Corin caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
It hung crooked on the far wall, framed in twisted wood and spider-cracked glass. The kind of mirror the village warned against—bad luck, they said. A curse for those who looked too long. He'd learned not to.
But now, alone in the house, he couldn't look away.
His reflection stared back, unfamiliar and strange.
Dingy hair, long and tangled, but beautiful in its own way—obsidian black streaked with white like frost through coal. His face was pale, hollowed by hunger and sleepless nights. But it was his eyes that held him.
Mismatched.
One pale silver, cold and distant. The other a soft, stunning gold, like sunlight through fog.
He leaned closer.
'Is this what they saw when they called me a monster?'
He didn't feel monstrous. He felt tired. He felt like a question no one wanted to answer.
The woman had left moments ago, saying she'd fetch water so he could wash. Her voice had been calm, but her eyes had lingered—watchful, unreadable.
Now he was alone.
The house creaked softly, as if breathing. The fire had dimmed. Shadows stretched across the floor like reaching fingers.
Corin stood, quilt falling away, and walked slowly around the room.
Shelves lined the walls—jars of dried herbs, bundles of feathers, bones carved with runes. A small table held a bowl of smooth stones and a knife with a handle made of antler. The air smelled of smoke and something older, something wild.
He touched one of the carved bones. It was warm.
A book lay open on the table, its pages filled with symbols he didn't recognize. Not letters. Not drawings. More like maps of thought—lines that twisted and folded like the forest itself.
He turned a page.
A sketch. A figure. Tall, antlered, eyes glowing faintly.
He stepped back.
'I've seen this before.'
Not in dreams. Not in stories. In the woods.
The fire popped. The mirror flickered.
And outside, the wind began to whisper.
—
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Corin jumped, heart hammering, eyes wide. The quiet shattered like glass. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, breath caught in his throat.
The woman stepped in, arms full of a wooden basin sloshing with water. Her cloak was damp, her silver braid clinging to her shoulder. She moved quickly, setting the basin down near the fire, steam rising in soft curls.
"Didn't mean to startle you," she said, not looking up.
Corin didn't answer. He watched her, still tense, still unsure.
She knelt beside him, dipped a cloth into the basin, and wrung it out with practiced hands. Then, gently, she reached for his hair.
He flinched.
She paused. "May I?"
Corin nodded, barely.
Her fingers were warm. Careful. She worked through the tangles with quiet patience, the cloth moving in slow circles. The scent of herbs filled the air—lavender, pine, something older.
"You've got streaks," she murmured, half to herself. "White through black. Like something survived the fire."
Corin didn't know what to say. No one had ever touched his hair like this. Not since before the mark. Not since before the silence.
She rinsed the cloth, started again.
"You've been running," she said. "The Hollow doesn't mind that. But it notices."
Corin looked at her. "Who are you?"
She smiled, faint and tired. "Call me Maer."
He let the name settle.
Maer.
It felt like bark and wind and memory.
She finished rinsing his hair, then wrapped it in a soft cloth. "You're not the first to come through here. But you're the first the forest didn't spit back."
Corin blinked, unsure if he'd heard her right.
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. Spit back? What did that mean? He felt the urge to ask, but something in her tone—something quiet and final—made him hesitate.
Instead, he looked down at his mismatched hands, the silver and gold glinting faintly in the firelight.
'What am I doing here?'
Maer stood and poured the rest of the water into the fire. Steam hissed upward.
"You're not here to die," she said. "You're here to remember."
Corin didn't respond. He didn't understand.
But the way the fire dimmed, the way the mirror flickered, the way the house seemed to breathe—
It felt like something had already begun.