The Bonelight Lodge was like a relic of another age, looming like a forgotten monument in the woods. The building's ribs were composed of darkened timber, worn with the years, while moss clung to the stone walls like a whisper from some long-forgotten past. The windows, blurred with age, watched the trees with milky eyes, offering only faint glimpses of the world outside. The moonlight pooled across the gables, spilling through the warped glass in narrow, dusty beams. Inside, the music was a soft pulse, a low throb that vibrated through the floors and walls, a faint undercurrent beneath the murmur of voices. Laughter echoed through the rafters, mixing with the clink of bottles and the occasional whisper of something half-said. The atmosphere hummed with a restless energy, as though something ancient—something watching—hovered just above it all, waiting.
The party was a chaos of contradictions. A handful of girls hung from the rafters like ragged chandeliers, their faces glittering under layers of mascara, eyes wide with the thrill of being seen. They sipped cider from mason jars and clutched them with long fingers adorned with silver rings. Their bodies were an assortment of mismatched pieces: lace, torn fishnets, band t-shirts, old velvet skirts—outfits that looked like they'd been pulled from a time they barely understood, but wore with pride nonetheless. Others sprawled across the furniture—some sitting, some lying like forgotten art pieces in the rain. They were draped across antique couches, curled up near old speakers, their limbs tangled with the scent of smoke and perfume, mixing with the lingering scent of wet pine. In every corner, someone lingered, making themselves into part of the landscape, their eyes half-lidded with indifference, but their attention always sharp.
The air was thick with it all—the musk of bodies pressed too close together, the sweet edge of alcohol, the faint traces of wax from candles, the smoke curling up from incense that clung to the heavy air. The music was the only constant, deep and slow, creeping into the marrow of everyone's bones.
Then the door opened, and everything seemed to stop.
The room exhaled like it had collectively held its breath. Someone near the cider cooler froze mid-sentence. A girl holding a half-full drink clutched it tighter, her eyes flicking toward the door. A few heads turned too quickly, trying to act casual, flipping their hair or taking a too-deep sip. A glass dropped somewhere, and nobody even noticed.
He entered like an echo, tall, lean, and carved in the softest shadows. His movements were almost unnerving—like someone who had learned to glide through crowds without leaving a ripple behind. There was something striking about him, but it wasn't obvious at first glance. His antlers were simple, unadorned, but they carried a quiet sort of power, elegant in their understated form. His eyes were dark, almost too dark, and there was something about them that made it feel like they were absorbing the light, as though he was already somewhere else—somewhere that nobody else could reach.
His clothes were too clean for this place. No patches, no pins, no obvious signs of belonging. Just layers, muted tones that clung to his body with purpose. A soft suede jacket over a simple black shirt. His boots were scuffed at the toes but looked new otherwise, like they had never quite touched the dirt in a way they were supposed to. He moved like he didn't care if anyone noticed, but didn't mind when they did. The girls at the cider cooler tensed, then began to murmur.
"Who is that?" someone whispered.
"Where did he come from?" another voice followed, quieter.
"Is he from East Ridge?" one girl asked, leaning in toward the others, her gaze fixed on him like she was trying to place him.
"No way," came a quick reply. "He's not from West Trail."
The murmurs rose and fell, but they couldn't seem to reach any real consensus. He moved through the space with an unsettling confidence, like he belonged—just not to them.
There was an awkward pause as the room shifted around him. The girls clustered by the records table lowered their voices, watching him with wide eyes. One girl, standing too close to the speaker, whispered with a touch of awe, "He's like... a villain from a ballet."
Another girl giggled and added, "He looks like a ghost who makes you fall in love and then vanishes."
A third girl, her voice dreamy and distant, chimed in, "Oh my god, he's the kind of guy you meet once, and if you mess it up, you'll never recover."
One girl, perched on the arm of an old couch, tilted her head and murmured, "He's like sadness wrapped in a suit. Like... if eyeliner were a person."
The newcomer moved closer to the circle of girls, and there was a collective, subtle shift in the energy. One girl leaned closer to her friend, whispering under her breath, "He's the kind of guy you only meet once in a lifetime. You just know if you mess it up, it's over."
As he passed the group, his gaze flicked over them briefly, and for a second, time seemed to stretch. His eyes were a dark pool—empty, intense, and almost predatory in their quiet way.
Another voice cut through the tension, one of the boys in the corner near the mantle—a tall, broad stag with a varsity jacket that seemed to swallow his frame, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "This party's for seniors," he said, voice sharp. "This isn't for you."
The newcomer didn't flinch. "Seems like nobody told me."
"I know who belongs here," the stag shot back, stepping closer, sizing him up. "And you're not on the list."
A pause hung in the air like a threat. The newcomer didn't move, didn't show the slightest sign of discomfort. He took a slow step forward, brushing past the stag without touching him.
"Maybe I'm on a different list," he said, his voice low and unhurried.
One of the girls near the cider cooler turned, eyes wide, a hand to her mouth, whispering, "Is he flirting with Callum?" Her friend turned and shot her a look, eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"No way," the second girl whispered. "Callum's actually squaring up."
There was a low chuckle from the back of the room, where a doe with long, golden lashes leaned in, stage-whispering, "This is either going to be a duel or a marriage proposal."
The tension in the room was thick now, vibrating with expectation. Callum—whoever he was—stood his ground, chest out, his eyes locked on the stranger. He crossed his arms and stood tall, daring the newcomer to flinch.
"You don't talk like us," Callum said, his voice low, but edged with something like disdain.
The stranger's lips curled into a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've been other places," he replied cryptically, his voice calm like he was bored of the game already.
"Other places?" Callum scoffed. "Where? Some fucking kingdom you're the prince of?"
"Somewhere colder." The stranger's voice had a bite to it now, as though his words weren't meant to be understood.
Callum's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm going to let you walk in here and act like you're untouchable?"
"Why not?" The stranger shrugged. "What do you plan to do?"
There was a tense pause before Callum responded, "If you wanted respect, you should've earned it first."
The stranger's lips quirked, and he tilted his head. "I don't need respect from you," he said, his voice cool, "but I'm curious what happens when I don't show it to you either."
For a moment, the entire room held its breath. It was like something ancient and dangerous had settled between them—something neither of them could back down from.
One of the girls near the punch bowl muttered under her breath, "This is the most romantic thing I've ever seen."
Another girl, eyes glued to the exchange, leaned over and whispered, "They're going to kill each other, aren't they?"
Someone in the back of the room laughed, but it was nervous. Another girl grabbed her friend's arm and hissed, "Please, just kiss already!"
But neither of the two men moved, not even as the murmurs continued to rise around them.
"You think I'm here to cause trouble?" the stranger finally asked, breaking the silence with a hint of something amused in his voice.
Callum's nostrils flared. "I think you're here for something."
"I am," the stranger replied, his voice soft, almost inviting. "A punch."
Callum's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Bullshit."
The tension was thick—everyone in the room felt it, the electric hum in the air, the way the floor seemed to vibrate underfoot.
Just then, a soft voice from the edge of the crowd interrupted. "Do you boys need help? Or are you going to settle this yourself?"
A girl with pale fur and an air of quiet authority emerged from the crowd. She moved with an ease that suggested she was used to having the room's attention. Her presence was both commanding and soothing, like the calm before a storm. The laughter and whispers died down, and the air seemed to shift again.
"We're not lovers," both of them said at once, their voices so perfectly synchronized that it could've been rehearsed.
The crowd gasped. "Did they just—?" one girl whispered, her eyes wide.
Another girl in the back shouted, "Oh my god. It's canon."
They both ignored the rest of the room as their eyes locked once more. Callum's stance was still defensive, but there was something different now—a sense that the game had just shifted, and neither of them was ready to reveal their hand.
"This isn't over," Callum muttered, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he turned and began to walk away.
The stranger watched him leave, his lips curling ever so slightly. "No," he said to himself. "It's only just begun."
As the crowd slowly started to stir again, someone from the back whispered, "I've never seen a conversation like that before. I feel like I've watched a war unfold."
And the room buzzed with the thrill of it, the feeling of something coming, something that was far from over.