The next morning came with gray clouds stretched thin across the sky, like the heavens hadn't yet decided whether to cry or just keep brooding. Ivy sat at her workbench, mortar and pestle in hand, but her mind wasn't in Rimewood. Not really.
It was still in the forest. Still caught in the twilight-colored eyes of the man—or creature—who'd stepped out of the woods and into her world like he'd always belonged there.
She hadn't told anyone about what she'd seen. Who would believe her? That the forest had a voice, a body, and a soul? That something born of root and shadow had spoken to her—not with rage or hunger, but with familiarity, like he knew her?
Instead, Ivy kept her silence. She crushed herbs mechanically, her fingers sore from overworking, but she didn't stop. She needed the rhythm. The sound. Something to drown out the echo of his voice in her head.
"You've been coming here for some time."
It hadn't been a threat.
It was worse—it was a fact.
He had been watching her.
That evening, Ivy returned to the woods. Not out of need—but out of compulsion.
Each step she took felt both foreign and familiar. Her body remembered the path, but her soul trembled at the idea of seeing him again.
And yet… she wanted to. That was the problem.
She wanted to see him.
That terrified her more than anything else.
The wind had shifted.
She noticed it almost immediately—there was a different scent in the air. Not rot, not decay, but something floral. Sweet. Almost comforting.
She followed the scent instinctively, and as she pushed through a thick layer of underbrush, she found it: a small, unnatural arrangement resting on a flat stone.
Flowers.
But not just any flowers—her own. Lavender, feverfew, sage… all tied together with a perfect loop of vine, like a bouquet crafted by hands that shouldn't know tenderness.
Beside it was a small, delicate bone. A rabbit, maybe. Or a bird. But it had been cleaned, polished even. It wasn't grotesque—it was a gift.
The bouquet had been left for her.
She stared at it, throat tightening. Her heart fluttered, unsure if it should scream or sing. She bent down, fingers trembling as they brushed the vine-tied stems. No note. No words. But it was a message all the same.
I see you. I know what you love. And I watched enough to know how to give it to you.
He didn't appear that evening. Not physically.
But his presence was everywhere.
Every breeze that touched her neck felt like fingers.
Every rustle of a branch sounded like breath.
She walked deeper, the bouquet pressed close to her chest, eyes flicking left and right, expecting—hoping—to catch a glimpse of twilight eyes in the dark.
Instead, she found silence. The kind that wasn't peaceful. The kind that listened.
And she knew he was near.
Watching.
By the time she returned home, her hands were stained with dirt and petals. She placed the bouquet in a small clay vase near her window and stared at it for what felt like hours. She didn't light a candle. Didn't eat. Just sat.
The village bell rang faintly in the distance. Time moved forward. Ivy stayed frozen in place, haunted not by fear but by curiosity.
That night, Ivy dreamed of teeth.
Not human teeth—no. These were jagged, ancient things, worn by time and sharpened by hunger. They floated through the mist of her dream, smiling without lips, watching her with too many eyes. Behind them, the forest loomed, opening like a mouth. And something—someone—stepped out.
Him.
The demon. The man. The watcher.
But in her dream, he didn't speak.
He bled.
His chest split open, revealing bark and bone. From it spilled petals, thorns, feathers, and—Gods help her—more bouquets.
All crafted with her herbs. All for her.
She woke in a sweat, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to her skin.
The next day, Ivy went back.
She told herself it was for Moon's Breath. For supplies. For healing tinctures. Anything but what it really was:
She wanted to see him again.
But the path had changed.
It wasn't supposed to. Forest trails didn't move. But Ivy could feel it—like the forest had subtly rearranged itself just enough to lead her somewhere different.
It didn't feel like she was walking into danger. Not yet. But she knew better than to trust comfort in places like this.
Then she found the second bouquet.
This one was more elaborate—laced with bloodroot, a flower she'd never even seen bloom in this region. At its center was a twisted piece of dark feather, ink-black and shining.
The message was clear.
He wasn't just watching her.
He was learning her.
Studying her.
And gifting her pieces of his world.
Ivy didn't know what to do with that realization.
It was sweet. Horrifying. Intimate. Terrifying.
And she was already addicted.
When she returned home again, she made a mistake.
She smiled.
Just for a moment. At the flowers. At the memory of the bone offerings. At the echo of his voice in her head.
And someone saw her.
"Been going into the forest again, Ivy?"
She looked up. Maren, the village butcher's wife. Nosy. Talkative. Always one scandal away from declaring witchcraft on someone's doorstep.
"I needed herbs," Ivy replied, casually folding her cloak over the bouquet she hadn't meant to carry in her hand.
Maren's eyes narrowed. "You're not afraid of the things that live in there?"
Ivy's smile was polite. "I'm more afraid of things that live out here."
And with that, she slipped inside her cottage and shut the door. Her heart thundered against her ribs.
They were watching her now.
But not like he was.
No. The villagers watched with suspicion.
He watched with intention.
She wasn't sure which gaze would destroy her first.