The first time I saw him, I thought he was a ghost.
Fog coiled thick along the narrow village path. It crawled over the ruts in the dirt and the low stone walls. It blurred the crooked fences and the dark shapes of thatched roofs until the world felt small and breathless.
There were no lamps here. No glow to push back the dark. Only a faint spill of firelight from shuttered windows. Even that looked afraid to touch the mist.
Somewhere, an old dog barked once and stopped. As if the sound had been swallowed.
The air carried the damp smell of wet earth and woodsmoke. Beneath it was something sharper. Like metal. Like the air before lightning. The tiny hairs on my arms rose. My skin prickled as if the night itself had teeth.
I should not have been there.
Alone. After hours.
Ignoring every rule I had grown up with. Every warning whispered over kitchen tables about spirits that roamed when the village slept.
But something pulled me in.
A whisper under my skin. A tug beneath my ribs. A quiet certainty that something waited for me in the dark.
I did not expect him.
He stood at the mouth of the lane where it narrowed between two stone walls. Tall. Unmoving. Carved from the deepest shadow. Too still to be a man coming home late. Too composed to be any kind of lost traveler. It felt like the world moved around him. Not the other way around.
A long black coat hung from his shoulders. Wrong for our village. Too fine. Too heavy. The hem bled into the mist until I could not tell where the fabric ended and the fog began. The darkness seemed to lean toward him, as if it knew whom it belonged to.
And his eyes, silver and burning, cut clean through the fog.
Not human.
The thought slid in before I could stop it. Instant. Absolute.
Every nerve in my body screamed for me to run. Turn back. Go to my friend and wait for my brother to get me.
But he had already seen me.
His gaze moved over me like a hand. Claiming. Taking note of every inch of me as if he had the right.
My mouth went dry. My fingers curled in the fabric of my skirt to keep them from shaking.
He tilted his head. He studied me with a focus so sharp it made my breath stall. His face did not soften. His eyes did not blink.
His stance shifted. Just a little. Enough for me to feel the tension roll off him. Quiet and contained. Like a storm held behind a door.
A sharp wind slipped down the lane. It carried the smell of rain and the sour tang of the animals in their pens.
My shawl fluttered. The chill sank straight into my spine and I shivered.
He saw. His jaw tightened. The muscle ticked once.
"You should not be here," he said. He took a step toward me. His words were simple, but they felt like a judgment.
I moved back until rough stone scraped my shoulders. The wall was cold and damp through my dress. There was nowhere else to go.
"Then move," I said.
My voice stayed steady. I held his eyes even though my heart was beating too fast.
He laughed softly. The sound was low and sinful. Out of place in a village lane that usually only knew the chatter of neighbors and the cluck of chickens. It twisted something deep in my stomach.
"You do not understand," he said.
His steps were unhurried. But the distance between us vanished all the same. He still did not touch me. But his presence did.
It pressed around me. Heavy. Close. Like the fog itself had chosen a shape and stepped forward. My lungs worked harder. I dragged in air that tasted like smoke and iron.
His scent wrapped around me. Smoke. Night air. A faint trace of something older. Like burned herbs on forgotten altars.
"I did not mean you should leave this path," he murmured. "I meant you should not be here at all."
Fear and recklessness tangled in my chest. I had grown up with stories of spirits and old gods. Of things that walked when the moon hid her face. I had never believed them.
Not really.
Until now.
"Make me leave," I said.
His eyes darkened. The silver deepened. Like clouded metal catching fire from within.
Possessive. Hungry.
His hand rose. His fingers hovered just above my wrist. So close that I could feel the warmth of him bleeding through the night. Still not touching. But it seared me. Like a brand pressed through the air itself.
My pulse jumped beneath his shadow. I knew he could see it.
"I could," he said softly. "I could turn you away. I could send you back to your little house. To your quiet bed. To the life you think is yours."
My breath caught. "But?"
His gaze did not leave my face.
"But that would be a lie," he replied.
"A lie?" My voice cracked on the word. I hated that he could hear it.
He leaned in. Slow. Certain. His coat whispered as it moved. The fog curled around him like it was being drawn in.
His breath brushed my cheek. Warm against the cold air. It slid along my skin like a promise I had no language for and no defense against.
"Because I do not want you to leave," he said. "You were always meant to walk to me. Whether you knew it or not."
The air closed around us. Thick. Electric. Somewhere, an old wooden sign creaked on its iron hook. A horse shifted in its stall and stamped once, as if the animals felt him too.
My heartbeat hammered against my ribs. Too loud. Too fast.
His presence pressed over me like the dark itself. Cool. Suffocating. Unyielding.
He was not touching me. Yet my skin burned from the nearness of him.
It felt as if his shadow had weight. As if it could sink straight into my bones.
"Why are you here?"
My voice barely made it past my lips. It trembled under the pounding of my pulse. I hated that he could hear the shake in it.
His eyes slid over my face. Slowly. His gaze traced every line as though he was memorizing me. Not like a stranger seeing someone new. Like a collector finally finding what he had been missing.
My knees almost buckled under the intensity of it.
When he finally spoke, his voice curled through the cold air like smoke from a long-dead fire.
"For you."