The harvest wind carried the scent of smoke and apples through Elowen. The fields beyond the river shone gold, and laughter drifted faintly from the market. Yet Ochar walked through it all as if moving through another world — silent, detached, haunted by every heartbeat he heard.
The hunger for blood was now increasing that he began avoiding Isla's path for three days, afraid of what she might see in him. But the fourth night brought a knock at his door.
When he opened it, Isla stood in the doorway, her hair loose, her face pale from the moonlight.
"Are you hiding from me, Ochar?" she asked gently.
He tried to smile, but it faltered. "I thought it best."
She stepped in, closing the door behind her. "You helped me when I had no one. You're the only one Johnny trusts enough to smile with again. If you vanish, what am I to tell him?"
Her words struck something deep inside him — the very thing he'd tried to kill. He turned away, his voice low. "Tell him the truth. That I am not what you think I am."
"Then what are you?"
He said nothing. But the silence between them grew heavy, the air charged. Isla's eyes softened, her courage flickering like the lamplight.
"You're kind," she whispered. "You're lonely. You look at the world like someone who's already lost it."
Ochar looked up sharply. "Stop seeing what you shouldn't."
"Then tell me what's real," she said. "So I'll stop guessing."
He took a step closer, the pull between them unbearable. His hand trembled as it brushed hers — warm, human, fragile. "Real," he said hoarsely, "is that I don't deserve to stand this close to you."
Her eyes glistened. "Maybe it's not about deserving. Maybe it's about needing."
And with that, she leaned in — barely, a breath's distance between them.
He froze. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to vanish into shadow. But his hunger — not for blood this time, but for life, for touch, for something pure — betrayed him.
Their lips met. Softly. Then fiercely.
The moment shattered him. He felt the beast recoil in confusion, retreating for the first time in centuries. The curse trembled under the weight of that single human act. When they parted, he stared at her, stunned — half in terror, half in awe.
"I should leave," she said, voice shaking. "Before this becomes something I can't stop."
"Too late," he murmured.
The days that followed blurred into golden dusk and whispered nights. Ochar found reasons to stay near her home — helping with firewood, fixing the old fence, even joining her and Johnny for supper. The boy would chatter endlessly, his joy contagious.
Sometimes Isla would sing — an old lullaby, one her husband used to hum. Ochar listened from the doorway, eyes closed, imagining what it would feel like to belong in that song.
But paradise is always brief.
One evening, as they sat outside watching fireflies, Johnny fell asleep on Ochar's lap. Isla looked at the two of them and smiled faintly.
"He adores you," she said. "Sometimes I think he believes you're an angel."
Ochar looked down at the sleeping boy — the small hands, the peaceful face. "If angels like me exist," he said quietly, "they've long since fallen."
She reached out, touched his cheek. "Then let me believe you climbed back."
It was then the wind changed. Ochar felt it — the faintest tremor in the night air, like a whisper from the woods. The curse inside him stirred restlessly.
He stood abruptly, eyes glowing faintly gold. "Go inside," he said.
Isla frowned. "What is it?"
"Please. Lock the door."
He vanished into the trees before she could answer.
Deep in the forest, the hunger tore through him again, sharper this time, crueler. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. The voices of the beast — the old deal, the ancient hunger — screamed inside his head.
Twice a week, the sorcerer had said. Drink or die.
He tried to resist, but pain drove him mad. The curse ripped free, transforming his body — claws, fangs, eyes burning like wildfire.
He roared into the darkness.
When he woke at dawn, the ground was red. His hands were human again, trembling. In the distance, a single bell tolled — someone had been found dead near the river.
He stared at his reflection in the water, horrified at his dirty skin.
When yhe sun set by the evening ochar came to isla house that evening, she didn't speak at first at his sight. Johnny ran to him as usual, but she remained by the door.
"Ochar," she said softly, "every time I see you, you look differen "
He looked away. "Being different is another kind of blessing."
She reached for him. "Then share it with me. Maybe I can carry part of it."
He took her hand, pressing it to his heart. It beat too fast, too strong. "If I gave you even a part of it, it would devour you."
"Then let it," she said.
He looked at her, startled — and saw not weakness, but fierce devotion.
In that moment, he understood something terrible: love did not save monsters. It only gave them something to lose.
That night, after she and Johnny slept, Ochar stood by their window, the moonlight washing over him. He whispered, "You make me wish I were a man again."
Then he walked away into the woods — away from the light, away from the home that wasn't his to keep.
But Isla woke just after he left. She went to the window and saw his figure vanish into mist. She didn't call out. She only pressed a hand to the glass, whispering back, "in love you"
The moon shone bright that night, its reflection rippling on the river like a promise made and already breaking.