"I'm not following you," Emila said defensively the moment Lucien turned with that familiar I'm about to give you a lecture look. The one Maura always gave her whenever she made questionable life decisions.
She could already hear his sermon: Don't follow strange men into the forest. Or anywhere, for that matter.
The Whirwood was wrapped in its usual eerie peace, the air tinged with cold that nipped at her nose. Last night's rain had left the earth damp, slick. Above, the stars blinked lazily, a bored witness watching her life unfold. Beans padded behind her in perfect silence. Goldie, more spirited, chased a fat toad a few steps ahead.
"This afternoon, I left my rucksack in your enchanted passage," she added when Lucien merely raised a skeptical brow.
"Careful on that root," he said, nodding toward the thick gnarled thing poking out of the ground. "We don't need another face-planting incident."
Em did not, in fact, see the root until he pointed it out. She hopped over it with an exaggerated grace.
They walked in silence for a while, only the occasional squelch of mud underfoot and the distant sound of Goldie's triumphant meows.
"Lucien," she called, tipping her head back to stare at the stars. "How old are you?"
According to the whispers in Gladeport, stories passed around stalls and bar counters, faes are ancient, deathless. Some, older than the trees. Maybe even older than the Whirwood or the village itself.
"You don't need to know," he replied, turning down a narrower path that curved toward the secret passage. "But go ahead. Guess."
"Hmm. You look like you're in your thirties. But since you're fae… Five thousand?"
Lucien stopped so abruptly she almost bumped into him. He turned, scandalized. "Five thousand? Do I look like I'm crumbling to dust?"
"A little," she said cheerfully. "You have that ancient soul air in you. Like you yourself created the universe. You sneezed and—poof!—the stars appeared."
"If I did create the universe, then clearly I made a mistake letting a mushroom-gathering raccoon slip through the cracks."
"Ah. I'm the glitch in your divine plan," she said, crouching down to pick up an acorn and pocketed it. "A speck of sparkly dust that snuck into your universe. The kind that shimmers when the light hits just right."
Lucien stared at her, unreadable, like she was some strange artifact he couldn't decide whether to preserve or bury.
"That was almost poetic. Who have you been stealing your metaphors from, huh?"
Em beamed and skipped over another root with newfound grace. "From my book."
"The one you read upside down?"
"No, not that one. It doesn't have words. Just doodles and shapes. Found it in an alley beside a dead rat. Want to borrow it?"
"Gods, no. Don't even bring that thing near my house." He shook his head. "Sparkly dust. More like a soot."
They reached the passage. The vines, as if sensing Lucien's presence, rustled and parted slightly. Earlier that morning, Em had checked the other end. Still a solid wall. No way through.
She reached for her satchel and pulled out a lumpy candle, crafted from wax scraps she'd scavenged in Gladeport, and her trusty box of matches. With a quick flick and a small flame, the passage dimly lit up. There, in the corner, half-buried under rock and dried twigs, was her rucksack, exactly where she left it.
"Good night, Lucien," she called to his retreating back. "Thanks for the meal."
He paused and turned, brow furrowing as she pulled a moth-eaten blanket from her bag, along with a cloth and a roll of bundled rags for her pillows.
"Are you… going to sleep here?"
She looked up, casual as anything. "Yes."
He raised an eyebrow. "Here? In this mossy snake alley?"
"It has walls. A roof—"
"Snakes. Scorpions. Centipedes."
"I'm fine," she said, smoothing the blanket on the hard ground. "I have my guards." She nodded at the cats.
"Don't you have a house? Or a room in Gladeport?"
"House?" she scoffed. "I used to. Until they… you know. Kicked me out." Kick was putting it kindly. One moment she had a roof, four walls. The next, she was on the street, a bandage wrapped around her tiny hand, clutching a pouch of coppers, watching the wagon drive off with rolls of silken cloths, crates of liquor, sacks of sweet potatoes—and two people who once called themselves her masters.
"Why?"
"I can't remember exactly," she said, scratching the scar on her palm. "I think they said I brought home too many weird things from the forest."
"And the room?"
She flopped back dramatically onto her rolled-up rags. "Do you know how much a room costs in Gladeport? One gold. Minimum. And that's for a glorified cupboard. Noisy. No windows. Too many holes where eyes peep in at midnight."
She shivered at the memory. One eye, staring down from a crack in the ceiling while she counted coins.
"I'd rather be out here. In the forest. The wind's cool, it's quiet, and there are definitely no peeping toms."
"Except for the snakes. And the giant wasps. And gods, I think there's a wyvern nesting nearby."
She waved a dismissive hand. "I'll be fine. I've done this plenty of times before and yet, here I am."
But just then, her candle flickered. A small breeze snuffed it out.
She blinked at it, betrayed. She reached for a match, but before she could strike it, Lucien waved his hand and re-lit the flame.
She squinted at him. "That's nice. What else can your magic do? Can you… make the trees talk?"
"I can also make them throw you off the continent."
She laughed, picturing herself being chucked from Whirwood to who-knows-where. He was joking… right?
Lucien lingered for a moment, like he had another lecture queued up. But all he said was, "Not my damned problem," before parting the vines with a lazy flick of his fingers.
And just like that, he was gone.
She scoffed. Oh, to be born tall and magical. The things she could do. But alas, she was fated to be an alley rat with soap scraps, cats, and a moth-eaten blanket.
Carefully, she lay on the cold ground. The cats settled beside her, ears twitching, whiskers flicking. She patted her pouch of silver and reached out to stroke Goldie's fluffy tail.
"I'll buy you some fish tomorrow, okay? Don't leave me tonight," she whispered, like always.
Beans shifted closer, purring, as if to say, I won't. I never will.
Goldie, of course, hissed. Make sure it's fresh, human.
Em smiled. A soft, sleepy thing.
They had survived another day.
-----------------
Lucien walked away from the passage with steady steps and a tight jaw.
She'll be fine. The girl looked like she'd been fighting for her life long before she ever stumbled into his woods. Tough, chaotic, loud. Not his responsibility.
The forest was eerily quiet as he made his way back to the cottage, not that he was paying much attention to it. His mind, however, had other plans. That image of her—those wide, tired eyes—kept popping up, and he loathed it. Not her eyes, no. But the way it made him feel. That he hated.
It was ridiculous. He didn't care. So why did it gnaw at him?
Whatever. It was nothing. She was nothing. He'd forget about it... eventually.
Inside, he lit the lamps. A soft golden glow filled the room. He stirred stew over the fire, the scent of herbs and meat rising into the air. He prepped the bath. He reached for a bottle of shampoo on the shelf and paused.
A piece of parchment fluttered gently from its side.
It was taped there, crookedly, her tiny, squiggly handwriting scrawled across the page.
Thank you, Lushon.
The name was scribbled out. Then written again wrong. Then again. Then finally:
Lucien (I think this is right?)
Below it, a doodle of his face. One big eye, one swirly. A line across a cheek—his scar. A little flower sticking out of his hair.
He stared. And remembered what she said that morning, her voice light but shaky:
"There's no right or wrong in doodling. No one will hurt me or burn my palm if I mess up."
Something inside him coiled at that. Tight and bitter. She was human. Weak. Untrained. Ridiculous. But there was something innocent in her mess. And far too much pain behind her eyes for someone who smiled like that.
He could no longer count, but Lucien dragged a palm down his face again.
"This girl poisoned my tea," he muttered.
Because why else was he now gathering extra pillows and a blanket, muttering to himself as he arranged it into a makeshift cot at the foot of his bed?
He left the warmth of the cottage, crossing the woods in long, silent strides. The night wind bit at his skin, but he moved faster.
The passage was still. Quiet. Candlelight flickered at the far end.
She was asleep, curled up on the cold ground. Goldie and Beans sat beside her like tiny sentries, eyes glowing, unmoving. Like they'd done this a hundred times, guarding their fragile human.
Lucien crouched beside her, one knee pressed to the ground. He reached out and gently shook her shoulder.
Her eyes blinked open. Confused and then shocked.
"I made stew," he said gruffly. "Cooked too much. Your cats can have it."
Before she could get a word in, he'd already tucked Goldie under one arm, Beans under the other, and slung her rucksack over his shoulder. The bag—maybe everything she owned—clattered noisily against his back.
Emila blinked up at him, mouth open.
Lucien didn't look back. "Come on," he said. "Before I regret this."
Because he would. Probably. Definitely.