentle until you really paid attention. “Well…” he started, rising to full height with deliberate ease. “You’ll have the birds.” You blinked. “And me,” he added, eyes never leaving your face.

You swallowed. “So… that’s a yes?”

He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out why you were even asking. “I mean, what more do you need?” His voice was light, almost teasing. “You’ve got food, shelter, your tea, your clothes, your books. And me.”

“You already said you twice.”

“That’s because I’m the most important part.” His tone dipped warmer, but something sharp hid beneath it, like thorns behind silk. “You really want to see other people after what they did to you?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. His expression softened just a fraction. He stepped even closer, fingertips brushing your wrist.

“I’m not saying forever,” he murmured, though the gleam in his eyes said otherwise. “But for now… I’ll keep you safe. And warm. And breathing.”

You shivered, not from cold. It was the way he said breathing , like it was a promise. Or maybe a threat.

“…And if I want more?” you asked quietly.

His smile widened, slow and dark like ink spreading through water. “Then I’ll give you more.”

He moved without a sound, until the space between you was gone. You felt him before you saw him. The quiet heat of his body at your side. The steady presence of him anchoring you to the moment. Then he leaned in. Not dramatic. Not predatory. Just… close. His head dipped, nose brushing your hair as he settled his chin lightly on your shoulder. The weight of it was real, grounding. He didn’t speak, didn’t sigh, just breathed with you. Warmth radiated through the thin fabric of your tunic where his chest touched your back.

You were still. Still with confusion. Still with exhaustion. Still with him. Your eyes scanned the garden, the sky, the trees. Everything felt distant. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you whispered. He didn’t answer. Just nudged a little closer, shoulder to shoulder, his temple brushing the side of your head. One of his hands came to rest near yours on your lap, close, but not touching. “I had a life,” you said quietly. “Plans. People. A future.”

Keigo was silent. And then, barely audible…  “None of that protected you.” You closed your eyes. His breath stirred your hair. “You can hate me,” he murmured. “You can scream. Leave. Try. But right now… just let me stay like this.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because in that moment, with the forest so still and your life shattered around you, you couldn’t tell what hurt more… What you’d lost or what you were starting to feel.

His voice was low against your shoulder, soft enough to feel more than hear, like a thought that wasn’t quite yours. “Marriage is important, no?”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because what the hell kind of question was that?

“I mean,” he continued slowly, as if testing each word before committing to it, “I’ve heard it’s about union. Trust. Permanence. That whole 'til death' part.” He gave a faint exhale, barely a chuckle. “I guess that part gets a little complicated in my case.”

You finally turned your head, just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His face was unreadable, half in shadow, golden eyes fixed on something far away. But he was too close not to feel the shift in him… something pressing under the surface. “You’ve been thinking about marriage?” you asked, carefully.

He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head slightly, cheek brushing yours in the smallest movement. “I’ve been thinking about keeping you,” he said instead.

Your heart lurched. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice deepened, lips just by your ear now. “You live. I protect. You stay. I provide. We wake up together. Breathe together. It’s not a ceremony I want.” His hand finally lifted, lightly brushing your knuckles. “It’s the promise.”

You stared forward, mouth dry, unsure if you should be terrified or… or something else.

“…You never asked me,” you whispered.

His nose grazed your temple. “Didn’t think I had to.”

And that, more than anything, made your stomach twist. The air between you had shifted again, warmer now, charged with something you couldn't name. Keigo’s thumb was still brushing circles over your knuckles, his body angled just barely toward yours. You stood together near the pond, framed by flowers and soft light, the quiet hum of summer night around you.

When his eyes dropped to your mouth, your breath hitched. You didn't pull away. You didn’t move at all. His hand came up, knuckles grazing your cheek as his face tilted slightly, the closeness overwhelming. He didn’t blink, didn’t speak, just stared at you like you were the only thing left on earth. You knew what was about to happen. And gods, you wanted it.

He leaned in… so achingly slow… and just as your lips nearly brushed… 

SQUAAAAWK! 

A violent flapping of wings exploded behind you, followed by another squawk that echoed loud and shrill through the trees. You startled, a sharp breath escaping you as Keigo instinctively caught your waist to steady you. One of his hawks had landed on a low tree branch just a few feet away, flaring its wings in what looked like pure offense .

The moment shattered like glass. Keigo didn’t even flinch. He just stared blankly at the bird, then back at you.

“…Unbelievable.”

You blinked, dazed, then laughed.  The hawk ruffled its feathers indignantly and squawked again. Keigo dragged a hand down his face.  You were trying so hard not to laugh, but it was impossible with the way he looked, like he’d just been robbed of a national treasure.

“She’s just looking out for you.”

“She’s possessive,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. “Figures. Only woman I’ve ever let get close to me and she turns into a territorial nightmare.”

Your grin widened. “Sounds familiar.”

He arched a brow at you but didn’t deny it. You reached for the flowers beside the path again, trying to hide the way your cheeks were burning. Keigo didn’t press it. He just stayed close, gaze lingering on your profile.

“Next time,” he said under his breath, “I’m making sure we’re alone. Really alone.”

Chapter Text

The next morning came slow, golden, and surreal. You woke to the scent of earth and smoke, of something faintly sweet steeping near the fire. The bed beneath you was rough-hewn but soft where it counted, layered with pelts and linen and the occasional feather. No chains. No elders. No smoke or screams or dreams filled with blood. Just birdsong, distant and real. And Keigo.

You stretched slowly, muscles aching from sleep you hadn’t expected to find. The spot beside you was empty, but still warm. Through the small square window, beams of sunlight poured into the handmade room, catching in the fine particles of dust and drifting feathers. A kettle hissed somewhere near the hearth. You swung your legs off the bed, toes brushing the fur rug beneath them, and took your time. You weren’t sure what you were anymore. Not an apothecary. Not a prisoner. Something between a kept secret and a sacred guest.

You found Keigo outside, crouched near a low platform of wood with seed and scraps scattered about it. He looked… content. Eyes focused, posture relaxed as a small hawk hopped onto his gloved arm.

“You’re up,” he said without turning, as if he’d heard your steps before you’d even taken them. “Sleep okay?”

You nodded, arms crossed over the shawl you’d wrapped around your shoulders. “I dreamed of nothing.”

“Good.” He looked at you now, and smiled faintly. “That means you’re starting to heal.”

You didn’t reply. Just watched him in the morning light, surrounded by birds who seemed to trust him more than any human ever had. You wondered if this was what he’d always looked like when no one was watching, calm, sure, unburdened by the world. You wondered if this was who you had to become now. Someone like this. Hidden. Wild. And maybe… a little bit his.

“Hungry?” he asked. You nodded. He stood and held out his hand. “Come on. You live here now.”

And somehow, you didn’t argue. He led you back inside with a warm hand against the small of your back, guiding, not forcing. The shift from the morning breeze to the cabin’s earthy interior made your skin prickle with the sudden change in temperature. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and he moved with quiet purpose toward the low kitchen space he’d built with his own hands.

It really was all wood. Everything. The shelves, the counter, the cups, he must’ve carved them all himself, with time and patience you hadn’t expected from someone so… volatile. You sat down at the table as he opened a small wooden crate and started pulling things out, root vegetables, herbs you recognized instantly, and a jar of something that shimmered with golden oil. You blinked at the familiarity of it.

“You cook a lot?” you asked hesitantly, voice still hoarse from sleep, or maybe memory.

He gave you a sideways glance as he brought out a pot. “Not for me.”

Right. You folded your hands in your lap. He didn’t eat. At least not like this. “You really don’t have to…”

“I told you I’d provide for you,” he said flatly, not looking up.

The sound of the pot meeting the surface shut you up quick. His tone wasn’t cruel, but firm. Like this was one of the only things he was absolutely certain of. His way of taking care of you. You watched as he chopped with quick, sharp movements, hands surprisingly delicate with the herbs you’d used your whole life. The scent of rosemary and onion filled the air. You hated how your stomach growled, and how he smiled faintly at the sound.

“I remember you mentioning you liked things a bit bitter,” he said casually, not glancing up.

You blinked. “I don't think I ever told you that...”

He shrugged. “Hmmm… really huh….”

You leaned your cheek against your palm, watching him move like this was the most normal thing in the world, cooking breakfast for the girl he’d quite literally stolen from the stake. There were still bloodstains in the corners of your memory, but they felt distant now. Fading. “…You really built all of this?” you murmured after a long pause, eyes trailing the beams above.

His shoulders rose and fell. “Every piece. Took a while. But I was patient.”

You didn’t respond. Because really… what could you say to that?

He finished plating in silence, nothing fancy, just roasted roots, warm spiced broth, and a slice of flatbread that smelled faintly of herbs. The kind of meal you would’ve made for a sick neighbor back in the village. He set the bowl down in front of you with gentle fingers, then moved to the shelf to retrieve a clay jug of water. You noticed how carefully he poured, like he’d never done this before. Like he enjoyed doing this for you.

He didn’t sit. He never did. Instead, he stood across from you, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression that flickered somewhere between fascination and control.  You stared down at the food. Steam curled up toward your face, warming your cheeks. Your stomach twisted, not from hunger this time, but guilt. You’d never liked being taken care of. Never asked for it. You were always the one healing, fixing, doing .

“…You didn’t have to do all this,” you said, voice low.

“I know,” he replied.

You lifted the spoon slowly. The broth touched your lips, rich, earthy, and perfectly salted. Of course it was. Of course he knew exactly what you'd need. A moment passed. You didn’t realize how long you’d been sitting there without saying anything until he tilted his head.

“You feel guilty,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

You pushed the spoon around the bowl a little, not really looking at him. “I’ve just never been… this kind of person. Letting someone else handle everything.”

“I’m not someone else ,” he said simply.

That made you look up. His voice hadn’t changed, but the words lingered in the air longer than they should’ve. You took another bite to avoid responding, warmth slowly blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the food. He watched every movement like it mattered. Like you mattered. And maybe, for the first time… you didn’t hate the feeling.

The days passed like breath, quiet, instinctual, and inevitable.

You woke up in the mornings tangled in warmth that wasn’t yours, his arms draped loosely around your waist like he didn’t even realize he was holding you. You did. Every time. And every time you groaned, muttered a half-hearted, “ Off, ” and shoved him away with your heel.

He always grumbled, dramatic and smug. “Heartless,” he’d mumble, face buried in your hair. “Cold woman. Ungrateful.” And yet he never stopped wrapping around you like ivy every night.

You’d eat. He’d watch. He always did, elbows propped on the table, chin in his palm, those unblinking golden eyes studying you like you were the sunrise. When you scolded him for staring, he’d just smile like a man who already had everything he’d ever wanted.

“I like watching you live,” he said once, shrugging. “Better than any storybook.”

You didn’t respond to that. You couldn’t. Instead, you busied your hands, something to plant, something to feed. He taught you how to tend to the birds: how to call the timid ones, how to hold the proud ones. You learned quickly. There was something therapeutic about it, about holding something small and alive and trusting in your palms.

He stood behind you often, adjusting your grip without saying a word, his breath warm near your neck. “Gentle,” he’d murmur. “They’re creatures of instinct. They only stay where they feel safe.” You didn’t know if he meant the birds or you.

 By the third or fourth day, you had started a new garden, right outside the cabin. The soil wasn’t perfect, but you were stubborn. You knelt in the dirt with your sleeves rolled up, fingers blackened, sweat dotting your temples. He offered to help once. You told him no, so he sat under the tree instead, watching. Always watching. Sometimes humming. And sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, and the birds quieted, and the sun hung low in the trees, you forgot the village. You forgot the chains, the fire, the blood. You remembered how to be. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Which is what made it dangerous.

It’s weird. Sleeping in a bed with another person. Even weirder living with one.

You were used to silence, solitude, the gentle clatter of your own tools, the rustling of herbs, the steady cadence of your breath. Your own rhythm. Your own space. The quiet you built for yourself brick by brick after the world took so much from you. And now… Now there was him. His presence filled the space like smoke, soft but inescapable. You couldn’t move without noticing the faint scent he left on the blankets, the warm dent on the mattress where he curled around you, the way the floor creaked differently when he walked through the cabin.

You knew, rationally , you should feel like a prisoner. But he was so… so… Gentle. Attentive. Warm. It made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t explain. He didn’t lock doors or chain your wrists. He didn’t ask for thanks or praise. He just existed beside you, watchful and quiet, bringing you water when you forgot to drink, wrapping a cloak around your shoulders when the breeze turned cold, murmuring your name like a prayer when he thought you were asleep.

You were supposed to hate this. But you didn’t. Not yet. And that terrified you.

✧

You lay awake long after he fell asleep. His breathing was steady against your neck, one arm flung over your waist like he had no intention of letting go even in sleep. You could feel the weight of him behind you, heavy, unyielding, like stone warmed by the sun. And yet, your mind raced.

What was this? What did it mean to share a bed with something like him ? He wasn’t just a man. You couldn’t keep pretending that. You had the books. The marks. The truths you’d ignored. He was older than anything you’d known. Stronger than you’d ever be.

And yet, he touched you like you were fragile. Was this… was this part of it? The bond? The old tales spoke of it, how vampires could imprint, how the connection was unshakable once formed. A chosen one. A mate. Was that what you were to him? Had he picked you the moment he saw you in that garden, dirt under your nails, sun on your face?

You remembered the hawk, the way it clawed at the plant, almost guiding you. The single red rose. The blood he wore like perfume the night you first met. Was all of it a ritual? A slow, quiet claiming? And what did you want?

You swallowed hard, staring at the wooden beams above you. He shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring something low, something tender, and you felt his nose brush the back of your neck. It wasn’t fear that stirred in your chest. “Thinking again, pretty girl?”

His voice was low, rough with sleep and something deeper. It rumbled through his chest where it pressed against your back, and you flinched slightly, caught. You didn’t answer right away.

“Hmm,” he hummed lazily, arms tightening around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You only go that quiet when you’re overthinking something.”

“I’m not–”