Morning came reluctantly, dragging a pale light over the village rooftops as though it too feared to pierce the shadows. I woke unrested, tangled in sheets that still smelled faintly of smoke from the hearth. The stranger's face lingered in my mind—the dark eyes, the cold hand that burned against mine, the velvet danger threaded through his voice.
I told myself it had been nothing. A chance encounter. A dream woven into memory by exhaustion. Yet when I stepped into the marketplace, every word of gossip seemed sharpened, meant for me.
"They say wolves are prowling again, near the river."
"Not wolves." A woman's voice hushed, quick. "Something worse. Another boy went missing—Evan, the blacksmith's son."
"Best not speak of it," her companion warned. "Best not invite its notice."
Its notice. As if the night were listening.
I bought bread and cheese with trembling fingers, though hunger eluded me. My mind was elsewhere—back to the oak tree, the shadows that shifted when no wind moved, the stranger who knew my name though I'd never given it.
By dusk I was restless. My cottage walls closed in on me, stifling, and the forest beyond my window seemed to whisper. The villagers feared the night, yet I found myself drawn to it, as though the darkness held something meant for me alone.
I lit a lantern and tried to read, but the words blurred. Every flicker of flame painted him in my imagination: the curve of his mouth, the warning in his eyes. "Lock your windows," he had said. And I had, yet I felt watched still.
When the knock came, soft as a whisper, I nearly screamed.
My lantern rattled in my hand as I approached the door. No one knocked here, not at this hour.
I opened it slowly.
Empty.
But at the edge of the woods, I saw him.
The stranger stood in moonlight, waiting—not moving, not speaking, but as solid as stone. My breath hitched. I should have shut the door, barred it. Instead, my feet betrayed me, carrying me outside into the cool night air.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
"Neither should you." His gaze lingered on the lantern in my hand, the unsteady glow painting both of us in trembling gold. "The night is not kind."
"Then why are you in it?"
He gave no answer. His eyes—God help me—were hungry. Not in a way I could name, but in a way I felt, bone-deep, as though every heartbeat drew him nearer.
I swallowed hard. "Tell me your name."
He hesitated, as if the word itself carried danger. Then: "Dorian."
"Dorian," I repeated, testing it on my tongue. It tasted ancient, bitter-sweet, like wine left too long in the cask.
He stepped closer. Lanternlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the faint curve of lips not quite smiling.
"You dream of me," he said, voice a blade against silk.
I froze. My heart stuttered painfully. "How could you know that?"
"I told you," he murmured, eyes darkening. "The night remembers its chosen."
The lantern sputtered, flame shivering low. My breath clouded between us, the air colder now though no wind stirred. He was close enough that I could smell him—iron and smoke, something older beneath, something sweetly rotted that terrified me even as it pulled me closer.
I should have fled, but I asked instead: "What are you?"
For the briefest moment, sorrow flickered across his face. A man's sorrow. Then it vanished, replaced by something deeper, hungrier.
"Something you should fear," he whispered.
The lantern died.
Darkness folded over me, absolute. My pulse leapt, desperate. Then—fingers brushed my cheek, cold, impossibly gentle. I shivered, caught between terror and longing.
When the flame sparked back, he was gone.
Only the night remained.