Everything was good. Everything was fine.
Until the forest you looked at every day… started looking back.
You never meant to meet him...
the quiet, sharp-eyed man who lived alone,
the one who never came out in the daylight,
the one people only ever whispered about.
You were just an apothecary. Practical. Cautious. Entirely human.
And he… he was something else entirely.
The morning mist clung low to the soil, wrapping itself around the roots of the apothecary’s garden like pale, silken fingers. You dug your hands into the damp earth, pulling weeds from the bloodgrass bed, careful not to disturb the delicate shoots of moonwort blooming beneath. The village bell hadn't rung yet. Still early. Still quiet.
Yarrow for the blacksmith’s boy, he’d split his palm again trying to mend a cracked bridle. Dried valerian root for Widow Maywell. Her sleep was restless, her tongue sharp. And something for the preacher’s wife. She never said what it was for, only murmured the word “deliverance” and left silver on the table.
You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your apron. Morning light was just beginning to pierce the treetops beyond the fence, illuminating the creeping mists in soft, golden streaks. The forest loomed there, vast and watchful. It always did. Your little cottage sat at the edge of it, just close enough that some villagers muttered about it under their breath. Too near the wilds, they’d say. Too near where things vanish.
But it had always been like this. Your mother had lived here before you, and her mother before her, healers, all of them. The villagers came when they were desperate, and turned their backs again when they were not.
Superstition ran deeper than reason in Eldhollow. You glanced at the bloodgrass again, its crimson tips glistening with dew. It only grew this well in shadow. Even now, a thin veil of mist clung around its stems like a lover.
You tried not to think too hard on what that meant. The soil under your nails was black and sweet, healthier than it had any right to be, given how close it lay to the forest’s edge. But the earth didn’t care for village borders, nor for the words whispered in its pews.
Inside Eldhollow, religion ruled with a soft, iron hand. The elders claimed their devotion protected the town. That piety kept wickedness out. That modesty and humility were safeguards against what lies beyond. You’d heard the sermons. Even from here, the chapel bell reached your cottage on holy days, followed by the hollow murmur of voices chanting in unison.
Tradition above all. New blood brings old sins. Monsters do not knock, they slip in when the doors are opened too wide.
They didn’t say vampires by name anymore… at least, not in daylight. But the fear lingered like soot in the lungs of the town. It clung to the corners of conversations, to the way old men crossed themselves when shadows grew long.
They used other words now.
"The Night-born.""Devil’s children.""Those who hunger through the ages."
As if giving them a new name made the fear more holy. More righteous. But you’d read things in the books your mother left behind. You knew that vampires were more than the frothing stories told to frighten children. You didn’t know if they were real. Not truly. Not yet.
But you knew the world was older than the chapel. And not all things older than man were evil. The village didn’t believe that. They believed only what was written in the scrolls, copied by trembling hands in candlelight. Anything else, curiosity, questioning, change… was a door.
And doors were meant to stay shut.
You were halfway through hanging bundles of dried rosemary above the hearth when you remembered the pot. You paused, stared at the cold fireplace, and sighed. It was still scorched at the corners from the incident . The incident you refused to name. The one involving an overambitious tonic, three miscalculated spoonfuls of powdered moonwort, and what had briefly become a sentient, bubbling stew.
You pressed your lips together and turned away.
The cauldron had not survived.
With an exasperated grunt, you grabbed your satchel, looped it over your shoulder, and moved to the small mirror near the door. You tied your hair up in practiced motions, loose, but neat. Practical. Forgettable. Just how the town liked it.
Stepping outside, the air greeted you with a soft breeze and the distant rustling of the forest’s edge. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the wind press cool fingers to your cheeks. It smelled of dew and pine and the faint sweetness of something night-blooming. You didn’t quite smile, but your shoulders dropped as you exhaled.
The path to the village was long but manageable. A well-worn trail of packed dirt and scattered stones, flanked by moss and wildflowers where the forest dared not grow too thick. You’d walked it hundreds of times, enough to know the shape of every bend, every leaning tree, every odd patch of root that tried to trip you in the rain.
Today, the light was gentle. Thin sun filtered through the high clouds. Your boots crunched softly on the earth. A bird called somewhere above. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something else answered.
You kept walking. You weren’t afraid of the forest. But you knew better than to walk too slow.
The road narrowed as it wound past the crumbling chapel walls and opened into the square, if it could be called that. Eldhollow’s market was little more than a crooked circle of wagons and wooden stalls, their awnings faded with age and prayer-smoke.
People moved slowly here, in that half-suspicious way the village was known for, heads tilted, mouths quick to shut when a shadow passed too close. Your boots found purchase on the uneven cobblestone as voices and footsteps swelled around you.
Familiar faces surrounded you, but you didn’t meet a single pair of eyes.
A child pointed in your direction, mud-streaked fingers and wide eyes, before a stern hand pulled him back. A murmured correction. A sideways glance. The usual. You adjusted the strap of your satchel and kept walking.
The potter’s stall sat near the well, its shelves packed with misshapen clay jars, fire-blackened kettles, and thick-lipped crocks the color of dried blood. Behind them stood Old Merna, apron dusted with flour or ash, or both. Her hands were already on her hips when she saw you.
“Back again?” she called, voice scratchy like bark. “Don’t tell me you cracked another one.”
You kept your tone neutral. “It… turned itself inside out. Long story.”
You nodded. Merna snorted and waved a hand at the lower shelf. “Take whichever’ll survive your witch-brew. I don’t want it crawling back here.”
You crouched to examine the wares, running your fingers along the smooth rim of a deep pot. It was sturdy. Thick enough to hold heat. Ugly as sin.
Coins changed hands. The pot was wrapped in rough cloth and tied with twine. You slung it under your arm and turned on your heel.
You didn’t notice the first mention until it slipped under a breath, just at the edge of your hearing:
“--said he was seen again. Near the birches this time.”
“Aye. Watching. Doesn’t speak to anyone, never buys a thing. Just… stares.”
You didn’t stop walking. But your steps slowed.
You’d heard the name, in passing. Some strange man living near the cliffs, past the southern ridge. He came down rarely, never lingered. People said he talked to birds more than men. Said he slept in the day. Said he was cursed.
But people said a lot of things in Eldhollow. You tightened your grip on the pot and quickened your pace. The road back home was still long. And you had work to do.
Midday crept in slow and golden, soft light slanting through the apothecary’s windows and warming the worn stone floors. Somewhere beyond the trees, cicadas thrummed lazily, and the scent of drying herbs curled through the rafters. You were in the back room, grinding dried yarrow into powder when you heard it.
A voice, high, familiar, and slightly breathless.
You wiped your hands on your apron and stepped out from behind the curtain. There she stood just inside the threshold, Ela, the baker’s daughter, clutching a woven basket and cradling her forearm awkwardly. A strip of fabric, fraying at the edges and stained through with red, was tied haphazardly from elbow to wrist.
She brightened the moment she saw you. “Oh, good. You are here.”
You gave her a once-over, then raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, bread knife?”
She laughed sheepishly. “One of the new ones. My father told me not to rush, but I wanted to finish before the midday crowd.”
You beckoned her gently toward the table. “Sit. Let me see.”
Ela obeyed without protest, lowering herself onto the stool as you began unwinding the makeshift bandage. Her skin was warm beneath your fingers, healthy, save for the thin gash across her forearm. Clean, but deep enough to sting.
You fetched a small jar of comfrey paste and a fresh strip of linen. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” you said, brushing on the cool balm. “Another inch and I’d be stitching.”
She winced a little but didn’t pull away. “Thank you… I know you don’t like surprises.”
“I don’t like blood on my floors,” you corrected mildly.
That made her laugh again. Light and bright. The sound of someone untouched by the weight that clung to most in Eldhollow.
“I brought you something,” she said after a moment, lifting the basket onto the table. “Two loaves, my father said they’re too dark to sell, but I thought you might like them.”
You paused, hands stilling over the fresh wrap.
Kindness, when it came, always caught you off guard.
Ela tilted her head. “Oh, when I was walking inside earlier, I saw someone near the tree line. Far off. He had a… a bird, I think. A hawk?”
“Wasn’t close enough to wave,” she continued. “But he just stood there. Lurking by the trees. Gave me the shivers a bit.”
You tied off the bandage and stepped back.
“All done,” you said. “Try not to bleed through this one.”
Ela flexed her fingers experimentally, examining your work with a pleased smile. “Feels good. Doesn’t sting as much now.”
“It shouldn’t,” you replied, closing the lid of the comfrey jar. “But keep it clean and no kneading bread until it scabs over.”
She pouted dramatically. “That’s half my day gone.”
You arched an eyebrow. “So is your arm, if you’re not careful.”
She laughed, quick and light, then leaned forward, pushing the basket toward you with both hands.
“Really, thank you. You’re always so kind. Even when you don’t want to be.”
You gave her a quiet look, but she was already hopping off the stool, cheerful as ever. She reached the doorway, hand on the frame, then hesitated. A slight furrow touched her brow.
“Oh, hope I don’t see that man again,” she said with a nervous grin.
You looked up from the basket. “What man?”
She gave a little shrug. “The one with the bird I was telling you about just now... I saw him not close, just… across the ridge, kind of behind your garden?”
Ela didn’t seem to notice the way your posture changed, how your hand stilled against the cloth.
“Yeah! Hawk on his shoulder, just standing there. Watching the trees like he was waiting for something. It was probably nothing.”
She gave another of those too-bright smiles.
“Anyway, tell your plants to behave. I’ll come by next week for that tea you promised Mama.” And just like that, she was gone. The door swung closed gently behind her, basket of bread warm under your hand.
You stared at the wall for a long moment, ears filled with the distant sound of birdsong. Something too sharp, too rhythmic, to be wind alone. You stepped toward the window. Didn’t draw back the curtain. Just stood there. Listening.
Safe to say, you didn’t get much sleep that night. Not that anything happened. No knocks at the door. No footprints in the dirt. No strange figures standing beneath the trees with hollow eyes and feathers on their shoulders.
Just… silence. Or, not silence exactly.
The birds wouldn’t shut up. You’d never noticed how loud they were before. How many kinds there were. How many of them called to each other in strange, uneven patterns, like warnings. Like alarms.
At some point, the moon had shifted and the room had gone still, and your mind had finally given up on pretending.
The door creaked quietly as you opened it. Cool night air rolled in, soft against your bare arms, your nightgown fluttering slightly around your legs. You didn’t bother with a shawl. You hadn’t planned to stay out long. The lavender was what you were after.
You stepped barefoot into the garden, the earth still holding warmth from the day. Dew clung to the leaves like sweat. You moved slowly, deliberately, hands steady even if your pulse wasn’t. This wasn’t unusual. Not really. You’d gathered lavender at night before. It bloomed best this way, its oils sweeter, its petals soft and open.
Still… the darkness beyond the fence felt closer tonight. You knelt beside the plant, running your fingers through the stalks. Their scent rose easily, familiar, soothing, grounded. You should have felt better already. But your hands trembled slightly as you reached for your shears.
Was the forest always this quiet at night?
Were the birds always this… alert?
Had that branch always been broken like that?
You didn’t look toward the woods. You told yourself you didn’t need to. You gathered the lavender one bundle at a time, careful not to bruise the petals, and tried not to listen too closely to the rustling in the underbrush. To the hush of leaves stirred by something not quite wind.
You could feel it. Not eyes. Something heavier than that. Like a breath held just out of reach.
The garden gate creaked softly behind you. You stood very still. Too still. And when nothing followed, you told yourself it was the wind. You turned back toward the house, lavender clutched to your chest, heart fluttering like a bird trying not to be seen.
And even as you locked the door behind you, you didn’t look back. Because deep down, you already knew…
Something… someone had been there.
The lavender helped, a little. Enough to pull you under for an hour or two. Not enough to stop the dreams.
You woke tangled in your sheets, the morning light too bright, your mouth dry and your heart racing like you'd just outrun something.
And it didn’t stop. The next few days bled together in a haze of thick silence and stiff smiles.
People came and went as they always did, hobbling in with twisted ankles, scratching at rashes, asking for teas they couldn’t pronounce. You gave them what they needed. You answered questions. You stirred tinctures and tied bundles and nodded in the right places.
But your mind stayed on the back window. On the fence. On the line where your garden ended and the forest began.
You barely ate. Slept in fits. You knew you probably looked like hell, and frankly, you didn’t care. If anyone noticed, they said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for the apothecary to be pale, to have shadows beneath their eyes. People liked to think your work required sleepless nights.
This time, they weren’t wrong. Because every morning, when you stepped into the garden, something had changed.
The first time, it was a single white feather, caught in the lavender you’d clipped days ago. Too clean. Too deliberate. You’d stared at it for a long time before brushing it away like cobweb.
The next, it was a sprig of rosemary tied with black thread, left neatly on your doorstep. You didn’t grow rosemary.
The third was this morning.
You opened the garden gate and nearly tripped over a bundle of wild herbs, bound in what looked like... sinew. Tightly knotted. Pristine. Herbs that weren’t native to Eldhollow. Night herbs. Ones you’d only ever seen etched in the margins of your mother’s older texts.
You hadn’t touched it. It was still sitting there. Right now. Just outside the threshold of your door. And still, the birds kept screaming in the trees. You stood just inside the doorway, eyes fixed on the bundle of strange herbs sitting on the ground like a trap laid too carefully.
You weren’t sure if today was the day you’d finally touch it. Burn it. Throw it into the woods. Take it inside and tear it apart leaf by leaf just to understand what it meant.
You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry and your chest tight. Why you felt like something would happen the moment your fingers brushed the twine.
Your hand had just started to move when…
The front door opened. Your spine snapped straight. You turned fast enough to make the hem of your nightgown flare, your garden and its secrets forgotten as the chill from the open doorway swept through your home.
A woman stood there, her hair unbrushed, cheeks blotchy, fingers trembling around the small form she clutched to her chest. Her son. No older than six, fever-pale, eyes glazed and unfocused, head lolling weakly against her collarbone.
Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong…”
You didn’t hesitate. The door slammed shut behind you as you moved, reaching for the nearest stool and clearing space on the table.
She obeyed in a stumbling daze, lowering him down gently, her own hands shaking. You were already reaching for water, clean linen, a cool compress, everything automatic. Every breath you’d been holding since the feathers started appearing vanished the moment your fingers touched the boy’s clammy skin.
His pulse was rapid. Breath shallow. Sweat soaked through the neck of his tunic. His stomach was rigid. Muscles twitching like wires pulled too tight.
You’d seen it before. Not a fever. Not a wound.
“He ate something,” you said aloud, already turning to your shelf. “A mushroom. Or berries. Do you know where he’s been?”
The mother shook her head, tears brimming. “He plays near the old logging path. Behind the chapel. I… I didn’t see, I didn’t know–”
You held up a hand. “It’s alright. I can treat this. But I’ll need a stronger purge. Something to push it out before it binds to his blood.”
Your fingers ran along the glass jars.
Mandrake… too risky.
Yarrow… not enough.
Mint, thyme, valerian… useless.
No. You needed frostleaf.
A cooling herb, rare and volatile, but powerful enough to break a poison’s grip on the gut. Your mother had used it once, only once. You remembered the smell. You remembered the warning. It didn’t grow in gardens. Only in the shaded glens beneath the pine canopy, where sunlight never touched the ground.
Your breath hitched. The mother looked at you with wet, pleading eyes.
You did everything you could. You brewed a weak purge with what you had on hand, wild fennel, old catmint, two crushed poppy seeds. Enough to keep his body from locking up. Enough to buy time. But it wouldn’t last the night.
The poison was clinging to him like ivy. Curling through his blood. It needed to be ripped out. And for that, you needed frostleaf. Fresh. Untouched. Drawn under moonlight, when its leaves bled silver and its roots loosened from the ground. You knew where it grew. You remembered the glade. You just hadn’t been there in years.
The boy’s breathing had evened out slightly by the time you finished tucking the covers over him. His mother was curled in the far corner of the room on a folded blanket, eyes red and swollen but finally shut.
You sat in silence for a long while. Just watching them. You whispered soft reassurances, words you half-believed, promises they wouldn’t remember, but you made them anyway. You had to.
Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only the quiet flicker of a single oil lamp and the chirr of insects outside the window.
You stood. Slowly. Your satchel waited by the door. Inside, a vial of hawthorn tonic, a silver knife, a sprig of dried belladonna. Just in case. You added a strip of cloth, in case you needed to bind something. A cracked lantern. A match. You looked back at the boy, one last time.
“Stay asleep,” you murmured. “I’ll be back before morning.”
You eased the door open. Stepped outside. The air was cooler now, thick with damp moss and pine needles. The stars blinked sharp above the trees, and the moon had risen, half-full, but bright enough to light the garden path.
You didn’t look toward the place where the last offering had been. You didn’t check to see if it was gone. Your boots sank slightly into the earth as you crossed through the gate and stepped into the woods.
This time, you didn’t wait for a warning.
You stop just past the old alder tree, breath catching in your throat. This was supposed to be a straight line. Down the slope. Past the ridge. Through the hollow where the frostleaf grows.
It had been so clear in your memory. But that was years ago. Now the forest presses around you, heavy and strange. The path is gone. The air is colder than it should be. Even the moonlight seems thinner here, filtered through tangled branches like light beneath deep water.
You take another step, trying to stay steady, your boots sinking slightly into the moss-soft ground. Somewhere overhead, a bird shrieks, high and sharp, like a warning. Others take up the cry, flapping furiously through the canopy above.
Your hand goes instinctively to your satchel, brushing the silver knife hidden at the bottom. It makes you feel no better.
"It’s fine," you whisper. "They’re just birds. Nothing more."
But the silence that follows is worse than the noise. You walk a little faster.
The cold shifts around your ankles, moving strangely, like something exhaling just behind your knees. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders and try to focus on your breathing, on the rhythm of your steps.
Ridge should be ahead. But then…
Behind you. A single sharp snap. You freeze. Your chest goes tight. Ears straining, eyes wide. Nothing. No footsteps. No growl. No voice. Just stillness.
But it’s wrong stillness. Watching stillness. Like something is holding its breath with you.
You turn slowly, heart hammering hard against your ribs. Nothing but trees.
You look to the left, to the right, behind you again, trying to find your bearings, but every shadow looks the same now. The moss you thought you recognized is gone. The leaning pine isn’t there. There’s no path.
You spin once, then stop yourself. Your legs feel weak. No, no, you’re fine, you just need to…
Not behind you. Not ahead. To your right. Low. Soft. Something moving slowly through the ferns.You don’t breathe. You don’t move . The birds have gone silent again. Your hand clenches around the strap of your satchel. You try to listen. Try to see . But the moonlight has shifted.
You are not alone out here. You don’t move for a long time. Not until your eyes catch something pale drifting down from the trees.
Thin, long. White. It spirals gently through the air and lands just ahead of you, right at the base of a crooked birch.
You blink. Your heart pounds in your ears.You take one slow step toward it. Then another. Your boot crushes the feather’s edge. Soft. Real. You swallow hard and glance around, but the trees are still empty. Still too quiet.
“Okay,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice even. “Not terrifying. Not unsettling. Just… a bird. That happened to shed a feather. Right where I needed it.”
You take another step. And then, Another feather falls. This one to your left, where you’d just been about to turn. You freeze. It drifts lower, catching the moonlight, pale against the dark moss below. You look from it… to the direction you were going… then back again.
A small, tight laugh escapes your throat.
“Oh. Great. Breadcrumbs. That’s normal. Totally fine.”
You follow it. You don’t know why . But your feet move anyway.
And then it happens again. Every time you start to veer off the invisible path… Another white plume drops from above. Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
Once, it lands just in front of your toes. Another time, you spot one already nestled in the crook of a root, as if it had been waiting for you.
“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath. “Not weird at all. Completely okay. Just a mysterious forest guide leading me with feathers. Great. No nightmares tonight, that’s for sure.”
But you don’t stop. You don’t dare stop. You round a thick cluster of oaks. There. The clearing. The air shifts, colder still, but cleaner, lighter somehow. Moonlight spills over the ridge and into the glade like water, softening the earth in silver. And at the very center, nestled low between the roots of an ancient pine.
Pale green, sharp-edged leaves with tips already glowing faintly under the moon’s gaze. The same plant from your mother’s notes. From your memory.
You found it. Or rather… you were led to it.
You crouch low, forcing your shaking hands to move carefully. You don’t speak. Don’t breathe. Not until the frostleaf is tucked gently into your pouch. And even then… you don’t look back.
Because you know. Someone is still watching.
You were almost out of the glade when the silence shifted. It wasn’t just quiet, it was wrong . Too still. Like the forest itself had stopped breathing. Your steps slowed.
The frostleaf was still warm in your pouch, tucked safely beside the lantern and silver blade. Your hand moved toward it without thought. Just the weight of it in your palm helped steady your breath.
You heard it then. Low. Measured. Padded. Not wind. Not a deer. Not a bird.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you turned, slowly. Between the trees, something moved. Tall. Dark. Broad-shouldered, but low . Its breath came in rasps. You could hear it sniffing.
Your fingers curled around the hilt of the blade.
You didn’t run. You didn’t breathe. And when the branches parted, you saw it.
Not a wolf. Not quite. Its jaw was too wide. Its limbs too long. Something shimmered in its eyes that wasn’t hunger, but purpose.
“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Come on, then.” You raised the blade.Took a step back. Prepared to strike.
Fingers curled around your wrist and yanked you back before you could scream. You collided with something solid, someone, your breath catching in your throat as claws snapped through the air where your throat had been.
The beast lunged, met only open space. A heartbeat later, it collapsed.
You hadn’t seen how. One moment it was snarling. The next, it was still.
You stared at the body, chest heaving. Then slowly, too slowly , you turned to face the one behind you.
He was taller than you. Hooded. A dark cloak wrapped tightly at the neck. His eyes…
Gold. Sharp. Unblinking. Watching you like you were something on the edge of a knife.
“You don’t want to fight something like that alone,” he said, voice low, steady.
His hand hadn’t left your wrist yet. And suddenly, the forest didn’t feel so cold. The grip on your wrist was firm, but not painful. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your skin, even as the creature lay dead not five feet away, its mouth still slightly open, tongue lolled sideways like a dog who hadn’t been fast enough.
Your knife was still clutched in your free hand. You looked up. And he was looking at you.
Not like he was curious. Not like he was trying to comfort you. No, he looked at you like you’d done something wrong. His brow was slightly drawn. His mouth set in a grim line. And his eyes, those eyes , golden and sharp as blown glass, didn’t leave yours for a second.
You didn’t breathe. But you didn’t drop your gaze either.
You weren’t the type to shrink.
And maybe that surprised him, because after a beat, his expression shifted. Not softened. Just… became something unreadable. He tilted his head, studying you like a hawk pinning down a mouse that wasn’t running.
“…uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “Thank you. For… that.”
You didn’t gesture toward the beast. You both knew what you meant. There was a pause, so long it became strange. Then, finally, his hand let go of your wrist. The air between you felt cooler immediately. Emptier.
His voice was lower this time. Almost like he regretted saying anything at all. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
You raised a brow. “Could say the same for you.”
That surprised something behind his eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. He stepped back. The cloak moved with him, silent, like feathers in the dark.
“Go home, apothecary,” he said. And then, just like that, he turned.
You opened your mouth, so many questions stacking all at once. But he was already gone. No sound. No broken branches. Not even footprints. Just the lingering echo of gold eyes and the weight of him still pulsing in your wrist.
You were back before sunrise. The frostleaf still glowed faintly in your satchel as you crushed it down into boiling water, added the hawthorn tonic, stirred in the poppy oil with steady, practiced hands. Every movement deliberate. Controlled.
You hadn’t slept. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.
The boy was still burning up when you pressed the cloth to his lips, but he drank. Somehow. And within the hour, the tremors had eased. His breath slowed. His fingers uncurled from his mother’s sleeve.
By the time the first light touched the windowsill, his fever had broken. He would live.And when his mother finally stirred and saw him sleeping peacefully, the way her hands flew to her mouth… That stayed with you.
Word spread fast in Eldhollow. By noon, three families had stopped by to “see how things were,” all of them carrying small tokens, fresh bread, honeycomb, a hand-woven sachet of dried thyme. You didn’t ask for any of it, but they left them on your steps anyway, muttering things like–
“It’s the least we could do.”
“You saved that child’s life.”
“Didn’t even think frostleaf still grew…”
You stayed quiet through it all. Kept your eyes down. Let them speak. But when the last of them left, and the house was still again, you lingered by the front door. Your broom was in your hand, dust pan tucked beneath your arm. Just a quick sweep of the steps. That’s all.
You pushed the door open, stepped into the sunlight and paused. Because someone passing by looked up. And smiled. Then someone else. Another nod. A third, Mrs. Eldwen, who’d once refused to speak to you directly, raised a hand in a stiff, awkward wave. You just stood there.
Broom in hand. Mouth dry. Sunlight warming your hair. “Huh,” you murmured.
You cleared your throat. Swept the dust off the step. Tapped the broom against the stone.
You turned back into the house. You didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But it stayed in your chest for a while. Even as your eyes flicked once, automatically, to the tree line beyond your back garden.
The day ended in a slow, gentle quiet. Most of the village had gone to bed early, the kind of restful hush that only comes after something terrifying passes without tragedy. The boy had survived. You’d done your part. And now… everything felt softer. Lighter.
You stood by your back door, lantern in hand, cloak pulled snug around your shoulders as the last traces of sunset melted into indigo. Just a quick check on the garden. That was all. Nothing unusual. You’d already watered the nightwort and tucked a cloth over the feverfern sprouts to protect them from the chill.
You knelt beside the patch of lavender, fingers brushing the soil. Still warm. You stood to go. And then you saw it. Just beyond the gate.
Not inside your garden, but close enough to be noticed , carefully placed between two flat stones at the edge of the path. Almost reverent. A bundle.
You froze. Lanternlight flickered gently as you moved closer, one cautious step at a time. Your eyes scanned the trees. The shadows. Nothing moved. When you finally knelt down and peeled back the cloth…
Frostleaf. At least ten stems. Fresh. Unbroken. Still faintly glowing at the edges. You stared at it. You hadn’t seen this much since you were a child.
But… you got the last of it. You were sure.
No one else in town would know where to find more. No one but him. You sat back on your heels, the cloth still in your hands. He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t leave a mark. Didn’t even leave a feather this time. Just frostleaf. A whole bundle.
You swallowed. The cool air pressed against your back like a whisper. “Why?” you said softly, out loud, to no one.
He didn’t seem all that okay with your existence, if we’re being honest.
You stood slowly, the bundle tucked against your chest now like something fragile. You looked once, just once, back at the trees. And then you went inside.
A few days passed. The boy’s fever never returned. His mother brought you wildflowers and a loaf of lemon bread wrapped in cloth. You tried to give it back. She insisted. The frostleaf was dried and sealed in a jar now, labeled neatly with wax and string. You hadn’t touched the bundle from the woods. It sat in the drawer below your desk, wrapped just as you found it.
You hadn’t told anyone about it. You’d told yourself not to think about it. And you were doing just fine, until you cracked another pot. You stared at the pieces on the floor. Bits of soil. A healthy little valerian root now sad and unpotted at your feet. You sighed deeply through your nose.
“I’m not even going to talk about this,” you muttered, brushing dirt off your skirt.
You made your way into town late that morning, hood up and bag slung across your shoulder. The walk was long, but manageable, sunlight soft on your back, boots kicking up dust from the path. Everything felt… oddly normal . Until you reached the main square.
You blinked. A group of women standing outside the baker’s shop waved at you, smiling. You waved back. Awkwardly. One of them even nodded like she wanted to say more, but thankfully didn’t. You kept walking. Past the butcher. Past the well. A few heads turned, and this time they didn’t turn away .
The stableboy, who used to pretend not to see you, offered a clumsy “Good morning, miss.”
You didn’t break stride. Your face felt warm. This was fine. Normal. Not weird at all. Not like people were suddenly smiling at you or anything. Coolcoolcool. You let yourself walk slower than usual.
The market buzzed with quiet chatter and warmth, sunlight catching on worn rooftops and copper kettles. For once, it didn’t feel like you were on a timer. No one was whispering about you. No one was watching, at least, not in that way.
So maybe you’d… indulge. You passed the spice cart and lingered. Even bought a honeyed fig tart from the baker’s younger son, he’d blinked like you were a ghost when you thanked him. Your fingers were sticky with sugar, lips tingling with warmth. It felt good . Normal. Like you could maybe get used to this rhythm of town life again.
You crossed toward the butcher’s stall, humming quietly under your breath.
“Morning,” you said, stopping in front of the vendor.
He gave a small smile in return, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then his gaze shifted. Past you. You felt it before you turned.
That sudden shift in air pressure. The way the warmth drained out of the sky. Like the clouds had passed over the sun, but they hadn’t. Everything in the square dulled. The sounds blurred. People were still moving, but slower now, like their bodies were responding to something invisible.
You straightened. The vendor’s smile faltered as he glanced over your shoulder again.
“He’s new,” he murmured, barely audible. “Think he’s a hunter.”
Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of your cloak.
You didn’t turn right away. You stood still, very still, suddenly aware of every point of heat on your skin, your neck, your back, the backs of your arms. Someone was behind you. And they were watching. You could feel the weight of him before you heard his voice. It rolled low, smooth, controlled, like smoke curling under a door. Familiar in the worst way.
“Two haunches. Clean cuts. No sinew left in.”
Your head turned slowly. He was standing right next to you. Not across the stall. Not down the row. Right beside you. Cloak dark and weather-worn. Shoulders broad. The same hood from that night in the forest casting his face in shadows, but not enough to hide him.
Same voice. Same stillness. That quiet, coiled energy that hummed just beneath the surface, like the low tension in a bowstring. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t acknowledge you.
He spoke to the butcher, picked up the small bundle of pelts on the wood counter. The vendor took the bag with slightly shaking hands, nodding quickly, eyes flicking between you both like he wasn’t sure whether to breathe.
Your fingers had gone cold around your cloak.
He smelled faintly of pine and blood. Earth. Metal. The same scent that had lingered on the frostleaf bundle in your drawer. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but your mouth stayed shut. You studied the line of his jaw, the curl of dark-blond hair brushing the side of his neck. He was taller than you remembered. Or maybe just closer.
Still, he didn’t look. Not when he was handed the money. Not when the vendor thanked him. Not even when he shifted slightly and the back of his hand nearly brushed yours.
You opened your mouth, but he was already turning away. The cloak swayed. His boots moved quiet against the stone. And just like that, he was gone again. You didn’t move. Not right away. The tart in your hand had gone limp, warm sugar clinging to your fingers. Your appetite was gone. Your heartbeat wasn’t.
You watched his back as he disappeared into the crowd, calm, unbothered, cloak dragging across the stone like he’d never even seen you. That was fine. Totally fine. Not at all strange or infuriating. You didn’t realize someone was standing beside you until she spoke.
“Wow,” came a familiar, chirping voice. “You must really like him.”
You nearly choked. “ What?! ”
You turned sharply, almost dropping the pastry, only to find Ela, the baker’s daughter, grinning up at you with wide, curious eyes and her usual woven basket crooked over one arm.
“What?” she said. “I’ve never seen you look at someone like that before.”
“Like what ?” you demanded.
“Like he just pulled you out of a fairytale. Or set your whole life on fire. Or both.”
You stared at her like she’d just stabbed you in the ribs. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“No. I– he’s… It’s not like that. ”
She giggled. Actually giggled. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
“Sure,” she said, patting your arm. “Keep telling yourself that.”
You watched her skip off toward the fruit stand like she hadn’t just casually unraveled your entire mental stability in twelve seconds. You stood there a moment longer, trying to remember how to exist. Then, quietly, you dropped the half-eaten tart into the nearest barrel.
You laid flat on the garden path, arms tucked behind your head, cool earth pressing against your spine through the thin linen of your tunic.
The stars above were clear tonight. Sharp. Still. No clouds. No moon. Just the slow spin of constellations overhead and the rhythmic hush of wind through thyme and lavender. You tried to breathe with it. Match its tempo. Let the stillness soothe your frayed thoughts.
It didn’t work. The weight was back again. The one behind your ribs. Behind your eyes. Behind you. It had started maybe an hour ago, soft at first. Barely noticeable. A prickle at the back of your neck. A subtle shift in the air. The kind of thing most people would’ve brushed off.
But not you. You knew when something was watching. You’d learned to trust that instinct. You swallowed. Tried to keep your eyes on the sky. Counted the stars. Traced the old shapes your mother taught you. Refused… refused , to look at the trees.
But the feeling pressed harder. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t friendly either. Just there . Unrelenting. Until finally, your patience snapped. Your voice cut through the quiet like a blade
“If someone’s out there… just come out.”
You waited. Only the lavender rustled. Only the silence answered. You closed your eyes.
You froze. The voice came from behind you. Not far. Not loud. But clear enough to curl down your spine and light every nerve like flame. Smooth. Amused. Recognizable. You sat up too fast, your elbow caught the edge of a stone, but you barely felt it. Your eyes snapped to the garden gate, to the trees, the fence–
Leaning just slightly against one of the tall posts beyond the garden’s edge, arms folded, shadowed by the night but undeniably there. Cloaked. Hood down.
No birds this time. No feathers. Just him. Watching you.
The corner of his mouth quirked, not quite a smile. More like he was highly entertained by the fact that you’d dared to call him out.
“Is that what you think of me?” he asked, tilting his head. “A coward?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt. You stood slowly, brushing dirt off your skirts with more force than necessary.
“I think anyone who stares at women from the trees instead of speaking to them probably qualifies.”
His brow lifted, golden eyes flicking down your frame like he was memorizing you in real time.
“Plus, you didn’t seem interested in speaking to me the last time we met.” You crossed your arms, feet firmly planted in the dirt between the thyme and the bloodgrass, chin tilted just enough to feign composure, even though your heart hadn’t slowed since he spoke.
He hadn’t moved from the garden edge, but the air around him still felt too close . Like he could step forward at any moment and the world would change shape around him. So you said the first thing that came to mind. The safest thing.
“So you’re the bird boy, then? What was it? peacock whisperer? ”
That earned you something. He blinked slowly, unimpressed. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you saw it. The tiniest curve at the corner of his lip.
“Really?” he said dryly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That what they call me?”
“I mean, probably not to your face.”
“Mm.” A pause. “Cowards, then.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
“Did you come all the way back here just to be mocked?”
“I came to return something,” he said simply.
Your mouth opened, ready to ask what , but then he reached into his cloak, pulled something small and pale and wrapped in cloth. And tossed it underhand. You caught it instinctively, hands curling around the soft weight. When you unwrapped the fabric, your breath caught.
Another bundle of frostleaf. And, beneath it, a single white feather. You looked back up. He was still there. You blinked.
“You didn’t vanish,” you said flatly.
You narrowed your eyes. “And?”
What the hell. You took a step closer, clutching the bundle tighter. “Why are you leaving these?”
He tilted his head slightly. Didn’t answer.
“Seriously,” you said. “Frostleaf. Moonwort. That little cluster of bloodvine two days ago? You’re either very generous or very creepy.”
“Could be both,” he murmured.
You gave him a look. Sharp. Tired. “You’ve been sneaking around my garden almost every night.”
“Not every night,” he replied, almost too quickly.
That’s when his expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just… subtly. A pause in his stance. A drop in his voice. “Oh. Did you not like it?”
That threw you . You blinked again, mouth parting in confusion. “What?”
“The gifts,” he said simply. “If you didn’t like them, I’ll stop.”
You stared at him like he’d just asked you if the sky was too blue . “No– I mean… it’s not that. I just…” You exhaled. “Why?”
He shrugged. That same maddening, vague, entirely unhelpful shrug. “Felt like it.”
You gawked. “Are you serious right now?”
“Would you prefer I left nothing at all?” His tone was level. Calm. But something danced in his eyes, dry amusement, maybe. Or something quieter.
“I’d prefer you explained what exactly you want from me.” Another pause.
Then, softly, “You’re the first person who’s ever looked at me like I’m not cursed.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
“Don’t ruin it,” he added, and then, finally , turned back toward the trees.
“Wait–” you started, stepping after him.
But by the time you crossed the garden’s edge, he was gone. Again. You looked down at the frostleaf bundle in your hands.
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
You stood at the edge of your garden, wind tugging lightly at your sleeves, and shouted into the night like a madwoman. “At least get me some ghostshade next time!”
Your voice rang out over the trees. No answer. No sound. No feather.
“Ughhhhhh,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
You turned on your heel and stormed back toward the house, muttering under your breath.
“Creepy night stalker freakin’ cryptid cloak boy… thinks he can just… show up, drop herbs, emotionally gut me, and vanish? No explanation? No goodbye?”
You slammed the door behind you. Harder than necessary.
“Coolcoolcool,” you muttered. “Totally fine. Not losing my mind. Everything is… great. ”
The next morning came soft and golden. Birdsong crept lazily through your windows. Sun warmed the wood floor beneath your feet as you stepped out onto your back stoop, still barefoot, still groggy.
You rubbed at your eyes. And then you froze. Right there, set delicately on the same flat stones near the garden gate…
Carefully harvested. Pale purple, faintly glowing. Fresh. Cool to the touch. Wrapped in dark cloth. No note. No feather this time. Just… the plant. Exactly what you asked for. You stared at it for a full ten seconds.
“Unbelievable,” you whispered.
You hadn’t planned on it. You truly hadn’t. But the book had caught your eye on the trader’s cart, its spine worn, the title barely legible:
“Birds of the Eastern Vale: Habits, Diets, and Folklore.”
Naturally, your first thought was, “Huh. That might be helpful. For potion stuff.”
You told yourself it had nothing to do with him. Not the way he moved. Not the way the birds followed. Not the feather that still sat tucked inside your desk drawer.
Nope. Purely academic. You’d bought it without thinking. And now, hours later, you were curled sideways on your reading chair, candle flickering low, eyes scanning page after page with a strange mix of curiosity and… anticipation.
Your fingers dragged slowly down a chapter header, “Foraging Habits by Species: What the Birds Seek.”
“Small forest finches are drawn to frostleaf for its calming scent. Corvids have been known to collect ghostshade– Not for food, but for nesting material.”
“Some breeds instinctively seek out moonwort. It is believed to dull pain or sharpen sight during night flights.”
“White plumage birds seem particularly drawn to bloodgrass, often using it to line nests or mark territories.”
You stared at the paragraph a little too long. Then flipped a few pages back. Then forward. Then again. Your hand twitched for a quill.
Instead, you said aloud, “Interesting.”
A beat. Strictly for research purposes, of course.
You didn’t believe yourself. Not entirely. But still, when you shut the book, you slipped a little scrap of paper into the page about moonwort. Marked it. Just in case.
And as you stood to snuff the candlelight and head to bed,
You didn’t check the window. But you felt it. Like somewhere out there, in the thick dark of the forest, He knew.
You told yourself you needed more herbs near the back window anyway. The light was good. The soil was soft. And if the bed just so happened to be filled with moonwort and ghostshade, well, who could blame you? They were practical plants. Useful. Medicinal.
“Besides,” you said aloud to no one, crouched beneath the sill, dirt on your knees, “birds like them. They help the ecosystem.”
You didn’t look at the forest line when you said it. You pressed the roots in carefully, fingers gentle, humming something tuneless under your breath. The same page from the bird book echoed in your mind, something about moonwort aiding night-sight. Bloodgrass for territory.
“Mmhm. Strictly herbal interest,” you mumbled, patting the soil.
You reached for the final stalk, moonwort, still faintly silver-veined, and placed it in the center, steadying it upright with a small wooden stake.
When it was done, you wiped your hands on your apron and stood.
Totally normal. Absolutely not weird.
You took a step back, and froze.
A small white bird had landed on the ledge above the planter. You watched as it tilted its head, hopped forward, and began picking delicately at the edge of the soil, nipping at loose seeds.
You blinked slowly. The bird plucked one tiny stem free and fluttered off, vanishing into the trees without a sound. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He’d seen it. You could feel it. And somewhere, deep in the forest…
You were almost certain he did.
You didn’t wait up. You weren’t waiting at all. You just… left the window cracked. For airflow. And maybe you glanced at the moon a little longer than usual before blowing out the candle. And maybe your boots were left by the back door. Just in case. But it wasn’t waiting. It was preparedness.
The next morning, you rose early, sunlight brushing the edge of your bed like it was politely asking to come in. You stretched, exhaled, dragged your fingers through your hair.
You paused. There, set gently, precisely, on the windowsill planter you’d filled just yesterday, A sprig of silverthorn.
You stared at it for a long moment. Delicate. Pale. Laced with thin, iridescent veins. So faintly tinted blue it almost looked frost-kissed.
It wasn’t from your garden. It wasn’t from the town. You knew exactly where it came from, because you’d only ever seen it mentioned once .
Page forty-two. Bottom paragraph. “Silverthorn: A high-altitude plant known to draw white-winged birds to nesting grounds. Rare. Most commonly found deep in shaded, moss-covered clearings or beneath mountain overhangs.”
You picked it up carefully, brushing a bit of dew from the stem. Nothing else. Just the plant. A clear, quiet message.
You exhaled through your nose. Smiled, despite yourself.
“Unbelievable,” you whispered again.
But you tucked it carefully into a jar of clean water anyway. Right next to the feather in your drawer.
The bell above the apothecary door hadn’t even finished ringing when the footsteps struck the floor like thunder. Heavy. Unapologetic. Cloaked in purpose. You looked up from your notes, quill paused mid-stroke, as a tall figure swept into the shop, robes deep crimson, a silver pendant swinging from their neck like a blade.
Strict. Stoic. Stone-eyed. One of the council’s most devout voices. He didn’t so much speak as declare , and he never, ever , entered your shop without warning. You stood quickly, dipping your head in a respectful nod.
“Apothecary,” he said curtly, hands clasped behind his back as he scanned the shelves like they offended him.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“We require bitterthorn berries for the seasonal harvest.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “You will prepare a tincture before the eve of gathering.”
Your brows furrowed faintly. “I’m… afraid I haven’t come across any bitterthorn this year, sir.”
He turned sharply. His eyes landed on the frostleaf bundle drying near the window.
“But you found that , didn’t you.”
Your breath caught. You looked to the leaves. Still fresh. Still arranged exactly the way he left them. You swallowed.
Halden stepped forward, his presence filling the room like smoke.
“Then I’m sure you can do the establishment this favor,” he said, voice low but pointed. “Can you not, apothecary?”
You bowed your head instinctively, pulse racing behind your ears. “Of course,” you said. “I’ll do what I can.”
He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then, with a final sweep of his robes, he turned and walked out. The door swung shut behind him. You didn’t move for a long moment. Then, very quietly, you exhaled.
You stood in the silence after Halden’s exit for a long time, staring at the frostleaf bundle on your counter like it might shrivel beneath the weight of your guilt. The door creaked quietly behind you as the wind settled. You finally moved. Your fingers itched for answers. The old botany book cracked open on your workbench with a soft puff of dust. You flipped through pages, past diagrams, inked leaves, pressed petals, until you found the one you were looking for.
A small, jagged drawing in the upper corner. Thick, thorny stems. Red-black berries clustered low near the roots.
Your eyes skimmed the description…
“Found primarily in deep-shaded forest floors, most commonly near the Hollowgrove basin. Prefers silence, dark loam, and cold. Only blooms late season. Sap causes minor skin irritation, gloves required.”
You swallowed. You read it again. Hollowgrove. You stared at the name like it might change. Like the book might offer you another option if you just waited . It didn’t. You leaned against the table slowly. Closed the book with one hand.
Of course it’s Hollowgrove. Not only was it the deepest part of the woods, it was also the least traveled. Even the hunters avoided it. Too dark. Too dense. Too... alive.
You exhaled shakily and stared at your hands. This wasn’t even your job, not really. You didn’t take oaths. You didn’t hold titles. You didn’t sit in council chambers or lead prayer lines or harvest anything sacred.
You just… helped. You weren’t supposed to be part of all this. And yet here you were. The frostleaf sat in the corner, quiet and fragrant. Almost taunting. You didn’t say it aloud, but the thought clanged through your skull anyway…
You didn’t speak. Not even to yourself. Not while you moved through the shop with methodical precision, every motion practiced, measured.
Pouch of powdered yarrow. Cloth wrap. Skin balm. Small blade. Herb press. Water flask. Twine.
You packed light. You had to.
The berries, if you found them, would need space. You grabbed two empty baskets, slung the smaller one over your shoulder, and set the larger beside the back door.
Your cloak hung nearby. You paused as your hand hovered over it, fingers brushing the fabric. The color was dark. Not quite black. Not quite forest green. It would do. You draped it over your shoulders, pulling the hood up to shadow your face.
Just in case. The frostleaf still sat on the counter behind you. You didn’t look at it. You couldn’t. Instead, you stepped into your boots, adjusted the straps on your satchel, and took one last glance at the quiet shop. The fire was out. The windows were shuttered. Everything was still. You took a breath. And opened the door.
The wind met you like a whisper, brushing against your cheek as if to ask…
You didn’t answer. You just stepped outside, baskets in hand, and closed the door behind you.
The trees rose like teeth. Tall. Twisting. Shadowed. Familiar in shape, but wrong in tone, like something deeper hid behind the bark and waited. You stood at the edge of the forest for a long time. Not moving. Not blinking. The last fingers of daylight reached weakly through the branches, failing to touch the path ahead. The light was leaving. The warmth was gone. And still, you hadn’t stepped forward.
Your hand clenched around the strap of the basket. You could turn back. You should . But then, your foot moved. Forward. Just one step. And then another. And then your legs kept going, without permission, without pause, carrying you across the threshold like something inside you had decided it was already too late to stop .
The trees swallowed you whole. You didn’t know how long you walked. The light bled out faster than it should’ve, and the air grew damp with silence. Not still. Not peaceful. Just… held. Every branch you passed felt like it turned to watch. You tried to breathe steadily. But your chest was tight. And your thoughts were louder than your steps.
You shouldn’t be here. This is too far. You don’t belong here. But your feet kept moving. One after another.
“Breathe,” you whispered aloud. “Just breathe.”
But you were scared. Terrified. The kind that grips low in your stomach and doesn’t let go.
And still… You didn’t stop. The forest was breathing. Not with wind, but with life . With low rustles and shifting leaves. With the occasional snap of twigs from somewhere unseen. You kept your steps light, fingers clenched around the basket handle. Every sound felt too loud. Every breath, too sharp. You told yourself to focus.
Look for the berries. Get in, get out.
But then, You heard something… Low. Throaty.
A rough grunting sound, followed by something wet. Sloppy . Like a creature tearing into fruit or meat. You froze mid-step, body stiff as the trees around you. Your heart pounded loud in your ears.
Another sound, a growl this time. Soft. But not quite animal . And not far enough away. Your eyes scanned the thick brush ahead.
Wolf? No… too heavy.Boar? Maybe?
A branch snapped beneath your boot. The noise stopped instantly . Everything went still. No wind. No rustle. Not even a birdcall. The air tightened. Your breath caught in your throat.
You took a careful step backward, pulse pounding. But the silence was already speaking. Something was there. Watching. Just out of sight. And now?
You were too close. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your foot was still hovering just off the ground, the branch beneath it freshly cracked. The sound had shattered the forest’s rhythm, and whatever had been snarling, grunting, feeding just seconds ago?
Gone. Or silent. Which was worse. Your lungs tightened. Your fingers gripped the basket tighter than necessary.
“It’s fine,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself. “Probably just a, just a fox. Or a… something. Normal. Completely normal.”
But the bile rising in your throat didn’t agree. You stepped back. Another. Still nothing. No wind. No growl. Not even a breeze in the trees. Just you. Alone.
Deep in woods you shouldn’t be in, chasing a request that was never really yours. You glanced behind you, barely able to make out the path.
Your thoughts spiraled faster than your breath could keep up.
What if it was a wolf? A bear? What if I’m being watched? What if this was a mistake? What if Halden did this on purpose…
Your foot caught a root and you stumbled, catching yourself just before hitting the ground. You froze, breath ragged, eyes stinging from the effort of not crying. Before you could even process what was going on… A voice. Low. Dry. So close it slipped under your skin like cold water:
“It’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”
You whipped around. Nothing. Just trees. But that voice… You knew it. Your heart surged. You weren’t alone. Not anymore. You stayed perfectly still, breath caught in your throat. The silence hung like a blade.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you said the first thing that came to mind…
“Uh… peacock whisperer? ” It came out weaker than you meant. Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced. You were trying for brave. You sounded more like a feral librarian.
“I mean– ” you cleared your throat. “That is… you, right?”
Another beat of silence. Your heart thudded behind your ribs like it was trying to escape.
You glanced into the trees, eyes scanning every dark patch between the trunks.
“You’ve been… watching me,” you continued, voice steadier now, though it trembled at the edges. “For a while. Leaving things. Following birds. And I don’t even know your damn name.”
A breeze swept through the branches then, rustling the leaves in a whisper. And from somewhere just ahead, A low chuckle. Rough. Dry. Amused in that annoyingly confident way. It slipped out of the trees like smoke, wrapping around your ears and prickling your skin.
“You’re not very good at being subtle, you know,” came the voice again, deeper this time, with a curl of something behind it. “But I guess neither am I.”
You turned toward the sound slowly. But still… no one. Just the forest. Still too quiet. Still too close. The voice circled you like a hawk riding a thermal, unseen, but ever-present.
Finally. He stepped out. From the shadows between two trees, just far enough to be real. Cloak drawn low, hood still casting a faint shadow across his face. Golden eyes catching the dim light like they had no business glowing as much as they did. He was calm. Collected. The smug curve of his lips told you he’d been enjoying this little performance.
“You really should go home, apothecary,” he said lightly. “You’re not exactly built for this terrain.”
You opened your mouth to say something sharp. But you couldnt… all you could see was… The red. Streaked along his sleeve. Dark and fresh. Staining the edge of his collar, just barely visible where his cloak hung open.
Your heart spiked . You didn’t think. You moved. Fast. You crossed the space between you in two strides, grabbing his cloak with one hand and his wrist with the other, shoving him back against the tree behind him. He grunted, not in pain, just in surprise . Your fingers were already pulling at the fabric, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.
Your tone was sharp. Focused. No-nonsense. His eyes widened slightly, not in offense… but like he’d just seen a ghost. Like the question hit somewhere deeper than it should have.
“...You’re worried about me? ” he asked quietly, as if the concept was foreign.
You blinked, frown etched between your brows as your hands hovered just above his chest. His heart was racing. And not from the climb. Your hands pressed against his cloak, sweeping it aside with practiced ease. You leaned in, scanning for any deep wound, any source of…
You stopped. The blood was drying. Flaked. Already beginning to darken into rust along the fabric. Your eyes narrowed. You pulled your hand back and held your fingers up in the sliver of light that managed to pierce the canopy. It wasn’t his.
“...Well,” you muttered, arching a brow. “ Someone is bleeding.”
Your tone dripped with sarcasm. You dropped your hand, glaring at him. He stared down at you, pinned casually between your arms like this happened to him daily . His mouth twitched.
“I’m a hunter,” he said slowly, as if explaining to a child. “I kill things. For a living.”
You stepped back slightly, eyes still narrowed.
“That explains the smell,” you muttered.
He actually laughed at that, just once, quiet and under his breath. You crossed your arms.
He blinked. Tilted his head. “What noise?”
You frowned. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t have to. It comes naturally.”
You stared at him. He stared right back. The amusement was still there, but his posture had shifted. Just a little. Like he was waiting to see what you really knew. What you really heard. You could still hear it. That awful wet sound. The growl that wasn’t quite animal. That moment where the forest had gone silent.
“It sounded like…” you trailed off. “It didn’t sound like something you kill. It sounded like something that kills.”
His expression didn’t change. But his eyes? They sharpened.
“It’s dangerous out here, apothecary,” he said softly. “Maybe next time… stay in your garden.”
“Well that’s not an option right now,” you said flatly.
Your hands were still on him. And slowly, very slowly , you let go. But not before your eyes wandered. Just a little. And unfortunately, he noticed. Your fingers uncurled from his cloak, and your gaze drifted upward, as if trying to read something from his face. Instead, you just… looked. His hood had fallen back somewhere between your grab and the pin, and now there was nothing in the way of your view.
His hair was windswept and slightly tousled, strands the color of wheat and flame, half-shadowed by the canopy. His jaw was sharp, but not harsh, like it had been carved with real intention. Dusting of stubble along the edge. His mouth, parted slightly, was too smug for its own good.
But it was his eyes that got you. Precise. Focused. Golden . Like they saw too much. Like they knew more than he was saying. Like staring into the sun and forgetting to look away. You didn’t realize you were staring until one corner of his mouth tilted up. Just a bit.
You snapped back, clearing your throat and stepping fully away.
He’s… weird. Suspicious. Bleeds chicken. Lives in the woods. Probably talks to himself.
You refused to look again. But you still felt his eyes on you. Quiet. Knowing. Like maybe he caught every single thought that just ran through your head. You cleared your throat, refusing, refusing , to acknowledge the warmth rising to your cheeks.
You straightened your cloak and pretended that last thirty seconds didn’t exist.
“So, bitterthorn,” you said abruptly, like a verbal slap. “Know where I can get that?”
A pause. You felt his eyes still on you, heavy and unreadable, like he was trying to decide if he should tease you again.
“Kinda far from here,” he said finally, his voice lighter now. “South ridge. Past the basin.”
You frowned. “Isn’t that... Hollowgrove?”
He raised a brow, like finally , a smart question. “Yeah.”
“That area’s… ” you hesitated. “That’s dangerous.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t deny it. You stared at him, exasperated.
“And you just know where it grows?”
“I’ve been out here longer than you,” he said, folding his arms lazily. “I know a lot of things.”
You hated how smug he sounded. Worse, you hated how his cloak shifted when he crossed his arms, drawing attention to just how broad his shoulders were.
“Well,” you said, brushing your cloak back into place, posture straightening. “I’ll have to go. Thank you for the directions.”
You bowed your head slightly. Polite. Respectful. Like he was some traveling merchant and not the cryptid you’d just cornered and accused of bleeding in the dark. When your gaze lifted again, his expression had changed. He looked… Stunned. And maybe a little offended .
“Are you serious? ” he asked, eyes narrowing.
His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
“You just stumbled into something’s dinner,” he gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, “got stalked for half an hour, found me , covered in blood, by the way, and your brilliant plan is to keep going? ”
You frowned. “I need the bitterthorn.”
“You need survival instincts ,” he shot back.
You squared your shoulders.
“No, it’s not. You’re not a scout. You’re not a forager. You heal people. You stitch broken fingers and hand out sleep tea. This isn’t–” he gestured toward the trees again, “--this isn’t what you’re supposed to do.”
You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “Unfortunately, the religious council didn’t get that memo.”
You started to step around him, determination blazing in your eyes.
“I have to go,” you said firmly. “The council expects results, and I’m not about to let some old men’s superstitions dictate my work.”
He planted a foot firmly in front of yours, blocking your path. “You don’t get to just decide to wander into Hollowgrove because some dusty elders want their berries,” he growled, voice low but edged with something close to concern.
You narrowed your eyes, muscles tense but unyielding. “They’re messed up in the head anyways,” you said, voice steady but sharp. “Believing in monsters and curses instead of facts and healing.”
He let out a dry, humorless chuckle.“You’re pretty stubborn.”
He stepped closer, reducing the space between you until you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Fine,” he said, exasperated. “If you’re that set on walking into a death trap, I’m coming with you.”
Your heart skipped. You didn’t say it aloud, but you were grateful. Even if he was grumbling about it. He wasn’t exactly the hero you expected, but maybe… he was the one you needed. You crossed your arms, eyes locked on him as your voice sharpened.
“Those elders? They don’t want healing. They want control. Fear. Monsters to blame so they don’t have to face the real problems.”
He tilted his head, a slow smirk creeping onto his lips. “Oh yeah?”
He took a step closer, voice low and almost amused. “You have no idea how much I hate those old fools.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really.” He ran a hand through his hair, as if brushing away the weight of a thousand pointless meetings and sermons. “They think they’re the keepers of purity. Guardians of the ‘right way.’”
“But it’s just fear,” you said quietly, matching his tone. “Fear dressed up as faith.”
He looked at you, eyes sharp but with something like respect. “You’re braver than most around here.”
“Or just stubborn,” you shot back.
He chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. “Maybe a bit of both.”
For a moment, the tension between you eased, replaced by a rare understanding.
“Fine,” he said, voice dropping back to a growl. “But if you’re going to play rebel, I’m not letting you walk into Hollowgrove alone.”
“Don’t think I’m letting you off easy,” you warned.
He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As you hoisted one of your baskets, he stepped forward and gently took it from your hands before you could protest. Your fingers brushed briefly against his as he lifted it. A strange warmth fluttered in your chest, but you pushed it aside. This was fine . You walked side by side, the basket swinging lightly between you. After a moment of silence, you glanced over and let a small, teasing smile creep onto your face.
“So,” you said, voice light but curious, “do you actually talk to birds?”
He shot you a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Only when they’re worth listening to.”
You laughed softly. “That’s... very mysterious.”
He shrugged, eyes gleaming like he knew secrets no one else did. “Maybe.”
For the first time since this whole ordeal began, the forest felt a little less heavy. You glanced over at him, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Do you name them?” you asked, voice eager.
He smirked, shaking his head. “Only the troublesome ones.”
You laughed softly and kept going. “How do you get their feathers? Do they just... give them to you?”
He raised a brow. “Sometimes. Sometimes I take what’s fallen.”
You nodded thoughtfully, then fired off another. “Do they like you? I mean, is it mutual?”
He gave you a look that was half amusement, half something unreadable. “They tolerate me.”
You grinned, not ready to quit. “Is there anything I can grow for you? Anything that might help?”
His eyes flickered briefly, a subtle shift you almost missed. “Maybe.” He let the word hang between you like a secret.
You tilted your head, eyes sparkling. “Maybe? What do you mean?”
He glanced toward the sky, then back at you with a faint smile. “The birds seem to like the moonwort you planted near your windowsill.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, really? That’s so cool!”
You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Did they tell you that?”
He chuckled softly. “They didn’t have to. I’ve been paying attention.”
You felt warmth rush to your cheeks… not from the cold. “You’ve been watching me.”
A quiet moment settled between you, full of unspoken understanding. You looked at him, curious and a little cautious. “Do you not like people?”
He shrugged, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What’s to like about them?”
His voice was quiet, almost weary, like he’d carried that question a long time. You waited, sensing there was more beneath the surface.
“They’re loud. Messy. Fragile.” He gave a half-smile, bitter but honest. “And they don’t see what’s really important.”
You swallowed, feeling the weight behind his words. “But you… you watch the birds.”
He nodded. “They don’t lie. They don’t pretend. They just are. ”
For a moment, the distance between you felt smaller, the forest a little less daunting. You smirked, crossing your arms. “Hmmm, yeah... if I were only friends with birds, I’d probably hide in a forest too.”
He glanced at you, a flicker of something, surprise? Crossing his golden eyes.
“Doesn’t seem like you have many friends.”
Your smile didn’t waver. “Sounds like you’ve been paying attention.”
He leaned back against the tree, exhaling softly. “Maybe I have.”
For a moment, the teasing felt less like a challenge and more like an invitation. Many minutes passed as you walked through the tangled trees, the basket swinging lightly at his side.
You asked, and he answered, the conversation weaving between silence and shared stories, your voices soft against the rustling leaves.
Then, without warning, he spoke again. “You know,” he said, voice low but clear, “if you needed this so badly, you could have just asked.”
You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Asked? For what?”
He smirked, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. “The bitterthorn. It would have been in your garden by morning.”
You blinked, stunned. “Is that… a threat?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No. An offer.”
For the first time, the idea that he might actually want to help didn’t feel like a joke. Is this right? you wondered, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you walked beside him. Having friends was one thing. Guy friends were... different. Closer. Riskier. The elders would never approve of the way you lingered near the woods, the way you spoke so easily with this stranger, this hunter with golden eyes and too many secrets. You didn’t even know his name. Did it matter? Was it dangerous to care?
The weight of the village’s whispered warnings echoed in your mind.
“People like that don’t have friends.”
But maybe… maybe he wasn’t the monster everyone feared. Maybe you were just starting to see something else. His voice cut through the quiet.
You blinked, caught off guard. Had he really sensed that? How? You swallowed, searching for an answer.
“I’m fine,” you said softly, but your eyes betrayed you, clouded with confusion and uncertainty. He didn’t press.
Instead, he waited. And in the stillness that followed, you finally asked...
“I never got your name,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
He stopped walking. Turned slowly to face you, eyes deep and unreadable.
“Names can be dangerous,” he said after a beat.
“But if I’m going to walk this path with you... you deserve one.” His gaze softened, just enough.
“Hmmm… Keigo.” The name rolled off your tongue like honey, soft, warm. It suited him somehow. Strange, maybe, but… cute . You smiled a little to yourself.
Until… Something flickered in your memory. Your smile faltered.
“That name... I’ve never seen it in my reco–”
“We’re here.” His voice cut in sharply, not loud, but firm.
You looked up, startled to find the trees thinning, the air cooler. The ground beneath your feet shimmered faintly with frost. The clearing was ahead.
He started forward again without another word. But the unfinished thought hung in your chest like smoke. You pulled your gloves from your satchel, tugging them on with practiced ease. The bitterthorn was dense and delicate, fussy about how it was picked.
You crouched low, scanning the silvery vines twisting through the frost-kissed soil. Careful fingers found the stems, snapping them gently and placing them in the basket. Focused. Professional. You could feel him behind you.
Not close at first, just there. But then… He shifted.
You heard the soft crunch of his boots in the frost-dusted undergrowth, and when he knelt, he was suddenly far too close . Pressed into your side. You froze mid-reach. His knee brushed yours. His shoulder nudged yours lightly as he crouched down beside you, silently mimicking your movements.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured, voice low, too calm.
You didn’t respond immediately. Because breathing? Breathing suddenly felt like work.
You cleared your throat. “I do it for a living,” you muttered, eyes on the bitterthorn.
But your hands had started to shake just slightly in your gloves. The two of you worked mostly in silence. You finished your side of the patch, brushing frost from your gloves, and moved around the thick shrub to gather what remained on the other side.
You crouched again, settling into the rhythm, pluck, examine, toss. Footsteps crunched behind you. Then–
He plopped down beside you with little ceremony, the weight of him shifting the frost-crusted earth. This time, there was no hesitation. His arm brushed yours, shoulder to shoulder. His thigh pressed flush against yours. You froze for just a second.
He is definitely closer than before.
And he said nothing about it. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t comment. Just leaned forward casually, pulling a bitterthorn sprig with a slow, steady motion. You could feel his warmth bleeding through all the layers between you. It made your chest tight.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice even.
He didn’t look at you. But you saw the smallest hint of a smile at the edge of his lips.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached forward, snagging a cluster of berries right beside his knee, intentionally leaning into him in the process. Pressed into his side, shoulder digging slightly into his chest.
You didn’t even blink. “You’re in my light,” you murmured.
He huffed a quiet laugh, not moving an inch. You didn’t either. Eventually, the baskets were full. You pulled your gloves off with a slow snap and stood, dusting frost from your skirts. He followed, stretching as he rose beside you, still watching, still quiet.
You didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the way your shoulder tingled where it had rested against his.
Instead, you reached for your basket like nothing had happened.
And without waiting, you started walking. He followed, of course. Just a half-step too close.
By the time you were halfway back through the thicket, he had both baskets in hand. You didn’t even remember handing yours off. Maybe you hadn’t. But you let it happen. He walked beside you like it was natural now, shoulder brushing yours every so often, his steps easy and unhurried.
He’s definitely getting comfortable… maybe too comfortable.
Your eyes drifted to his side. The dried blood still stained the hem of his cloak.
“You gonna wash that?” you asked flatly.
“Hm?” he looked down as if only just noticing. “Oh. Yeah. Later.”
That wasn’t an answer. You stared a little longer, then glanced behind you. No carcass. No signs of a proper hunt. Your brow furrowed.
He wasn’t carrying the body. Did he just… leave it?
Was that even his first kill of the night?
You said nothing. But the questions were stacking faster than your heartbeat. And next to you, Keigo just kept walking like the forest didn’t whisper with warnings behind his every step. You stepped over a thick root, squinting ahead as the path began to flatten, the trees parting just slightly. The faint outline of an old tree marker came into view, one you knew well.
You exhaled in relief. “Oh, I know where we are,” you said, more to yourself than him.
He didn’t miss a beat. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t.”
You gave him a sidelong glare. “I was just double-checking.”
“Sure you were.” He adjusted the baskets in his hands, smirking like he had already won something.
You didn’t respond. But if your elbow nudged him just a little as you passed, well… that was your business. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the soft crunch of frost beneath your boots and the whisper of branches above. You glanced at him, trying to read the slope of his jaw, the quiet calm he always wore like a second cloak.
“You know… people are kind of scared of you.”
He didn’t even look over. “Oh really?” Sarcasm, dry as ever.
You winced. Maybe not the best opening.
“I mean... people used to be scared of me too,” you added quickly, voice lower now.
He finally glanced your way. You couldn’t quite read his expression. You looked forward again, trying not to sound too nervous.
“Anything different, I guess… makes people weird. Makes them... wary.”
Still, he said nothing. You swallowed and tried again. “I just mean… I get it.”
A long beat passed. You weren’t sure he was going to respond at all.
Just that. But it felt heavier than most full conversations you’d had. The trees were thinning now, just enough that you could see the dusky edge of the path that would lead to your garden. Home was close. The silence between you had settled into something comfortable. Almost warm.
But of course it couldn't stay that way.
“So,” he said casually, “what else have you learned from your bird book?”
You stopped. Your foot caught mid-step. You turned slowly, staring at him.
“I... never mentioned I had a bird book.”
He smiled, innocent, infuriating.
No. No, you absolutely didn’t.
He kept walking, like he hadn’t just peeled back your walls with one sentence. You caught up, heart skipping a little too fast.
Okay, you thought, he’s still a little weird. Definitely a little weird.
But gods help you… You still kind of liked it.
The path opened up fully now, your garden just ahead, familiar and quiet, bathed in fading light. You slowed. He didn’t. Not until you both stood at the low stone edge of your property, the herbal rows just visible past the gate.
He still had the baskets. You still hadn’t decided what to say.
Do I offer him in? Would that be too forward? Would he take it the wrong way?
You glanced at the side of his face. He looked… unreadable. Relaxed, but still sharp around the edges. Your throat tightened. He hadn’t made a move to hand the baskets over.
So… it’s on him, isn’t it?
How far he walked. Where he stopped. Whether he crossed that little threshold between “visitor” and… something else. The two of you reached the back door, the baskets still in his hands.
You turned to say something, to thank him, maybe, but he beat you to it.
“So... are you gonna invite me in, or–”
His voice trailed off. His eyes weren’t on you anymore. They were fixed just over your shoulder, a shift in his posture so subtle, but so immediate, you felt it before you even turned.
“What is that?” he asked.
You followed his gaze. “Oh. That’s just the night-blooming jasmine.” You smiled softly, almost absentmindedly. “My mother used to plant them. I just… took over after.”
His face changed. The playful smirk dissolved into something unreadable. Not pain. Not quite. But something hollow. Stilled. As if time paused behind his golden eyes.
You watched him, heart thudding. “Keigo?”
He blinked once. Then twice.
“...It suits the place,” he murmured.
But his voice didn’t match the words. You blinked, heart hammering in your chest. “Oh... thank you…” Before you could second-guess yourself, your fingers found the latch.
The door creaked open. He stepped inside. You froze.
Holy crap. He’s actually coming in.
The warmth of the room wrapped around you, thick with the scent of herbs and earth. He paused, eyes sweeping over the shelves and jars. Your breath hitched.
You stepped aside and motioned toward the empty side table. “Here, you can put the baskets down.”
He obeyed, setting them down with a soft thud.
You turned to him, eyes warm.“Thank you so much, Keigo. It means a lot that you’d help me.”
For a heartbeat, he looked like you’d said something utterly absurd. His mouth opened, then closed. “I… you… uh…”
You raised an eyebrow, concern creeping in. “Are you feeling okay?”
His eyes flickered briefly, then he gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I’m fine.”
But the hesitation lingered in the air between you. You glanced at the night-blooming jasmine clustered near the window.
“You like the jasmine? I can cut some for you, if you want.”
His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes please.”
You reached for your small, sharp knife and moved toward the plant. As you knelt to snip a few fragrant sprigs, you noticed him slowly pacing around the room, inspecting everything with an amused curiosity.
Of course he’s poking around.
You were just about to turn back to your task when he suddenly froze mid-step. “HAH! The bird book.”
You looked up, caught off guard. “What about it?”
He smirked, holding up the well-worn tome you’d left open on the worktable. “I knew you were weirder than you let on.”
You stepped closer, holding the freshly cut jasmine between your fingers, the delicate fragrance filling the room. With a teasing smile, you glanced up at him. “Yeah, says the one who actually talks to birds.”
He looked up from the book, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Guilty as charged.”
You tapped a finger against the open pages, scanning the text and illustrations. “So, what’s your verdict? Am I a bird whisperer or just a crazy herbalist?”
He closed the book with a soft thud, eyes locking onto yours. “Definitely a little of both.”
You leaned lightly against the table, holding the jasmine between your fingers as you looked at him. “Hmmm… you’re actually pretty cool.”
His brow lifted, a touch surprised, like he wasn’t used to compliments that weren’t edged in fear or suspicion. You shrugged. “I’m sure if people saw me talking to you, I’d be beheaded. But, what’s new.”
He blinked. Then gave a quiet laugh, low and warm, but with an edge. “Charming town, isn’t it?”
You smiled, just a little. “Oh, the best.”
Your fingers brushed over the petals in your hand. Still alive. Still here. And somehow… not entirely alone.
He looked around again, a little slower this time, like the space actually meant something. “It’s been a while since I was somewhere like this.”
You tilted your head. “Like what?”
He didn’t meet your gaze right away. “Just… allowed in.”
That made your chest pull tight. But before you could say anything…
He looked at you, completely serious. “Just curious.”
Your brain was running laps. Did he want to see it? Why did he want to see it? Was that a bird- man thing? Was he going to sniff your sheets or something???
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. And he just stood there. Waiting. Calm. Casual. Like he hadn’t just completely short-circuited your entire nervous system. He didn’t even blink. Just looked at you like it was a totally reasonable question.
Your brain short-circuited.
Just curious? Just curious about where I lay unconscious and vulnerable every night?
You coughed, trying to play it off. “That’s kind of a weird question.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Most people ask things like ‘how’s your day?’ or ‘what’s your favorite tea?’ Not, you know, where do you sleep .”
He tilted his head, half a smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not most people.”
You glanced toward the back hall. “It’s… uh… down the hall. Not that I’m inviting you to see it or anything.”
“Didn’t ask to,” he said, amused. “Yet.”
Your face burned. You hated him. You also maybe, sort of didn’t. You kept half an eye on him as he wandered across the room again, this time to your bookshelf.
Because apparently that’s what we do now. Just poke through people’s reading habits uninvited.
He ran a finger along the spines like he was choosing wine, pausing occasionally to tilt his head at the titles.
You tried not to feel exposed. “You always this nosy?”
“Only when I’m curious.” That faint smirk again.
You crossed your arms, watching him more closely now.
The way he moved, slow, deliberate, quiet . Too quiet. Like he was always calculating. Always listening. And his eyes… You squinted slightly.
Was his gaze... reflecting the candlelight?
Just a flicker. A strange, golden glint that didn’t belong in normal irises. You blinked. Gone.
You filed it away in the back of your mind with the rest of the things about him that didn’t quite make sense. You watched him pluck a book off the shelf, one of the thicker ones, and flip it open like he had all the time in the world.
You cleared your throat. He didn’t look up. “Are you staying all night, orr…?”
That finally got a reaction. His eyes lifted, golden and amused. “Depends. You inviting me to?”
You made a face. “Absolutely not.”
He closed the book, the ghost of a grin on his lips. “Then no. I’m just enjoying the ambiance.”
“Right. The ambiance of… herbal storage and dust.”
You crossed your arms. “...You’re really weird, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one, apothecary.”
If he was going to stay, then fine. You had things to do anyway. Notes to organize, books to reference, obscure medicinal entries to reread for the hundredth time. Just a normal night for an apothecary. You pulled your chair closer to the desk and sat comfortably, curling one leg underneath you as you flipped open a thick, handwritten volume. Something about root systems in swamp climates. Completely irrelevant. Possibly life-saving. Who knew?
Across the room, Keigo still hadn’t moved from the bookshelf. A different book now in hand, posture relaxed but never fully at ease, he read in that same deliberate way he did everything, like each sentence might hold a secret.
The candlelight flickered between you. Neither of you spoke. It was… weirdly comfortable. Almost like you’d done this before.
Don’t overthink it, you told yourself.
So you didn’t. You just turned another page. And so did he. You blinked hard. Twice. The candlelight was soft and steady. Your notes were beginning to blur. Across the room, Keigo was still standing by the bookshelf, still reading, like time didn’t apply to him. Like the hour didn’t matter. Your elbow slipped a little on the desk and you caught yourself, sitting up straighter with a stubborn breath.
Nope. No way. You’re not falling asleep while some forest cryptid is standing in your house acting like it’s a public library.
You flipped another page, though you had no idea what it said. You didn’t even notice him glance up from his book until he spoke. “You don’t have to stay awake just for me.”
You stiffened. “I’m not.”
A beat. You regretted that too quickly. He set the book down, spine up. “You’re practically drooling on your notes.”
Silence stretched. Then his voice, quiet. “You’re safe, you know.”
Your gaze flicked to him. He wasn’t smiling. He just looked… certain. Like he meant it.
Dangerous people don’t usually say that out loud, you told yourself.
But gods, something in your chest relaxed anyway. Just a little. You stared at him across the candlelit room. He wasn’t smiling. Just calm. Steady.
“Says the guy with blood all over him,” you muttered, eyes half-lidded.
Your head dropped gently onto your arm, cheek smushing against your notes, fingers still curled around a half-written line.
He watched you for a second longer, eyes softening just slightly. Then, without a word, he picked up the book again and kept reading.
Your eyes fluttered open to a beam of blinding sunlight slicing through the apothecary window. You groaned, lifting your head, paper stuck faintly to your cheek. Your notes were crumpled beneath you, ink smudged in places, but mostly intact.
You blinked a few times, disoriented, and sat up with a stretch. Then froze. There was a blanket on you. Not just a blanket. Your blanket. From your bed. You recognized the stitching at the hem, the way it smelled faintly of lavender from the sachets you kept under your pillow.
Your heart flipped. He’d seen your bed. He’d gone in your room. He’d… He tucked you in?
You stood up too fast, pushing the blanket off and staring around the room. No sign of him. No sound. Just quiet. And on the corner of the desk… a single white feather.
You rubbed your eyes and stretched, still dazed. The blanket pooled at your feet. You stared down at it, then up at your notes again, and that’s when you saw it. A tiny, smiley face , drawn in the corner of the page you fell asleep on. Drawn with your ink . You stared.
And then you looked to the windowsill. The jasmine was gone. Of course it is.
No feather trail. No scribbled message. Just the faintest hint of birdsong outside and a silence that felt… too full to be empty. You had no idea when, or if , you’d see him again.
And the worst part? You already kind of missed him. You spent the rest of the morning pretending. Pretending like your blanket hadn’t been moved. Like your notes hadn’t been graffitied by a grown man with the sense of humor of a child. Like the jasmine on your windowsill hadn’t been taken by the world’s most cryptic forest ghost.
You threw yourself into your work. Every bottle was refilled. Every herb re-sorted, catalogued, and re-labeled. You scrubbed glass jars that didn’t need scrubbing. You re-stitched the linen lining on the patient cot. You even fixed that creaky drawer you’d been ignoring for three weeks.
Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep your brain quiet. “Forget him,” you muttered to yourself while grinding moonwort into powder..”
By mid-afternoon, you’d helped five customers. A burn, two rashes, one mystery cough, and a dog with fleas.
“Anything else?” you asked the last customer, too cheerily.
“No, that’s everything,” they said, eyes a little wide at your enthusiasm. “You’ve been... very helpful.”
You smiled. Tight. “That’s my job.”
But the second the bell on the door jingled closed behind them, your eyes drifted, unbidden, toward the tree line outside your back window.
Still. Quiet. No birds. No feathers. No Keigo.
Good, you told yourself. You’re better off. You didn’t believe it. Not even a little. The soft chime of the door broke your focus.
Ela’s voice drifted in like warm bread, and you turned to see her, cheeks rosy from the walk, basket in hand.
“Here for your mother’s tea?”
“Mhm! She said your last batch worked wonders. Slept through the whole night. Not even the church bell woke her.”
You gave a soft smile and reached for the pouch already prepared behind the counter. “Tell her not to brew it too hot this time. It burns the calming oils.”
“Got it.” She stepped forward, accepting the wrapped herbs, then paused, eyes flicking toward your desk, where several books still sat half-opened in a haphazard pile.
Her gaze landed on that one.
“Birds, huh?” she asked, tilting her head. “That’s... interesting.”
You blinked. “It’s for cross-pollination.”
“Right.” She didn’t sound like she believed you.
“You know,” she said casually, “I’ve never actually seen you talk to anyone. But lately… you’ve seemed a little less, I dunno... haunted.”
You stared at her. “What are you getting at.”
“Nothing!” she said innocently, already turning for the door. “Just thought it was cute. The whole mysterious herbalist and bird-watching recluse thing.”
She giggled, swinging the door open. “I didn’t say anything. Enjoy your feathers.”
And she was gone. You stood there, blood hot in your ears, glaring at the empty doorway.
She doesn’t know anything.
Your eyes shifted slowly to the desk. Tabs. Smiley face. Book on migratory patterns.
You weren’t nervous. Of course not. You just… took a little longer getting ready than usual. A fresh blouse. Hair pinned just so. A ribbon tucked into your braid, deep plum, matching the color of the bitterthorn berries now neatly bundled in twin baskets on your worktable.
You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But you’d deliver just the same.
When you opened the door, the sunlight spilled across your floor like judgment. You stepped through it without flinching.
The baskets were heavier than you remembered. Or maybe it's because it wasn't your arms carrying them. Either way, you carried them all the way to the town square with steady strides and your chin high. The church building loomed ahead, tall, pale stone with its high stained-glass windows and pointed arches that always looked like they were watching you.
Inside, the air was still and cool. A few heads turned when you entered. Quiet murmurs followed. You ignored them.
“Delivery for the harvest preparation,” you said simply, placing the baskets on the altar table with care.
A robed attendant took them with only a nod, but he wasn’t the one you were worried about. You straightened, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. Behind you, heavy footsteps approached on the stone floor.
“Apothecary,” came a deep voice.
You turned slowly. The elder priest stood there, hands clasped, face unreadable. “You followed through.”
“And where did you find them?”
He stared at you for a beat too long. But finally, he nodded once. “Good. We’ll pray they’re enough.”
“I’m sure they are.” You turned and walked out before he could ask more.
The sunlight hit your face like a reward.
The town fell behind you in slow, echoing steps. You walked, steady, quiet, like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just handed over proof that you could do what no one else could. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were too good at your job. Too good at surviving. At knowing what to say. At hiding just enough of the truth to keep them satisfied.
They’re going to get me killed.
The thought whispered through your skull like wind through hollow bark. Not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. Because now they knew you could find what they couldn’t. Go where they wouldn’t.
And if they asked again? When they asked again? What choice would you have.
You hugged your arms tighter around yourself as the trees returned to view. Your cottage peeking through branches like a quiet retreat, but not even that felt safe now. Would they ask you to go deeper next time? Would they watch you? Would they send someone with you?
You reached the garden gate, fingers trembling as you unlatched it. You didn’t want to go back in there. But you would. Because you’d have to. Because they wouldn’t stop. Not until the forest took you or he did.
By the time you reached your cottage, the sky had deepened into soft gray, clouds low and heavy, like the earth had taken a long breath and didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t notice the small box until you nearly tripped over it. Set just beside your door. Wrapped in deep red cloth. No note. You stared at it for a moment, heart already racing.
Not again. You crouched slowly, lifting the fabric.
Delicate and shining. Silver, but not pure, some blend of metals, carefully wrought. Safe. Thoughtful. The end curled into a familiar shape.
Not like jasmine. Not symbolic of jasmine. It was your jasmine. The exact way your mother had once shaped them in her garden. The way you had grown them ever since. The ones he had stared at without saying a word. You ran your thumb along the curve of the metal. It wasn’t something someone bought on a whim. It wasn’t casual. It was… too much.
“What are you doing...” you whispered aloud, even though he wasn’t here. Or maybe he was. The trees didn’t move. The air didn’t shift. But the feeling crept in all the same, that heat against the back of your neck. That quiet, invisible gaze.
You stood, clutching the pin, throat dry. This isn’t funny anymore. But you didn’t throw it away. Of course you didn’t.
You called it a night not long after. There was nothing more to be done. The herbs were drying, the shelves were stocked, the tea orders sorted. You ate half a loaf of bread, drank water you didn’t remember fetching, and changed into something soft and threadbare, something familiar.
And the hairpin stayed exactly where you left it. Right on the corner of your bedside table. Close enough to catch the lamplight. Not on purpose. Just... that’s where it ended up. You didn’t touch it again. Didn’t put it away either. You laid down with your back to it.Didn’t think about it.
A couple days passed like that. Maybe three. Maybe four. You weren’t sure. Business was steady. You kept your head down. Stayed in the garden. Dried chamomile. Took long walks to nowhere in particular. You hadn’t seen him. You hadn’t seen anything.
And that should’ve been comforting.
You weren’t thinking about it. Not the jasmine pin. Not the soft way he’d said your name. Not the way he looked at you like…
You pressed your palm over your eyes.
You're not thinking about it.
The sun warmed your shoulders as you stepped past the market stalls, the buzz of voices washing over you like a gentle tide. For once, the usual wary glances and whispered suspicions felt softer, friendlier, maybe because you’d earned a little respect, or maybe because you were just finally letting yourself breathe.
You smiled at a group of women sharing gossip near the bread vendor, and one of them returned it, nodding in quiet approval.
Your feet carried you further down the main street toward the blacksmith’s forge, a sturdy stone building, smoke curling from the chimney and the steady clink of hammer on metal ringing out.
Inside, the blacksmith looked up from his workbench, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Ah, Apothecary,” he greeted with a broad grin. “What brings you here?”
You lifted the edge of your cloak, revealing the small leather pouch you carried. “I need a new mini cauldron,” you said, fingering the worn one strapped to your belt. “Something sturdy, but not too big.”
He nodded, already rummaging through his shelves of pots and pans. “Got just the thing,” he said, holding up a small, thick-bottomed iron pot with a smooth finish. “Perfect for your tinctures and brews.”
You took it, feeling the weight in your hands, the rough cast-iron cool but comforting. “Thank you,” you said softly. “Exactly what I needed.”
As you turned to leave, the blacksmith called out, “If you ever want to learn to mend your own gear, you know where to find me.”
You chuckled, stepping back into the sunlight.
You found yourself walking past the butcher’s stall on the way back, the smell of roasting meat tugging at your stomach. Maybe tonight you’d eat something warm, instead of just breathing in herbs and falling asleep over your books.
“Hi, sir! Two chicken skewers, please,” you called out, smiling.
The butcher looked up, his weathered face breaking into a friendly grin. “Ah, of course,” he said, carefully wrapping them in parchment.
You reached for your coin pouch, but before you could pay, he waved a hand.
“No need. You healed my wife’s fever last week. Please, take it for free.”
“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly– ” you started, but he shook his head firmly.
“Consider it a thank you. And an encouragement to keep doing what you’re doing.”
Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected kindness. “Thank you. Truly.”
With the skewers tucked safely in your basket, you were about to continue your way home, feeling lighter than you had in days. You barely had time to step away from the butcher’s stall when the air around you seemed to change. A shadow fell over your shoulder, and before you could turn, a familiar presence was there.
Keigo. Cloak pulled tight around him, dark and unreadable, like he’d stepped straight out of the forest. Whispers stirred among the people nearby. Eyes flicked to him, then quickly away. Some stepped back, others simply melted into the crowd, leaving you standing awkwardly alone.
You swallowed, heart thudding. He moved with quiet purpose. Without a word, Keigo pulled a large, worn leather pouch from his cloak and set it on the butcher’s table. You assumed it was animal remains… that was his job after all.
The butcher glanced inside. “Thank you…” he muttered, voice low.
Without waiting for a response, the butcher turned and disappeared toward the back of the stall. Moments later, the butcher returned carrying a heavy sash of coins, which he pressed into Keigo's hand.
You wanted to look at Keigo. To say something. But your eyes wouldn’t meet his. Why couldn’t you look? He took the coins pressed into his hand and you decide to finally glance up, hoping to catch the butcher’s friendly smile again.
Instead, your eyes met Keigo’s. He was already looking at you. That same expression, the one from the very first time you’d seen him. Not quite anger. But definitely not pleased. Your chest tightened. What had you done? Had you said something wrong? Did you slip up somehow? Before you could unravel your thoughts, a sharp, clearing voice cut through the silence.
You blinked. The butcher stood in front of you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
“You’re holding up the line, miss.”
A small crowd was gathering behind you, waiting patiently but expectantly. You flushed, muttering a quick apology as you stepped aside to collect your skewers. Keigo’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and melted back into the shadows.
You walked fast. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel the skewers swinging slightly in your basket, untouched.
God. His face. That look, flat, unreadable, and far too familiar. It gnawed at you the entire way down the main road. You tried to shake it off. You nodded to the candlemaker’s apprentice. Thanked the grocer for a small jar of honey he pressed into your hands. Smiled when the florist waved.
But your body was stiff, your smile tight, and the words didn’t feel like yours.
Why did he look at you like that?
You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t even say anything. You told yourself that once, twice, ten times. It didn’t help. And the worst part? You could feel him. Not next to you. Not behind you. Not exactly. Just… around . Like the wind moving in the wrong direction. Like shadows that didn’t quite belong. Like every crow in the village had turned its head to follow your steps.
Your fingers curled tighter around the basket handle… Keigo, what did I do?
You reached your cottage just as the wind picked up. The door loomed in front of you, familiar, safe. But your hand hesitated at the latch. You glanced around. The garden was still, the jasmine untouched. The path behind you was quiet. Too quiet.
At least… not where you could see. You exhaled slowly, trying not to look like you were checking . But your eyes swept the trees anyway. Nothing but shifting branches and the sound of distant crows.
“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
Still, your heart kicked harder as you pushed open the door. It creaked like always. You stepped inside quickly, closing it behind you with a soft click. Then paused. Just in case. You walked through each room, quick, practiced steps. Checked the back door. The windows. Even your herb room. No sign of him. No sign of anyone. Still, the air felt heavy. Like it hadn’t quite cleared since you left.
You stood in the center of your home for a moment, hands still curled around your basket, skewers untouched. Why were you so scared? Not of him. Just… of what he might be thinking. Of what he might do. Of what you don’t know. You placed the basket on the table with more force than necessary.
You exhaled through your nose, staring down at the untouched skewers. Your appetite was long gone.What is wrong with you?
You turned, pacing to the far end of the room, then back. He’s not here. He’s not in the window, he’s not in the garden, he’s not pressed into the shadow of the wall… he’s not here.
But it didn’t feel true. It felt like he was everywhere. In the shift of the curtains. In the way the breeze creaked the floorboards. In the darkened corners of your home that somehow felt darker than usual.
When was the last time you felt… alone? Really alone .
You leaned on the edge of the table, knuckles white. Maybe you need to say something. Or… or write something. Set… boundaries. Normal people have those. You laughed bitterly at yourself. Normal people don’t lie awake all night wondering if the man they met in the woods is going to materialize in their home.
You paused, then muttered under your breath… “yeah . Right.”
You dragged your hand down your face.you just… you need space. You need your space. Your privacy. This is your home. Your life. You didn’t ask for this… this shadow over everything. You looked to the window.
Silence. Your shoulders sagged. What does he even want ? The question hung in the room like a weight, pressing down on your chest. You didn’t have an answer. Not a real one. You stared down at the scrap of parchment in your hand, ink pen hovering just above it.
Please leave me alone from now on.
Seven little words. It didn’t look like much. But they hit like a stone in your chest. You read it again. Once. Twice.
You glanced to the side, to the small wooden box where you’d stashed the hairpin, the beautiful, delicate one shaped like jasmine, like your mother’s flowers. It gleamed faintly in the low light, catching the glint of the oil lamp.
He did give you that. He didn’t have to. So maybe… maybe he was trying. In his own strange way.
But that look . That expression at the butcher’s stall. Like you’d betrayed him. Or worse, like you owed him something.
You swallowed, folding the note in two with trembling hands. “Maybe this is for the best,” you whispered into the silence. “I just need… to breathe.”
You stepped outside quietly, the night air cool on your skin. You moved to the edge of the garden, to the small post where he always left his offerings. You hesitated. Then, with a soft exhale, placed the folded paper gently on the flat stone at its base.
“Please understand,” you whispered, even though no one was there. You turned, walked inside, and shut the door. This time, you didn’t look over your shoulder. But gods, you wanted to.
You weren’t sure what woke you. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the stillness. Or maybe… That sound. Wet. Choking.
Like someone drowning in their own breath. It bubbled up from somewhere just beyond the window, hidden in the folds of the dark. You froze under the blanket, heart thudding hard enough to shake your ribs.
There it was again. A thick, suffocating gurgle, cut short like a throat closing mid-gasp. You sat up. For a moment, the room was too quiet. Even the wind held its breath. You slid from bed, pulled your shawl around your shoulders, and reached for your oil lamp. It flickered low, barely holding its flame.
“Please don’t be what I think it is…”
The back door creaked as you opened it slowly. Cold air swept around your ankles, carrying the scent of damp earth, crushed herbs, and… Blood?
The garden was still. Too still. No breeze stirred the night-blooming jasmine. The trees beyond didn’t even rustle. You stepped out, bare feet ghosting over the stones, the lamp trembling in your hand.
This is fine, you thought. Maybe a fox. Maybe an animal got caught in the fencing. Just check the post. That’s all. You walked carefully. Every crunch of a stray twig sounded like a thunderclap. You forced yourself forward, eyes darting through the shadows, breath held. The sound had stopped. But your body stayed locked in place. Something felt… wrong. You reached the small stone post where you’d left the letter.
No, not untouched. New ink had bloomed across the page.
Your lamplight caught it, dark, rust-colored. Bold, unmistakable letters slashed through your careful handwriting:
The word stared back at you. Thick. Jagged. Written in blood. You staggered back a step, chest heaving. Your stomach turned as you realized,
It was fresh. Still wet. Still warm. You scanned the garden wildly, lamp whipping with your movements.
No response. Just the silence. The paralyzing, watching kind. And somewhere in the trees, you swore you heard the rustle of feathers.
