The forest thinned as morning turned to noon. Seraphina kept her cloak pulled tight over her head, the necklace glowing faintly beneath the fabric. The serpents grumbled irritably, hissing at being confined, but she stroked them gently to soothe their unrest.
Dorian walked beside her with steady steps, his cane tapping against roots and stones. Despite his blindness, he moved with quiet confidence, as though the earth itself whispered directions to him.
"You're quiet," he said at last.
Seraphina glanced at him. "I'm always quiet."
"Quieter than usual," he corrected with a small smile. "Are you thinking about those two?"
"…Maybe," she admitted. "They were strange. Strange, but… they didn't look at me like I was a monster."
Dorian's smile softened. "That's because you're not."
She wanted to believe him. But she tightened her cloak instead, as if to hide the snakes from the world.
---
By dusk, they emerged into a valley. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint sound of bells carried on the wind. A village lay ahead, surrounded by fields of wheat swaying gold in the twilight.
Ashgrove.
Seraphina froze at the sight. Villages meant people. People meant suspicion, whispers, stones thrown at her head. She turned away, but Dorian's hand found hers.
"Seraphina," he said gently. "We need food. A roof, even for one night. You can't keep running forever."
Her serpents stirred uneasily under her hood. "And if they see me?"
He squeezed her hand tighter. "Then we'll face it together."
Reluctantly, she nodded.
---
The villagers greeted Dorian kindly, offering him water, bread, and questions about his travels. But Seraphina kept her head bowed, her voice soft, hiding in his shadow.
An old innkeeper took pity on them. "You two look weary. I've got a spare room upstairs. Cheap, since winter's coming and business is slow."
"Thank you," Dorian said warmly, reaching for his pouch.
Seraphina stiffened. She had no coin — her entire life was in scraps of cloth and memory. But Dorian pressed something into the man's hand: a polished stone, smooth and gleaming faintly.
"A charm from the road," he explained. "It brings luck."
The innkeeper blinked, then smiled. "Well, luck is worth more than silver these days. Deal."
They climbed the narrow stairs. Inside the small wooden room, Seraphina finally pulled down her hood, letting the serpents breathe. They hissed with relief, curling against her shoulders.
Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, listening. "They sound happier now."
She sighed. "I can't keep this up forever. One wrong move, and the whole village will know what I am. They'll bring torches. Pitchforks."
He turned his face toward her voice. "Then let's not give them reason. For one night, we're just two travelers."
---
But peace never lasted long.
Later that night, as Seraphina tried to sleep, she heard voices drifting through the thin wooden walls. Men in the tavern below, drunk on ale, speaking loudly.
"…swear I saw her eyes glow red when the firelight hit. And that cloak… no one hides their face like that unless they've got something to hide."
Another voice grunted. "Could be one of them. A witch. Or worse. The hunters have been sniffing around these parts. If she's a cursed one, we could get a reward."
Her blood ran cold. The serpents stirred restlessly, tasting her fear.
Seraphina sat up, clutching the necklace at her throat. If they came for her, she didn't know if she could control the curse — or keep the village from burning in her wrath.
She turned to Dorian, whispering urgently. "They know. They suspect me."
His expression didn't change, but his hand reached for hers. "Then we leave before dawn. Quietly. No one needs to get hurt."
For a long moment, she stared at him — at his calmness, his trust. And she realized how much she needed that.
But the question clawed at her heart: how long could they run before the world finally caught them?