The girl didn't sleep long.
By morning, she was awake, sitting up in Caelen's bed, her green eyes scanning the cottage like a hawk's. Her fear had dulled to a low hum, but it still prickled Caelen's skin, a needle he couldn't pull out. He stood by the hearth, stirring a pot of barley porridge, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze.
"You're still here," she said, her voice rough, like she hadn't spoken in days. "Why?"
He glanced over, spoon pausing. "It's my house."
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You know what I mean. You could've left me in the woods. Or turned me over to the village. Safer that way."
Caelen set the spoon down, wiping his hands on his tunic. "Safe's not the same as right. You needed help. Still do."
She looked away, her hands knotting the blanket. "You don't even know my name."
"Then tell me," he said, keeping his tone soft, like coaxing a deer from the brush.
She hesitated, then exhaled. "Elira."
"Elira," he repeated, letting the name settle. It felt like a spark, bright and fleeting. "I'm Caelen. Welcome to Hearthollow. Such as it is."
She didn't respond, her eyes fixed on the fire. Her pain shifted—not fading but deepening, like a river carving stone. Caelen felt it—grief, sharp and old, tangled with guilt. He wanted to ask, to unravel her story, but the curse warned him off. Push too hard, and she'd break. Or he would.
He ladled porridge into a bowl and set it beside her. "Eat. You're no good to anyone half-dead."
She took the bowl, her movements slow, like she was testing the world's kindness.
"You're strange," she said after a bite. "Most people don't care about strangers. Especially not ones who bring trouble."
"Trouble's already here," Caelen said, thinking of the distant pain he'd felt two nights ago, the ash on the wind. "You're just the first to admit it."
Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and searching. For a moment, he thought she'd speak, but she only ate in silence. Caelen busied himself cleaning, giving her space. The village woke outside—children laughing, cartwheels creaking—but Elira's presence was a shadow, dimming the ordinary.
Midday brought a knock. Marren, the blacksmith, stood at the door, his face grim.
"Caelen, we've got trouble. Out in the woods. Something's… wrong."
Caelen's gut tightened. Elira's fear spiked, a jolt through his chest.
"What kind of wrong?" he asked.
Marren glanced at Elira, then back to Caelen. "Tracks. Big ones. Not wolf, not bear. And the trees—scorched, like fire walked through. The hunters are spooked."
Caelen nodded, grabbing his cloak. "I'll check it out."
He turned to Elira. "Stay here. Lock the door."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded, her eyes saying what her voice didn't: Be careful.
The woods beyond Hearthollow were dense, oak and pine weaving a green cathedral. Caelen followed Marren and two hunters, their unease a low buzz in his veins. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of char.
They found the tracks near a clearing—clawed, deep, each print the size of a man's chest. The ground around them was black, grass burned to ash.
"Gods," one hunter whispered. "What makes marks like that?"
Caelen knelt, touching the scorched earth. A pulse of pain hit him—not his, not the hunters', but something else. Hungry. Ancient. It wasn't human, wasn't even alive in the way he knew.
His hand jerked back, heart pounding.
"Caelen?" Marren's voice was sharp. "You alright?"
"No," he said, standing. "We need to leave. Now."
Too late.
The air shimmered, and a shape emerged from the trees—a creature of shadow and flame, its body a mockery of a wolf, eyes like dying coals. Its presence was a scream in Caelen's mind, a void that devoured feeling. The hunters froze, weapons useless.
Caelen didn't think. He grabbed a fallen branch, stepping between the creature and the others.
"Run!" he shouted, swinging the branch like a torch.
The creature lunged, claws raking the air, and Caelen felt its hunger—a cold so deep it burned.
He didn't know how he survived. The branch caught fire, driving the beast back, and the hunters' arrows finally found their mark. The creature dissolved into ash, leaving only silence.
But as Caelen stood, panting, he knew one truth:
This was no stray beast.
It was a warning.
And Elira knew more than she'd told.