Ochar was already moving far away from everyone staying in his house since his encounter with his reflection but the town was quiet after the investigation.
Days passed, but the silence did not lift — it thickened.
The mist remained, and so did the unease. The people of Elowen avoided the river now, and even the bells of the chapel seemed reluctant to ring.
In a narrow house near the eastern square, Ochar sat alone.
The shutters were closed. The candles had burned down to wax puddles.
He had not eaten in two days.
And though his heart beat faintly, each throb sounded like the tick of a clock running out.
The Return to the Canvas
He sat before an empty canvas.
The brush trembled in his hand — a hand no longer purely human.
He had promised himself not to paint again until the whispers in his blood were still.
But silence never came.
So he painted.
Slow, careful strokes at first.
The shape of a river. The curve of a face he could not name.
Then, as though guided by something unseen, his brush began to move faster.
Colors blended — crimson, shadow, gold.
A figure began to appear on the canvas: a woman with eyes of stormlight and lips pale as frost.
When he realized who it was, he froze.
Isla.
His hand fell limp, and the air around him grew thick.
The smell of iron filled his nostrils. His teeth ached. His throat burned.
The hunger had returned and it was better to let go.
The Hunger
It began as a whisper.
A pulse at the back of his mind, steady as breath.
Then came the tremor — his veins flaring black for a moment beneath the skin. His eyes flickered gold.
He stumbled to his feet, gripping the wall for balance.
"No," he muttered, his voice shaking. "Not yet."
But his body disagreed.
The curse demanded its price.
He could feel the beast coiling inside him — the ancient thing that woke once every week, the creature bound to blood and darkness.
He needed it.
If he did not drink soon, the transformation would come early — wild, uncontrolled.
The Knock
Then came the sound.
A gentle knock at the door.
Once. Twice.
Ochar froze.
Through the crack in the wood, the scent reached him — human warmth, living breath, the faint trace of lavender.
He knew that scent.
It was Isla.
And beside her — a smaller heartbeat. Johnny.
"Ochar?" Isla's voice, soft, unsure. "We brought you something. You've been alone for days and had refused to come see us ."
He didn't answer.
His pulse pounded in his ears like drums.
Another knock.
This time Johnny spoke.
"Mama said you don't come out anymore. Are you sick, Mister?"
Ochar pressed his back to the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight.
He could smell the boy's blood — bright, young, alive.
He bit his lip until he tasted his own. It wasn't enough.
The candle beside him flickered violently, bending toward the door as though pulled by hunger.
"Please go," Ochar whispered under his breath. "Not now."
But Isla heard nothing.
"Mr. Ochar? We'll leave the basket by your door."it took some minutes to revover but he finally did
He turned to the painting again.
His hunger seemed to control him.
Drink, my child.
You cannot love them if you die.
He grabbed the brush and hurled it against the wall in anger.
Paint splattered across the floor — deep red, almost like blood.
His reflection in the darkened glass shifted. His face warped. Fangs glimmered faintly at the corners of his mouth.
He could hear Johnny's heartbeat still, clear as a drum on the other side of the door.
The beast whispered:
"Just one sip. Only once. You will live."
He took a step forward. Then another.
But as his hand reached the latch — he stopped.
Through the door came the sound of Isla's laughter, soft and tired.
It wasn't mocking. It wasn't afraid. It was kind.
"Come on, Johnny," she said gently. "Let him rest."
Their footsteps faded.
The moment broke.
Ochar fell to his knees, trembling, eyes burning with tears he hadn't shed in years.
"I will not be your slave," he whispered.
"Not again."
.....
When he opened the door an hour later, the mist had returned.
At his feet sat a small basket — bread, apples, and a bottle of red wine.
A folded note lay on top.
He picked it up, his hands still shaking.
"For strength and company," it read in Isla's delicate handwriting.
"The town is cold these days. Don't let it swallow you too."
He stood there for a long time, staring at the words.
Then, for the first time in years, Ochar smiled.
Faintly. Sadly.
He carried the basket inside.
The beast inside him growled in protest, hungry and waiting.
But Ochar ignored it.
For tonight, he would not drink.
He would endure.
Yet as he turned away, the candlelight flickered — and for a moment, the shadow on the wall was not his own.
It was taller. Horned. Smiling.
And from far beneath the floorboards, faint as a breath, came a whisper that he didn't understand .