Isaiah's eyes were lost in the distance of the forest while the sun, benevolent during the day, began its descent. The red disc sank behind the trees, bleeding over the horizon before extinguishing itself, and the light withdrew slowly.
Night reclaimed its kingdom, and darkness stretched its hidden paths over the city. Shadows detached themselves from the trunks, lengthening toward civilization.
He observed Astilbe with a mixture of disapproval and calculation; the tension palpable around Janab grew day by day. Isaiah remained motionless, a statue of cold flesh against the darkening landscape. The compassion that the other showed toward the young woman was dangerous, reckless.
Astilbe reproached Isaiah for having sent her to a place where no one, neither mortal nor immortal, dared to venture:
The Hand of the Forest.
The name itself soured the wind, a verbal condemnation. The superstitious spoke of it as a temple of supplication against torment, a site where destinies shattered and men perished without hope of return. The dwelling of the ancient devourer of souls was hidden among the trees, a terrain that even Belzblehem avoided. The branches there intertwined, forming arches that became tombs.
Countless stories existed about that gruesome place. It was said that the passage to "The Hand of the Forest" was cursed, and that those who crossed it found only gloom, perishing without the option of return. The trees remembered the names of the lost, whispering them tenebrously. But all this was unknown to Janab. She walked into the mouth of the wolf without knowing that its jaws were already open.
The cold continued to envelop the skin of a woman oblivious to the profane, who simply returned to the house that had confined her—drenched, trembling, her chest aching with the fear of a possible new imprisonment. The rain had soaked her clothes, clinging to her body like a second, frozen skin. Every shadow of the building seemed to recall her presence; the beauty of the house mingled with memories of oppression, awakening in her distrust and rejection. The walls seemed to lean inward, watching her return. Finally, she turned on all the lights and sat in the living room with the curtains open, exhausted, until the sky darkened and weariness overcame her.
The artificial brightness fought against the night, but it was a lost battle. When Isaiah appeared, the house plunged into shadow according to his will. The bulbs did not burn out; the darkness simply absorbed their light. Janab's body did not react; her sleep was deep, a state where the mind lies vulnerable and thoughts do not flow. Her breathing was rhythmic, too calm for one who had visited hell.
Isaiah observed her, evaluating every detail: the scent of her skin—a mixture of sweetness, sulfur, wax, and flowers; the veins of her neck and wrists—maps that no vampire could ignore. The smell of iron was faint but undeniable, branded into her pores.
With her eyes closed, she denied him direct visual contact, that tool with which vampires strip the souls of mortals. But there was another way: listening to thoughts and traversing memories from the depths of her sleep. He leaned over her, without touching her, letting his shadow cover her completely.
He sighed softly, without turning his gaze away from the fragile figure. Someone who ventured into the Hand of the Forest should not sleep with such tranquility... unless something, or someone, had already marked her. The air around her vibrated with a strange resonance, foreign to human nature.
The irony of her safety awakened in Isaiah a mixture of curiosity and disdain, as he understood that, somehow, the young woman was far from being a mortal at a total disadvantage. Something had protected her, or something had claimed her as its own. And that changed all the rules of the game.
♱⏾⋆.˚