The first light of dawn crept over the village like a reluctant guest. Smoke curled from scattered chimneys, and the scent of boiled roots and damp wood hung in the air. Ivyra woke to muted voices beyond the thin wall of their hut—footsteps crunching past, stopping too long near their door before continuing.
Elynn was already awake, kneeling by the hearth they'd been granted. She moved with the same deliberate care she always did when surrounded by strangers: quiet hands, no wasted gestures, nothing that would make anyone look twice.
"Eat," Elynn said, passing Ivyra a rough wooden bowl filled with porridge that tasted of ash and bitter grain.
Ivyra obeyed but kept her ears sharp. Beneath the scrape of spoons and low talk outside, she could hear it: the tone that wasn't simple curiosity, but measuring.
---
By midday, Elynn had offered to help grind herbs at the healer's shed. It gave them food and a place that wasn't their hut—but it also exposed them.
Ivyra followed silently, carrying baskets heavier than she looked strong enough for. Each trip through the lane was the same: children stared but didn't smile; adults paused work to watch her walk past.
At the well, a boy muttered just loudly enough, "Ghost eyes."
Ivyra lowered her gaze and said nothing, though her fingers flexed around the rope as if she wanted to pull harder than needed.
"Keep your hands still," Elynn murmured, never stopping her own work. "Let them believe you're small. Let them forget you."
But forgetting wasn't happening. By evening, Ivyra could feel the weight of the village's notice settling like cold dew.
---
That night, after the long day of forced calm, Ivyra sat alone on the small cot while Elynn prepared salves at the table.
The seal beneath Ivyra's tunic throbbed—soft, rhythmic. Not painful. Not yet. Just… awake.
She pressed her palm to it, feeling warmth seep into her hand. The more the villagers whispered, the stronger that pulse became, as if something inside her understood danger long before she could name it.
Elynn glanced over, saw her posture, and said nothing—but her jaw tightened.
Outside, the wind shifted. Doors closed earlier than usual. Somewhere a dog barked once, then stopped abruptly.
Ivyra looked at the window. "They're scared," she said quietly.
Elynn didn't answer. She only blew out the lamp faster than normal.
---
The village went still in a way that wasn't ordinary. Not just the usual quiet of a place where everyone rose early and worked until dark—this was deliberate silence, the kind made when people sensed something they couldn't see.
Ivyra lay on her cot, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling beams. She counted each creak outside. A door closing. Boots on packed earth. Then nothing.
Elynn hadn't slept. She sat near the window, fingers wrapped around a worn dagger she rarely showed. Her posture was calm, but her eyes were fixed on the dark as if waiting for it to move.
"Ivyra," she whispered without looking back, "if I tell you to run, you don't look for me. You just run. Understand?"
Ivyra turned her head. "What's out there?"
Elynn's jaw tightened. "Not wolves."
The wind pushed against the hut walls, carrying a sound too faint to name—like branches rubbing but more rhythmic, like breathing that belonged to something too large to belong here.
---
The seal on Ivyra's chest heated. Not sharp, but enough to make her sit upright.
Elynn noticed instantly. "It's reacting?"
Ivyra nodded, pressing her palm flat to her tunic. "Something's close."
Outside, the lone torch by the well flickered unnaturally. Its light bent, stretching shadows long across the lane. Then it went out entirely.
No one screamed. That was worse. It meant the villagers were hiding, just as Elynn had taught Ivyra to do when danger was too great to face.
Ivyra whispered, "It's coming here."
Elynn's hand tightened on her dagger. "Then we stay quiet. If we're lucky, it's only passing through."
But the seal's heat deepened—steady, pulsing like a drumbeat, as though warning this is not one of those nights.
---
Night pressed heavier than usual. The air inside the small hut felt dense, like the walls were holding their breath. The single oil lamp flickered in uneven intervals, its flame shrinking each time the wind shifted though no window was open.
Ivyra lay awake on her thin straw mat, staring at the beams above. She could hear the village settling—doors bolted, animals restless, shutters groaning against their frames. It wasn't ordinary quiet; it was the kind of silence that expected something.
Outside, somewhere beyond the clustered huts, a low creak echoed. Not a branch, not the familiar sway of old wood. A deliberate weight on damp soil. Then another.
Ivyra turned her head slightly. Elynn's breathing remained even, but Ivyra knew her mother wasn't truly asleep. Her fingers rested near the small satchel that never left her reach, the one filled with herbs, dried roots… and something heavier.
The seal beneath Ivyra's tunic pulsed once. Faint, almost imperceptible, but real.
Whispers carried faintly through the wind—too far to make out words, yet they didn't sound like villagers. Too smooth. Too patient.
Then came the sound of a door somewhere being pushed—not slammed, not forced, just tested. The oxen in the nearby pen grunted nervously. A tether snapped. Hooves shuffled against mud in panic.
Elynn's voice, soft as the lamp's dying flame:
"Do not move. Do not make a sound."
Ivyra held still, her heart hammering so loud she feared it might betray them.
Outside, something dragged lightly across the hut's wooden walls, leaving faint scratches. The lamp guttered again.
And then—silence.
But it wasn't safety. It was the silence that listens back.
---
The silence stretched, thin as a thread. Ivyra's muscles ached from holding still, but she didn't dare shift. She could almost feel the weight of whatever lingered outside pressing against the thin wooden walls.
The scratching returned—fainter now, tracing the hut like a hunter memorizing its prey. A shallow breath escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Elynn's hand tightened around her wrist in the dark. A silent warning: Not yet. Wait.
From farther away, a dog barked once. It cut off mid-snarl, followed by a whimper that ended too quickly.
The lamp died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Ivyra's hearing sharpened. She could make out the rhythm of her own pulse, the rustle of straw beneath her fingers, the almost inaudible hum of the seal under her skin.
Then, as if answering that hum, something outside whispered—not in a language she understood, but one her bones seemed to recognize. The sound slid under her skin, a call older than words.
Elynn's breath hitched. "Stay behind me," she mouthed rather than spoke.
She reached for the satchel and pulled out a small vial that glowed faintly blue. She uncorked it, and a sharp herbal scent filled the hut, masking everything else.
The scratching stopped.
For a long moment, nothing moved.
Then, footsteps retreated—slow, measured, almost deliberate—as though whatever had come wasn't leaving in defeat but in promise.
Only when the village's noises began to creep back—the cry of an unsettled infant, the murmur of a restless man—did Elynn finally exhale.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "we need to speak to the elder again. This… won't stop on its own."
Ivyra didn't answer. Her fingers brushed the faint heat of the seal beneath her tunic. It felt stronger now, as though the danger outside had stirred something awake.
---