The moonlight streamed through the thin cracks of the cottage walls, painting silver streaks across the floorboards. I perched uneasily on the edge of the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm water. My gaze flicked to the corner where he lay, still wrapped in a heavy blanket, dark hair damp and plastered against his forehead.
He hadn't moved much since I brought him in from the forest, and yet, his presence filled the room like a silent storm. The black markings along his neck shifted faintly, curling like living smoke, though he made no gesture, no motion, that gave them purpose. Just… there. Watching, observing. Waiting.
I tried to appear calm, to focus on ordinary things—dusting the counter, straightening the bundles of herbs, arranging the firewood. Each motion felt amplified, every sound I made sharp in the quiet room. His violet eyes opened for a fraction of a moment. Just enough to catch the dim light, glint faintly, and then close again. Nonchalant. Indifferent.
My pulse quickened. He was clearly aware of me, aware of my every little gesture. I forced myself to breathe evenly, to remind myself that I had survived years alone by being cautious. He was just a man in need of help. Nothing more.
I shifted slightly, brushing a loose strand of black hair behind my ear. Normally, my clumsiness would have betrayed me already, but he did not react. He did not speak. He only lay there, quiet, silent, observing the room in a way that made every shadow seem alive.
I moved toward the workbench where my dried herbs sat in neat bundles. I picked one up, running my fingers over the leaves, counting them as if the motion could steady my nerves. He followed, in a sense—not with his eyes, perhaps, but with the weight of his awareness. I could feel it pressing against me like a soft, insistent wind I could not turn away from.
I reminded myself: I was only a healer. Herbalist. Nothing more. He had no reason to suspect anything else. My silver glow, my hidden fragment of the Moon Goddess, must remain a secret. My lips pressed into a thin line. I would not give him reason to doubt. I would not make a mistake.
I settled cross-legged on the floor, trying to keep my movements slow and deliberate. The cottage was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Outside, the forest whispered beneath the eternal moonlight. Stories told of sunlight, but none had ever seen it, and I had no reason to doubt those stories. The world was silver and shadow, and that was enough.
He stirred slightly, one hand brushing against the blanket. A faint twitch, almost imperceptible, and yet it made my stomach clench. Violet eyes opened just for a moment, glinting sharply in the dim light. Then he closed them again, lying still. Nonchalant. Detached. Nothing to reveal, nothing to tell.
I could not stop studying him. His hair fell in dark waves, slightly damp, framing sharp features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips set in a line that gave away nothing. The black markings along his neck pulsed faintly, curling with a rhythm I could not name. His posture was calm, but I could see the tension coiled just beneath the surface.
I adjusted a bundle of herbs, pretending to be busy, though my eyes never left him. He was dangerous, possibly, or at least unpredictable. I had pulled him from the forest because he was injured. That was all. Nothing more. I repeated it in my mind like a mantra. Nothing more.
Minutes stretched. I moved carefully from one side of the room to the other, each step measured, my heart thudding with every small noise. He shifted again, slightly, just enough to remind me that he was awake, alert, aware. I flinched, clenching my hands in my lap. His eyes opened again, violet and sharp, scanning me in a glance that said nothing. Nonchalant. Silent.
I swallowed, reminding myself that I must be cautious. My identity, my true self, my fragment of the Moon Goddess—all of it had to remain hidden. He must never suspect. He must never know.
I settled back on the floor, my hands in my lap, keeping my gaze low. He watched still. I could sense it without seeing, the quiet gravity he carried, the subtle authority in his presence. I could feel the room's air thickening under the weight of him, the tension that did not need words to exist.
I ran a hand over my hair, brushing the loose waves behind my shoulders. Black. Ordinary. Safe. Nothing that could reveal the secret beneath. And yet, even as I moved, I felt it—the faint thread of awareness, subtle and distant, that hinted at him noticing more than he let on.
I focused on mundane details—the bundles of herbs, the fire, the faint smell of earth and dried leaves. Anything to keep myself anchored in something ordinary. Yet the cottage was no longer mine alone. He had arrived, bringing with him a presence that was impossible to ignore, a quiet gravity that demanded observation, attention, awareness.
He stirred again, one hand brushing the edge of the blanket. I flinched at the motion, almost dropping my hands to the floor. His violet eyes opened for a fraction of a second, scanning the room and me, and then closed again. Nonchalant. Detached. Silent.
I shifted slightly, trying to appear composed, to control the rapid flutter of my heartbeat. My clumsiness, my nervous energy, all seemed amplified in the moonlit silence. Every shadow in the room felt alive, every flicker of firelight carried meaning, every slight movement of his hand suggested purpose I could not decipher.
I reminded myself again: I did not trust him. I did not know him. I did not even know why he had appeared in my forest, in my cottage. I only knew that he was here, and that I must remain cautious, clever, careful.
I studied the black markings along his neck once more. They shifted with a subtle rhythm, like smoke curling in a wind I could not feel. Dangerous, possibly cursed, possibly lethal. And yet he made no move to attack, no word to command. Just stillness, quiet, vigilance.
Hours passed like this. He did not speak. He did not eat. He did not move beyond the small, careful gestures that marked him as awake and aware. I did not attempt to speak either. We existed in the same space, cautious of one another, each measuring every movement, every breath, every glance.
I could feel the tension building, taut and quiet, like the strings of a tightly wound harp. Neither of us had made a mistake yet. Neither of us had let our guard down. And that was how it would remain—for now.
I rose finally, moving toward the workbench once more, arranging herbs with careful precision. I kept my eyes down, careful not to look at him directly. He shifted again, just a slight movement under the blanket, but I felt it in every bone.
The moonlight shifted across the room as the night deepened, silver streaming through the cracks, falling in long lines across the floor. I caught the reflection in a darkened pot: black hair, cautious eyes, tense posture. Ordinary. Safe. Concealing everything that mattered.
He lay there, silent and watchful, a man of shadows in the pale moonlight. And I knew, even as I tried to convince myself otherwise, that this night would not be forgotten.
We did not speak. We did not act beyond careful movements. But in that silence, in that measured observation, in the stillness under the eternal moon, I understood one thing clearly:
Neither of us fully trusted the other.
And neither of us would let our guard down.
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