(Eli's POV)
We woke to silence. Not peace—the wrong kind. The kind that wraps itself around you like a warning.
Even Wisp wasn't wagging his tail. He stood in the open doorway, ears perked, staring out toward the treeline. Alina was already up, wrapping her shawl tighter, her expression tense.
"I didn't hear the forest last night," she said quietly. "No insects. No owls. Nothing."
I moved beside her, hatchet in hand, not because I thought it would help much—just because it was mine. "Stay inside. I'll check it out."
"You're not going alone," she said. "Take Wisp. If he starts barking, I'm coming after you whether you want me to or not."
I didn't argue.
We walked the eastern edge of the fence line. Wisp kept low to the ground, sniffing every patch of soil. The grass was wet, but not from rain. Dew, maybe. Or something else. I felt like we were being watched. No—studied.
Then we saw it. A drag mark in the dirt, maybe two feet wide. Something had been pulled. No blood, just gouges in the soil leading into the woods.
Wisp sniffed it once, then backed away, whimpering.
"Yeah," I muttered, "that's a hell no."
We went back, slowly. Alina was already boiling water and lighting the hearth.
"Anything?"
"Something big. And quiet. I'm not going after it until I've got more than a hatchet and a teleporting puppy."
She cracked a dry smile at that.
The day dragged.
I spent most of it reinforcing the pen and finally securing a second makeshift door on the barn—really just old planks nailed together—but it gave me a sense of progress. I needed that. My hands ached, my back was stiff, and I still didn't know what the hell I was doing most of the time.
Late in the afternoon, Alina brought me a handful of bitterroot and yarrow. "For the burns on your hands," she said.
"Thanks," I said, sitting down on a stump. "Where'd you learn that?"
"My mother," she said. "Before she was taken."
I didn't ask more. She didn't need to tell me. We both knew loss.
That night, we heard them.
Low sounds. Breathing, maybe. Something is brushing along the side of the house. I put the fire out and held my breath. Wisp was under the bed, tail thumping softly—not out of fear. He was excited.
He blinked away.
I barely had time to whisper, "Wisp—no!" before I heard snarling outside, followed by a yelp and a violent crash against the side wall.
I kicked the door open, hatchet in hand.
Outside, three shapes moved along the edge of the garden. Tall. Horned. Beastmen.
One of them was dragging Wisp by the scruff, snarling.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I sprinted forward with a roar.
The first one turned, axe already raised.
I ducked low and drove the hatchet into his knee. It was buried deep with a sound like splitting wood. He howled and toppled. I yanked the hatchet free, swinging again just as the second one lunged. The blow glanced off his shoulder. He slammed me with a forearm like a tree trunk.
I hit the dirt, vision spinning. Wisp blinked out of the third's grip and appeared beside me, bleeding.
"Go!" I snapped. "Get back to Alina!"
He blinked again—gone in a flash.
The second beastman raised a cleaver. I rolled and felt the blade slam into the dirt where my head had been.
Then a crack—like stone on bone. Alina had swung a shovel into the side of his face.
I scrambled up as he stumbled back, dazed. The third tried to flank her. I hurled the hatchet with everything I had. It spun once, twice, and caught him in the throat.
He dropped without a sound.
We didn't speak. We just stood there, heaving, surrounded by corpses.
Wisp blinked back in, tail tucked, whimpering softly.
We survived.
Day 7 - Journal Entry
Three beastmen attacked the homestead last night.
One confirmed dead from the hatchet. One unconscious—bled out. Third buried at edge of field.
Wisp injured. Minor punctures. Healing well. Blink response stronger under stress.
Alina saved my life. Shovel to the skull—effective.
Need proper weapons. Need traps.
Need allies.
The land's changing. Or I am.
This world doesn't give second chances. I don't intend to waste mine.
2hrs later…
We buried the bodies at the edge of the field.
I didn't know if that was the right thing to do—if I should have burned them instead, or hung them up as a warning—but I couldn't bring myself to defile corpses, even monstrous ones. Maybe that would change someday.
Alina didn't argue. She just helped me dig.
Wisp limped beside us the entire time. He didn't blink that day. Not once. He stayed grounded. Silent. Watching.
By midday, we were sitting on the steps of the house, too tired to talk. The shovel leaned against my knee. My hatchet was in my lap, the blade chipped.
We both stared out at the field like it might try to kill us again.
"I used to be afraid of chickens," Alina said out of nowhere.
I blinked. "What?"
"When I was a girl. My family kept a few. They'd chase me around the yard if I got too close to their feed."
I let out a rough laugh. "Guess they prepared you for beastmen."
"Maybe. Chickens are more persistent."
That afternoon, we went through the beastmen's belongings. Most of it was garbage—fetishes made of teeth and leather, rusted blades, bones tied into necklaces. But one of them had a worn satchel filled with coin. Not much, but enough to maybe barter with if we found someone crazy enough to trade out here.
The biggest find was a half-decent short sword. Iron, heavy, but sharpened. I tested the edge on a post.
"Better than a hatchet," I muttered.
"Try not to lose it," Alina said with a smile tugging on her lips
Day 8 - Journal Entry
Weapon recovered: Short sword, roughly 28 inches. Single-edged. Blade worn, but salvageable.
Three enemy corpses buried east of property. May draw scavengers.
Wisp's injuries closing. Teleport range improved—approx. 15 feet.
Fencing compromised. South corner needs replacement.
Alina requests chicken coop. Not joking.
Note: Need livestock. Need traps. Need allies. Need time.
We started talking more.
She asked where I was from, once. I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. I don't know if it was fear or something else—some force locking my tongue. The words were there. But they didn't come.
I shook my head. "Far away," was all I could manage.
She didn't press me after that.
Wisp's energy returned quickly. Too quickly.
He started blinking onto the roof. Onto the barn beams. Into my lap while I was eating. He got into the flour sack and scattered it across the floor like snow.
He tried to climb onto the table during dinner. Alina gently swatted him off, and he blinked away, tail wagging like it was a game.
Later, when I was fixing the fencing, he teleported on top of a half-set post and knocked it over.
I gave him a look. He blinked to the other side of the yard.
Alina called him a demon with a wagging tail.
I couldn't really argue.
Day 9
Something new arrived.
It was just after dawn. I was out front, sharpening the sword against a flat stone when I heard Wisp barking—sharp, warning barks this time. Different from the playful ones.
Alina came running from the back garden, sickle in hand.
Wisp stood near the treeline, barking and circling something. Not attacking—herding.
A young owlbear.
It lumbered forward, ragged feathers stuck out at odd angles. One eye was sealed shut. It looked half-dead. Wisp darted in, barked, then blinked to the other side like he was trying to keep it from wandering too far.
I held out a hand, motioning Alina to stay back. "It's starving."
She stayed behind me, tense but silent.
The owlbear watched us, swaying slightly on its feet. It made a strange low chirring sound—not hostile, more like a groan.
I went to the well, filled a bucket, and set it down slowly.
The owlbear sniffed. Then limped over and drank.
Wisp blinked to its side, sniffed its feathers, then yipped. The owlbear flinched and bumped into him with its head—but gently.
A minute later, the two were lying side by side in the grass, breathing slowly.
"What are you?" Alina whispered.
"I wish I knew," I said. "But whatever's happening... it's not stopping."
Day 9 - Journal Entry
Species: Owlbear (juvenile) Size: Approx. 3.5 ft at shoulder, est. 150–180 lbs Condition: Malnourished. Right eye sealed shut. Minor limp. Disposition: Passive. No aggression. Possibly imprinted. Behavior: Vocalizes softly. Appears soothed by Wisp's presence.
Interaction notes: Wisp engaged in protective circling behavior. Owlbear tolerated contact. Rested beside Wisp without hostility.
Name: Not assigned. Pending behavior.
Housing: Temporary pen built near barn. Reinforced with salvage. Must be expanded.
—
Wisp curled up beside the owlbear that night, refusing to come inside.
I watched them from the window, the moon casting long shadows over their forms. The owlbear snored like a bear cub.
Something had changed. Not just with them. With me.
They were coming here. Drawn. But not by fear. Not by force.
By something else.