They finished their errands in near silence.
Rowan traded coins for bread, dried herbs, and a small sack of grain. Elara stood beside him, watching the exchange, trying to understand the rhythm of it all—the careful counting, the nods of acknowledgment, the way people spoke without rushing. No phones. No screens. No noise beyond voices and footsteps.
She felt like she was watching life through glass.
As they walked back toward the edge of town, Rowan finally spoke again. "You never answered my question."
Elara glanced at him. "What question?"
"Where you are from."
Her chest tightened. She searched for words that wouldn't unravel everything. "I'm… from far away," she said slowly. "So far that it wouldn't help to name it."
He studied her face. "You do not speak like one who lies."
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "I don't really know how to answer questions like that right now."
Rowan nodded once, accepting it without pressing further. "Then we will leave it there."
The walk back through the forest felt quieter. Elara's thoughts churned endlessly—about the town, the people, the strange calm with which Rowan spoke of things that felt unreal to her.
Back at his home, the warmth of the hearth greeted them. Rowan set the supplies on the table and began preparing a simple meal. Elara hovered awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.
"Can I help?" she asked.
He looked mildly surprised, then inclined his head. "If you wish."
She washed her hands and stood beside him, watching as he worked with practiced ease. The ingredients were unfamiliar—roots she didn't recognize, herbs with sharper scents than anything she'd known.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing to a bundle of leaves.
"Wild sorrel," he replied. "Good for the stomach."
"And this?" She lifted a small dried pod.
"Spice from the southern roads."
Elara nodded, though none of it meant anything to her. "Everything smells… different."
He smiled faintly. "That it does."
As they worked, the silence grew heavier again, until she finally spoke. "Rowan… earlier. In town. You said there were other places. Other towns."
"Yes."
"How many?" she asked.
"Many," he said. "Some human. Some not entirely."
She paused, knife still in her hand. "And… the things you mentioned. The ones you said live outside Ravenshollow."
Rowan didn't answer immediately. He continued stirring the pot, his voice steady when he finally spoke. "The werewolves dwell beyond the northern ridges. They keep their own lands and their own laws."
Her heart skipped. "They're… real?"
He glanced at her then, truly seeing her fear. "Aye."
The room felt smaller suddenly. The crackle of the fire sounded too loud. "Do they… hurt people?"
"They can," he said honestly. "As men can."
Elara stepped back, her breath coming faster. Images flashed through her mind—things she'd once seen on screens, dismissed as fiction. Teeth. Blood. Moonlight.
"I—" Her voice wavered. "I think I need to lie down."
Rowan nodded at once. "Of course."
She didn't wait for more. She retreated to the small room, closing the door behind her and pressing her back against it. Her hands trembled as she slid down onto the bed.
"This isn't real," she whispered. "This can't be real."
But the scent of herbs lingered on her hands. The bed was solid beneath her. The forest outside was alive.
Tears welled in her eyes as she curled onto her side.
"I want to go home," she said softly to the empty room.
Outside, Rowan stood still for a long moment, staring at the closed door—unease settling deep in his chest.
Because humans who wished to go home usually knew where home was.
And Elara did not.
They finished their errands in near silence.
Rowan traded coins for bread, dried herbs, and a small sack of grain. Elara stood beside him, watching the exchange, trying to understand the rhythm of it all—the careful counting, the nods of acknowledgment, the way people spoke without rushing. No phones. No screens. No noise beyond voices and footsteps.
She felt like she was watching life through glass.
As they walked back toward the edge of town, Rowan finally spoke again. "You never answered my question."
Elara glanced at him. "What question?"
"Where you are from."
Her chest tightened. She searched for words that wouldn't unravel everything. "I'm… from far away," she said slowly. "So far that it wouldn't help to name it."
He studied her face. "You do not speak like one who lies."
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "I don't really know how to answer questions like that right now."
Rowan nodded once, accepting it without pressing further. "Then we will leave it there."
The walk back through the forest felt quieter. Elara's thoughts churned endlessly—about the town, the people, the strange calm with which Rowan spoke of things that felt unreal to her.
Back at his home, the warmth of the hearth greeted them. Rowan set the supplies on the table and began preparing a simple meal. Elara hovered awkwardly for a moment before stepping closer.
"Can I help?" she asked.
He looked mildly surprised, then inclined his head. "If you wish."
She washed her hands and stood beside him, watching as he worked with practiced ease. The ingredients were unfamiliar—roots she didn't recognize, herbs with sharper scents than anything she'd known.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing to a bundle of leaves.
"Wild sorrel," he replied. "Good for the stomach."
"And this?" She lifted a small dried pod.
"Spice from the southern roads."
Elara nodded, though none of it meant anything to her. "Everything smells… different."
He smiled faintly. "That it does."
As they worked, the silence grew heavier again, until she finally spoke. "Rowan… earlier. In town. You said there were other places. Other towns."
"Yes."
"How many?" she asked.
"Many," he said. "Some human. Some not entirely."
She paused, knife still in her hand. "And… the things you mentioned. The ones you said live outside Ravenshollow."
Rowan didn't answer immediately. He continued stirring the pot, his voice steady when he finally spoke. "The werewolves dwell beyond the northern ridges. They keep their own lands and their own laws."
Her heart skipped. "They're… real?"
He glanced at her then, truly seeing her fear. "Aye."
The room felt smaller suddenly. The crackle of the fire sounded too loud. "Do they… hurt people?"
"They can," he said honestly. "As men can."
Elara stepped back, her breath coming faster. Images flashed through her mind—things she'd once seen on screens, dismissed as fiction. Teeth. Blood. Moonlight.
"I—" Her voice wavered. "I think I need to lie down."
Rowan nodded at once. "Of course."
She didn't wait for more. She retreated to the small room, closing the door behind her and pressing her back against it. Her hands trembled as she slid down onto the bed.
"This isn't real," she whispered. "This can't be real."
But the scent of herbs lingered on her hands. The bed was solid beneath her. The forest outside was alive.
Tears welled in her eyes as she curled onto her side.
"I want to go home," she said softly to the empty room.
Outside, Rowan stood still for a long moment, staring at the closed door—unease settling deep in his chest.
Because humans who wished to go home usually knew where home was.
And Elara did not.