Music recommendation: Shelter by Jack Lenz Spotify music.
The morning light spilled across the valley in warm, golden strokes, softening the frost that clung stubbornly to the grass. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney of the small cottage, carrying with it the earthy scent of burning oak. The air was sharp with the bite of early winter, crisp enough that each breath plumed white in the dawn. Lyra lingered on the porch a moment, letting the cool breeze settle her restless mind after another night of dreams she would rather forget.
"Good morning, Grandfather," she greeted softly, her voice carrying across the yard.
Conrad didn't return her warmth right away. With sleeves rolled to his elbows, his large hands gripped the axe, and he split a block of wood clean in two with a sharp crack. Only then did he glance her way with a grunt, his steel-gray eyes as hard as the blade he wielded.
"Morning," he said shortly. He leaned on the axe for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "Have you given thought to the marriage proposal from the Danish family?"
So much for pleasantries. Lyra bit the inside of her cheek and forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Of all the things he could have said, he went straight for the one topic that made her blood stir.
"No, Grandfather," she replied firmly, brushing a stray curl from her face. "You know I'm not ready to settle down yet. How could I, when you still need me here? Someone has to keep your weary bones company. You're not getting any younger."
The corner of her lips tugged upward in teasing defiance.
Conrad froze mid-motion. Slowly, he set the axe against the stump with a thud, his jaw tightening. "Weary bones?" he echoed, insulted. "I'll have you remember, girl, I was commander of the Fourth Squadron of the Celestial Knights' human division! I've slain more foes than you've drawn arrows in your short life."
His booming voice reverberated through the yard like a war drum. Lyra couldn't help herself. She straightened, lifted her fist dramatically to her chest, and lowered her voice into an exaggerated growl.
"I was commander of the Fourth Squadron of the Celestial Knights! Slayer of countless enemies!" she mocked with theatrical flair, pretending to swing an imaginary sword.
Conrad's face reddened instantly. His granddaughter had a way of tugging at his patience until it snapped like dry kindling. He huffed, muttering something about "ungrateful youth" under his breath.
But before he could bark further, Lyra slipped forward and planted a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek. She wrapped her slender arms around his barrel chest, her embrace softening the tension he tried to hold. Conrad's sigh left him in a slow, defeated exhale, the anger melting despite himself.
"You know I love you, Grandfather," she murmured. "Why must you always bring this subject up? I have no intention of marrying Oliver."
At the mention of the Danish boy, Conrad grumbled low in his throat. Oliver, son of the village blacksmith, was a fine enough lad in most eyes — strong, polite, dependable. But to Lyra, he was little more than a shadow of a man, clinging at her heels since childhood. His affections had always felt more suffocating than flattering.
"I only want what's best for you," Conrad said, softer now. He rested a calloused hand on her head. "The Danish family can provide more than I ever could. My time is short, Lyra. I'm no celestial. I won't walk this realm forever. When I'm gone, who will you have left? You shouldn't be alone." His voice cracked on the last word, exposing the grief he never spoke aloud — the loss of his wife, the fear of leaving his granddaughter behind.
Lyra's throat tightened. She pressed her forehead briefly against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his old soldier's heart. "I'll consider it," she said at last, though the words tasted hollow. "But for now… let me hunt for supper. I'll make your favorite stew tonight. Will that suffice?"
Conrad's lips twitched upward in a reluctant smile. "It'll do," he said, patting her shoulder. "Be careful in the woods. Shifters prowl further this season. Stubborn mutts don't take kindly to trespass."
"I won't be long," Lyra promised, retrieving her bow and quiver from the porch.
She set off toward the forest, the earth crunching beneath her boots as she crossed into the familiar shadow of the trees. Here, the world transformed — shafts of light cut through the canopy like golden lances, birds trilled their morning songs, and the wind carried the earthy perfume of pine and damp soil. It was here, among the trees, that Lyra felt most herself, away from the expectations of the village and the pressing weight of her grandfather's worries.
She moved with practiced silence, her senses alert. The underbrush rustled, and she crouched low, slipping behind a bush. A rabbit darted into the clearing, ears twitching. Lyra nocked an arrow, steadying her breath. In one smooth motion, she released — the string twanged, and the creature crumpled before it had a chance to flee.
By midday, she had gathered four rabbits and two pheasants. Not a bad haul. She slung the game into her sack, satisfied that she would have enough for stew and more to trade at the market.
The forest creek beckoned nearby, its waters glittering in the sun. Lyra knelt, washing the blood from her hands and splashing her face with the icy water. It shocked her skin awake, and for a moment she simply sat, leaning against a moss-covered boulder.
But rest only invited her thoughts, and soon the shadows of her dreams returned.
The battlefield, dyed crimson. The thunder of wings. The clashing of swords and shrieks of dying creatures. And always — always — the same eyes in the darkness. Crimson irises rimmed with gold, burning with rage and sorrow.
She shivered, though the air was warm now. From childhood, she had been told celestial angels were divine — guardians, protectors, the Creator's chosen. Conrad spoke of them with reverence, telling tales of their light that guided men through the darkest wars. Yet in her dreams, they were not saviors. They were omens. And the crimson gaze that haunted her… it did not belong to any benevolent being she had ever heard of.
Lyra had tried, once, to share her fears. Conrad brushed them off as imagination, claiming his old war stories had seeped into her mind. But she knew better. The dreams were too vivid, too insistent, too real. She had taken to keeping them to herself, scribbling fragments into an old journal tucked beneath her bed.
"Why me?" she whispered to no one, watching the ripples distort her reflection in the creek. She prayed silently for a night without torment, for the Creator to grant her even a single dreamless sleep. But deep down, she knew better.
The sun climbed higher, and the forest grew humid. Sweat beaded on her brow, her tunic clinging to her skin. Slinging the sack over her shoulder, she prepared to return.
Then the air shifted.
The chorus of birdsong ceased. Insects stilled. The forest grew unnaturally silent, as though holding its breath. A chill rippled down her spine. Lyra froze, hand instinctively brushing the fletching of an arrow.
Something was watching her.
She turned slowly, scanning the shadows between trees. The silence pressed closer, suffocating. Her pulse quickened, ears straining for the faintest sound.
A twig cracked beneath her boot as she stepped back. The sound was thunder in the quiet.
Suddenly, a crow burst from the branches with a harsh caw, its wings beating furiously against the still air. Lyra gasped, her hand flying to her chest. Relief washed through her in a dizzying wave. She picked up her belongings and began her walk through the beaten path she was familiar with. Her direction was to the town market. Hoping to fetch a good price for the fur. She blamed the crow for the ominous feeling and hurried her steps.
If only the crow could disagree.
Deeper in the woods, where the trees twisted and blocked out the sunlight beneath the woodland bed, ominous growls and ghoulish figures lurked in the shadows. Red gleaming eyes glowed, and jagged teeth were bared as a horde of demons waited for the moment to strike.