A week passed.
Corin had settled in. The forest still whispered, but it no longer felt like it was whispering about him. He'd cut his hair short—roughly, with Maer's old shears—watching the long black strands fall to the floor like shed history. The white streaks were gone now. He told himself it was a start.
Maer didn't press. She was kind, in her quiet way. She gave him space, let him sleep, let him wander. She spoke when needed, and when not, she simply existed nearby—like the trees, like the fire.
Corin had grown comfortable.
He knew the creaks of the house. The rhythm of the kettle. The way the light shifted through the round windows. He'd even begun to hum again, soft and tuneless, when he thought no one was listening.
So when the door opened, he didn't flinch.
He turned, expecting Maer, already halfway to greeting her.
"Hey—"
It wasn't Maer.
The figure who stepped inside was taller. Broader. Cloaked in something dark and unfamiliar. The hood was up, shadowing the face, but the posture was wrong—too still, too deliberate.
Corin froze.
The figure didn't speak. Didn't move.
Something in Corin's chest snapped tight.
He panicked.
His hand shot out, grabbed the antler-handled knife from the table. He held it awkwardly, blade trembling, breath shallow.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The figure stepped forward, slow and silent.
Corin backed away, heart pounding, eyes darting to the door, the fire, the mirror.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
The figure stopped.
And then, finally, it spoke.
"I was here before you were born," the figure said.
Corin's grip tightened on the antler-handled knife. His breath came fast, shallow. The fire flickered low, casting long shadows across the walls.
"You're the spirit," he said, voice cracking. "The one they sacrifice to."
The figure tilted his head, amused. "That's what they call me."
Corin took a step back. "You're the reason they sent me."
The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "No. They sent you to silence what they feared. Not to feed me."
Corin's heart pounded. "Then what are you?"
The figure reached up, pulled back his hood.
His face was carved from something older than flesh—lines like bark, eyes like pale gold fire. Not human. Not beast. Not Hollow.
"I am Veyr," he said. "The god they buried beneath their stories."
Corin's knees nearly buckled.
Veyr's gaze didn't waver. "They called me a spirit to make me small. A monster to make me distant. A curse to make me forget."
Corin shook his head. "You're not supposed to be real."
Veyr stepped closer, and the fire dimmed to embers.
"I was real before they learned to lie."
Corin's hand trembled. The knife felt useless now—like a child's toy held against a storm.