But it didn’t thrash.
Instead, it watched me.
Its eyes, great liquid mirrors, held no fear. Only pain. And patience.
I stepped forward carefully, my boots meeting the earth with a slow, deliberate pressure, sinking into the saturated moss with a soft, sucking sound. The air grew dense, pressing against my skin, thick with an unspoken weight that defied description, yet felt utterly real. The stag didn’t move or flinch.
My throat tightened. My fingers trembled at my sides. I was no threat, and it seemed to know that.
A wave of raw emotion, sharp as any physical blow, stole my breath as I fell to my knees. Something ancient hummed through the ground beneath me—older than gods, older than names. Smelling iron and bark, the bitter rot of old blood, mingled with a sharp wildness, like lightning before it struck.
“Shhh…It’s all right,” I whispered, though my voice cracked. “I’m here.”
I was unable to tell if my words existed for the stag or myself.
Beneath my knees, the soaked moss felt warm. The snare bit into my fingers the moment I touched it. I winced but didn’t let go. Slowly, I uncoiled the rusted wire, wincing with every metallic snap. My palmsshredded, mingling my warm blood with the cold,dark stains already coating the stag. It didn’t move.
“Almost there,” I breathed, tears slipping down my cheeks. “A little longer.”
The trap gave a final creak, and I eased it open. The stag let out a groan that reverberated in my chest.
I dug into my pouch, fingers frantic. Balmleaf. Marrowroot. Silk wrap. I crushed and mixed them with water from my flask, grinding the salve against a flat stone with the heel of my palm. Then I pressed the mixture gently into the wound, whispering apologies under my breath.
Through the haze of pain and blood, the stag's gaze held mine, liquid and impossibly mournful, a silent accusation.
And I sensed something observing through it.
Its gaze was too still, too ancient. I experienced no fear, only pressure. Like the forest itself was breathing with me. Like my blood pulsed to its rhythm. I had read once that the gods sent stags to those who had lost their way. Or perhaps it was the stag who chose the lost. I could never recall which, but I believed it now.
The air shimmered faintly around us. The moss near the wound curled slightly as I pressed my hands down firmly, almost like it recognized me.
It didn’t see a princess. It didn’t see a pawn.
It saw me. Wyn.
I moved slowly, speaking in a whisper even I couldn’t understand, as I reached into my satchel. My hands worked on instinct, cleansing the wound as best I could, packing the worst of it with poultice, and wrapping the leg in linen strips soaked in sap and tincture.
The stag didn’t fight me; only breathed. Watched. Trusted.
When I finished, I sat collapsed onto my heels, my breath shallow, a hollowness echoing the tightness in my chest. Blood and resin glued my hands together, a gritty, cold mess. Thedamp moss clinging to my knees, offering no prisoners.
The stag rose.
It moved slowly with deliberate grace and stood despite the wound. Its legs trembled, but it held. It shouldn’t have been able to, and yet, there it was. Alive and enduring.
A hard lump formed in my throat, burning with the bitter realization of its suffering. I hated that the world could hurt something so beautiful without hesitation. It deserved to remain untouched in the wild. It deserved more than rusted teeth and silence.
Its gaze stayed on mine.
Then it bowed.
The motion was deliberate, slow. One leg folded beneath it, head dipping in a movement too graceful to be a coincidence, as if in recognition.
My heart thudded once, hard. I didn’t breathe, as if I’d forgotten how to for a moment.
Then the stag turned, limped to the edge of the glade, and vanished into the trees.
I remained frozen in place. What did it mean, that bow? Why me? I wasn’t brave. No one chose me. I was a girl who stumbled through every expectation placed on her. The Stag hadn’t feared me, hadn’t fled. It had seen something and honored it, but I didn’t know what. And that terrified me more than anything.
