The walk back from Oakhaven felt longer than usual, the weight of the seedlings in her basket a tangible reminder of the morning's labors. The image of the grey-haired huntress—all sharp angles and sharper demeanor—refused to leave Celestine's mind. It was like a thorn caught in the wool of her thoughts, snagging every time she tried to focus on the simple, soothing rhythm of her footsteps.
Reaching her cottage, the sight of the ravaged garden reignited a fresh wave of annoyance. The neat pile of compost-ready lavender was a sad little monument to the previous night's chaos.
"Honestly," she muttered to the empty clearing, setting her basket down with a thump. "The sheer audacity of some creatures. Wandering into a private garden, bleeding all over the place without a by-your-leave." She picked up her trowel, jabbing it into the earth with more force than was strictly necessary. "Cursed beast. I hope it's having a perfectly miserable day, nursing its wounds and feeling thoroughly ashamed of itself."
The work of replanting was a quiet, dirty solace. She dug new holes, her movements precise and practiced, gently settling the fragile lavender seedlings into their new homes. With each plant, she murmured a quiet blessing, a fragment of an old, almost-forgotten tongue that encouraged roots to take hold and stems to grow strong. The physical act of nurturing, of restoring order, slowly began to smooth the frayed edges of her nerves. By the time the last seedling was patted firmly into place and watered, the sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the sky in shades of violet and rose.
The cottage, once again, felt like a sanctuary. She had mended the fence, restored the garden, and reaffirmed the boundaries of her peaceful world. The unsettling encounter in the guild hall began to feel distant, a strange ripple on a pond that was now calming.
Inside, she lit a single candle and built up the fire in the hearth, the crackling flames pushing back the encroaching dusk. The simple ritual of preparing dinner was the final balm. She peeled potatoes and carrots, adding them to a pot of broth along with herbs from her window box—thyme, rosemary, a bay leaf. The humble stew began to simmer, filling the cottage with a savory, domestic scent that steadfastly refused any association with wild beasts or dangerous women.
This was her life. Simple. Ordered. Safe.
She was just ladling the stew into a wooden bowl when a flicker of movement in the deepening twilight beyond her window caught her eye.
She stilled, her body going taut. There, at the very edge of the tree line, partially obscured by the boughs of a great pine, stood the wolf.
It was unmistakable. The same massive, storm-grey form, though it held itself with more care now, its weight shifted off the wounded leg. It stood perfectly still, its amber eyes fixed not on her cottage, but directly on her through the glass. There was no snarl, no aggression. It was simply… watching.
A jolt, equal parts alarm and something else—a strange, proprietary concern—shot through her. "You," she breathed, her breath fogging the cool glass.
Had it come back for… what? More help? To finish what it started? Its gaze was unreadable, a pool of wild, ancient intelligence.
Before she could even think to move, to open the door or shutter the window, the wolf's ears twitched. Its head turned slightly, as if hearing a sound only it could perceive. Then, with a last, lingering look in her direction, it melted back into the shadows of the forest, vanishing as completely as a ghost.
Celestine let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The beast was alive. Her poultice had worked. A small, irrational spark of pride ignited within her, quickly doused by a wave of practical fear. It knew where she lived. It was strong enough to travel. This was not over.
Shaken, she turned from the window, her appetite for stew gone. The comforting fantasy of a restored peace shattered. As she moved away, her foot brushed against something on the floor just inside the door.
She looked down. And froze.
There, placed with an odd formality on her clean floorboards, was a basket.
It was not one of her own. It was woven from a different type of willow, sturdier and less refined. And it was full.
A cold dread, entirely separate from the fear the wolf had inspired, washed over her. She was certain it had not been there moments before. She had not heard a knock, a footstep, a creak of the floor. Cautiously, she unbolted the door and opened it, scanning the clearing. It was empty. She stretched out her senses, searching for the sound of a heartbeat, the rustle of a cloak, the scent of an intruder.
Nothing. Whoever had delivered it was gone, vanished with an unnerving silence.
Her eyes dropped back to the basket. Inside, laid out with a care that contradicted the violence of their deaths, were two plump, freshly killed rabbits and a chicken. Their throats had been cut with a single, ruthlessly efficient slice. There was no mess, no struggle. It was the work of a professional hunter. The blood was still fresh, gleaming darkly in the candlelight.
Tied around the handle of the basket was a simple strip of dark leather.
Celestine's breath hitched. Her mind flashed back to the guild hall, to the tall woman with the cockatrice head, her hands rough and capable, her belt and armor laced with strips of leather just like this.
Rude, she had thought. But this… this was not rude. This was something else entirely. An apology? A payment? A threat?
The timing was impossible to ignore. The wolf appears, a silent sentinel, and in the moment of distraction it provides, this… gift… is delivered. Were they connected? Was the huntress using the beast as some kind of diversion? The thought was absurd, and yet…
A slow, complex shudder worked its way through Celestine. It was part fear, a cold spike at the realization of how easily her isolation had been breached by not one, but two dangerous entities. But wound tightly around that fear was something else, something warm and unsettlingly like fascination.
She bent down and picked up the basket. It was heavy. The gesture was primal, a hunter providing for… what?
She carried it inside, setting it on her rough-hewn table. The offering lay there, a stark, bloody contradiction in the heart of her gentle home. The savory scent of her vegetable stew was now underscored by the rich, metallic smell of fresh game.
She looked from her simple bowl of broth to the generous, deadly offering of meat, then back towards the window where the wolf had stood.
Two mysteries. Two dangerous creatures, circling her quiet life. One a beast of the woods, the other a woman of steel and shadow. The only link between them was the profound sense of danger they both carried, and the fact that they both, for reasons she could not fathom, seemed fixated on her.
"Well," Celestine whispered into the quiet of her cottage, her voice a mixture of unease and a strange, burgeoning thrill. "It seems I have attracted the attention of the forest."