The village has already begun circling her like scavengers testing a wounded animal. Suspicion sharpens their voices, their movements, their willingness to step closer than they should.
They will need reminders. I shadow her movements for the rest of the day. When she visits the apothecary, I linger along the roofline, watching the passersby who hesitate outside her door before choosing not to enter.
When she walks the marsh paths to gather herbs, I follow along the tree line, the bond humming steadily between us.When two young men whisper about “cleansing the witch” outside the tannery, I step from the shadows just long enough for them to glimpse the outline of horns in the darkness. They do not return.
Night falls over Briarthorn with an uneasy quiet. It is long past midnight when I make my final rounds. Two men in this village have been particularly enthusiastic in their accusations.
One lives near the well. The other just before the marsh. Their doors are simple wood. Perfect surfaces. Abyssal fire burns silently when I carve the symbols.
The marks glow briefly before sinking into the grain of the wood itself, leaving behind darkened sigils that pulse faintly with restrained heat. Warnings. Do not touch her. Do not threaten her. Do not test my restraint.
When the first man wakes before dawn and opens his door, the symbol will greet him at eye level. He will understand its meaning instinctively. Fear is a language all mortals speak fluently.
Satisfied, I return to the shadows near Elowen’s cottage. Inside, she sleeps restlessly, the lifeline pulses faintly with dreams tangled in confusion and curiosity.
Mate.
The word still circles through her thoughts like a puzzle she cannot yet solve. I settle against the darkness outside her window, the tether between us warm and undisturbed.
Let the village whisper. Let them wonder. They may suspect she is dangerous. They have not yet begun to understand how correct they are. Or how fortunate they are that I am still choosing restraint.
7
ELOWEN
The village is quieter around me now. Not exactly peaceful, but careful somehow. The kind of silence people adopt when they believe danger might be listening.
I feel it everywhere I go.
Conversations pause when I approach the well. Mothers pull their children a little closer when I pass. Doors close more quickly than they used to. Some villagers pretend not to see me at all, their eyes sliding away as though simple avoidance might spare them whatever curse they believe follows in my wake. Even some people refuse my help in healing.
Others stare openly. Suspicion has settled over Briarthorn like a low fog. But suspicion alone is not what occupies my thoughts. It is the pattern.
Three fires in two days. Garruk in the alley. Ravik’s hay shed. The merchant’s stall in the square burst into flame shortly after he grabbed my hand yesterday morning.
I did not see the fire start. By the time I heard the shouting and turned back, smoke was already pouring into the air.
But I felt it.
The same strange heat that has begun to pulse beneath my ribs whenever my emotions surge too sharply. And every time it happens, the same thing precedes it. Fear. Not irritation. Not anger. Fear.
The realization follows me through the morning like a quiet echo. By midday I decide to test it.
The bakery sits near the center of the village, a narrow shop with wide windows that spill warm light across the street. The smell of fresh bread drifts into the square, rich and comforting in a way that almost makes the tension in my chest ease. Almost.
Inside, the baker looks up from behind his counter as the door opens. I chose him particularly. He is always rude, and I am sure he will be especially nasty, now that the rumors about me are circulating.
His expression tightens immediately.
“Not selling curses today, are you?” he mutters.
I close the door behind me slowly.
“No,” I say. “Just came here for bread.”
The baker snorts under his breath. “Best be careful who you touch in here.”
The words are meant to provoke. I feel the small flare of irritation rise in my chest, but nothing else follows. No heat. No tightening of the bond. That is interesting. I step closer to the counter.
