The town slept beneath a heavy blanket of fog, the kind that swallowed lanternlight whole and made every corner seem like a secret. My footsteps echoed too loudly against the cobblestones as I hurried home, clutching my cloak close to my throat. It was foolish, being out this late—Father had warned me a thousand times, and the gossips in the marketplace always whispered about girls who disappeared along the forest road. But I had lingered at the library, as I always did, losing track of hours in pages of dusty romances and forgotten histories.
The hour was wrong for daydreamers.
The hour belonged to hunters.
I paused beneath a withered oak, the wind threading its skeletal branches into a kind of music. That was when I felt it—watched, as though unseen eyes traced every step I took. I turned, heart hammering, but the street lay empty. Only mist and silence answered me.
"Keep moving, Liora," I whispered to myself, forcing my boots to carry me forward.
And then he appeared.
A figure detached itself from shadow, emerging into the dim glow of the moon as though it had shaped him. He was tall, lean, and impossibly still. Black hair framed a pale face carved in cruel perfection, and when his eyes met mine, I froze where I stood. They were not the eyes of a man—they burned, dark fire smoldering in endless depths.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice low, velvet wrapped around steel. "I did not mean to frighten you."
But I was frightened. Every part of me screamed to run, yet something stronger rooted me to the spot.
The stranger stepped closer. His coat, long and black, swayed with unnatural grace. "You should not be alone in the night. There are… creatures that roam here."
"And you?" I managed, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. "Are you one of them?"
The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Perhaps."
I should have turned, fled into the safety of my cottage. But instead, I found myself staring, captivated by a presence I could not explain. He seemed to fill the world, as if every shadow bent toward him. My pulse thundered against my throat, and I wondered if he could hear it.
He extended a gloved hand. "Allow me to walk you home. The night is no place for innocence."
I hesitated only a moment before placing my trembling fingers in his. His touch was cold, but it burned through me, sharp as wine on an empty stomach. My breath caught as he guided me down the winding street, fog curling at our heels.
"Who are you?" I asked at last, though part of me feared the answer.
His eyes lifted to the moon. "A traveler. I have… lingered here longer than I should."
That was no answer at all, but I dared not press him further. Something about his presence warned me: truths carried a cost.
When we reached my gate, he stopped. His gaze fell on me again, and it was as if the air itself thickened between us. I felt stripped bare, as though he could see every secret I had buried—every longing, every grief, every hunger I tried to silence.
"You should lock your windows tonight," he murmured. "And pray the night forgets your name."
Before I could ask what he meant, he released my hand and vanished. One moment he was there, framed in moonlight, and the next he was gone—swallowed by shadow as though he had never been.
I stood shivering, clutching my cloak tighter. My heart ached with terror and with something else, something far more dangerous. Desire.
That night, I dreamed of him.
The dreams were fevered and vivid—his mouth brushing against my throat, his hands cradling my face with both tenderness and hunger. I woke gasping, sweat-dampened sheets tangled around me, the echo of his voice in my ears.
And outside, at the edge of the woods, I thought I saw him standing still beneath the dying oak, watching