Naire's eyes fluttered open, the dim light pressing gently against her vision, the warmth of a soft cottage wrapping around her like something unfamiliar—something safe
She barely moved, her body aching, heavy, weighed down by exhaustion she had never known before. The bed beneath her—woven from hay, layered with thick sheep wool—felt like the softest thing she had ever touched.
She tried to sit up.
Pain shot through her ribs, sharp, unforgiving, forcing her back down with a quiet gasp.
Then—movement.
The girl.
She rushed into the room, footsteps light but quick, her presence immediate
Her brown eyes—soft, steady—locked onto Naire, filled with something neither fear nor pity. Just concern
She stepped closer, holding out a wooden cup of water, steam curling faintly from its surface.
"You need to drink," she said gently, kneeling beside the bed, tilting the cup slightly to show she was ready to help if Naire could not lift it herself.
Naire swallowed hard. Her throat was dry, raw, tight from days—weeks? Years?—of silence.
She did not speak.
She only stared.
Because for the first time in so long—someone was looking at her like she mattered.
---
Naire's fingers trembled as she reached for the wooden cup, the warmth of the water radiating into her palms. **It felt strange.**
Not the sensation of heat—but the act itself.
Being given something.
Being cared for
She lifted the cup slowly, her lips pressing against the rim, taking small, careful sips. The warmth slid down her throat, easing the raw ache she hadn't realized had been there for years.
The girl watched, patient, her brown eyes studying Naire's movements like she was not afraid—just aware
When Naire finally lowered the cup, her breath steadied. Her body still ached, still felt foreign, but for the first time since she had opened her eyes—she did not feel like she was drowning.
The girl hesitated, then spoke.
"You've been out for days."
Days.
Not years.
Not lifetimes lost in the void.
Just days.
Naire swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the cup as the weight of everything pressed against her chest.
She had returned.
But now, she had to figure out what that meant.
--
Naire pulled the covers back, eyes scanning over her bare form, breath hitching as the truth settled into her bones.
She was **not eleven anymore**.
She was **grown**—her limbs longer, her shape fully formed, her muscles stiff with age she had never lived through in this world.
Yet, in the void, she had endured **years**—felt them stretch, coil, pull her forward into something she had not been meant to become.
Her fingers pressed into her own skin, her mind spiraling. **Had time continued within the abyss? Had she truly lived those years, even though the world above had only counted four days?**
The air thickened with uncertainty.
Then—**movement.**
The girl beside her gasped, eyes widening as she quickly reached forward, **pulling the covers back over Naire's body** with a sharp, flustered motion, a deep blush dusting her freckled cheeks.
"I—ah—you should rest," she stammered, voice slightly higher now, awkward, uncertain but still **gentle**.
Naire blinked, staring at her—at **the warmth in her embarrassment, the humanity in her reaction**.
She had spent so long with monsters, with horrors, with **things that did not care for modesty, or emotion, or softness**.
But here, in this quiet space, **someone did.**
And for the first time, Naire felt like **she had returned to something real.**
--
Naire swallowed, forcing down the lingering taste of void-tainted blood, her throat still raw from days—**years**—of silence.
She glanced around the cottage once more, its warmth strange but undeniably **real**. The hay beneath her body, the thick woolen blankets, the scent of burning wood from a nearby hearth—all of it felt like a place meant for **humans**.
Not for her.
Her voice was weak, deeper than she remembered, weighted by time she had never lived. But still, she managed the words.
*"Where am I?"*
The girl, still kneeling beside her, exhaled softly. She hesitated for just a moment, as if deciding whether Naire was ready for the answer.
Then, she spoke.
*"You're in Rhysha."*
Rhysha.
The name felt distant, foreign, unknown.
Not her village.
Not the place she had once called home.
Naire's chest tightened.
Her world was **gone**.
And whatever this place was—it was her reality now.
---
"You must be hungry," the girl said, her voice gentle but firm. "Let me get you something."
Naire blinked, her body still stiff, her mind slow to grasp the rhythm of this new place. Hunger was a distant thing—**a concept buried beneath years in the void, where time had stretched and folded in ways that did not allow for such human needs.**
And yet, as the words settled, as the thought took hold—**she realized she was starving.**
The girl stood, brushing her hands against her skirt, moving with a quiet ease that felt **too normal**—like she had done this routine countless times, caring for someone who could not care for themselves.
She did not treat Naire like something strange.
She did not ask where she had come from or why her body had been wrapped in blood and blackened goo.
She simply **gave**.
Naire swallowed hard, fingers curling around the thick blankets that still wrapped her.
She was not used to this.
She did not know if she deserved it.
And yet, for the first time in years—**she would let herself take it.**
--
The scent of bread filled the space before Naire even saw it.
Warm. Fresh. Simple.
Her fingers curled slightly into the blankets, gripping the soft wool as the girl returned, carrying a wooden plate with careful hands.
Bread, cheese, and a cup of broth.
Nothing extravagant. Nothing unnatural. **Just food. Just kindness.**
The girl set the plate beside her, easing onto the stool nearby, watching but not staring—giving space without abandoning her presence.
Naire swallowed hard.
Her hunger gnawed at her stomach, sharp and unfamiliar, but her mind still fought against the idea of **taking**.
She hesitated—just for a moment.
Then she reached forward, breaking a piece of bread between her fingers, lifting it to her lips.
She ate.
And with every bite, every slow sip of broth, she let herself believe—just for now—that she was **still human enough to deserve it.**
-
Naire ate.
Not with the reckless hunger of a beast, not with the desperate clawing need of something that had been starved for years—but **carefully**.
Slowly.
She swallowed each bite with measured restraint, forcing herself to move deliberately, to not let her shaking fingers betray how much she needed this.
She was **starving**, but she could not look like a **monster**.
Not here.
Not in front of her.
The girl beside her moved with quiet ease, soaking a rag in warm water, wringing it out gently. She did not flinch as she reached forward, pressing the damp cloth against Naire's neck, her forehead, wiping away the remnants of blood and void-tainted filth that still clung to her skin.
Her touch was **soft**.
Careful.
As if Naire was not something to be feared, but something to be **healed**.
Naire's breath hitched, the warmth of the cloth sinking into her skin, pressing into her bones in a way she hadn't realized she missed.
She had spent years drowning in darkness.
And now, here, someone **offered her light.**
--- hearth crackled softly, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold that still lingered in Naire's bones. She sat propped against the wall, the woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, her fingers curled tightly around the now-empty wooden cup.
The taste of broth lingered on her tongue, grounding her, but it couldn't erase the metallic tang of void-tainted blood that still coated the back of her throat.The girl—Eryn, she'd said her name was—moved quietly across the room, stacking a few logs beside the hearth.
Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if she'd learned to navigate the world with a careful grace that didn't draw attention. Naire watched her, searching for a crack in her kindness, a hint of suspicion or fear.
But Eryn's brown eyes remained steady, her freckled face soft in the firelight, untouched by the judgment Naire had come to expect."You should try to rest again," Eryn said, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was gentle but carried a quiet authority, like someone used to being obeyed, even if only by necessity. "Your body's been through… something.
"Naire's lips parted, but no words came. She didn't know how to explain—how to tell this stranger that her body wasn't just tired, but wrong. That the void had stretched her, reshaped her, left something behind that she could still feel pulsing beneath her skin. Instead, she tightened her grip on the blanket, the coarse wool grounding her in its texture.Eryn didn't press.
She knelt by the hearth, poking at the embers with a stick, coaxing the flames higher. The silence between them wasn't heavy, but it wasn't comfortable either. It was a space where questions lingered, unasked, unanswered.Naire's gaze drifted to the window. Beyond the warped glass, the forest loomed—dark, endless, not unlike the Veil of Pyre. She shivered, the memory of that place clawing at her mind: the lake of black, the chains, the inhuman man's voice calling her daughter.
She pressed her fingers into her palms, nails biting into skin, as if the pain could anchor her to this moment, this cottage, this fragile semblance of safety.
"Do you… live here alone?" Naire's voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the quiet like a blade.Eryn paused, the stick still in her hand. For a moment, her expression flickered—something guarded, something hidden—before she smiled faintly.
"No," she said. "My mother's here. And my brothers, when they're not off causing trouble." She nodded toward the door, where the faint sound of children's laughter drifted in from outside, mingling with the rustle of leaves.
Naire's chest tightened. A family. A home. Things she'd lost—things she'd destroyed, even if she hadn't meant to. She thought of her mother, her lifeless body in the burning village, the blood pooling beneath her. The memory was sharp, unrelenting, and with it came the whisper of the void, curling at the edges of her mind:
You were never meant to be part of this world.She shook her head, forcing the thought away. "Rhysha," she said, testing the name again. "What is this place?"
Eryn set the stick down, brushing her hands on her skirt as she turned to face Naire fully. "It's a village," she said, her tone careful, as if choosing her words with precision. "Small. Quiet. Far enough from the wars that we don't see much trouble, but close enough to hear the stories." Her eyes flicked to Naire's, searching.
"You're not from here, are you?"Naire shook her head, the motion small, almost involuntary. "No," she said. "I… don't know where I'm from anymore."Eryn didn't push. Instead, she stood, crossing to a small wooden cupboard in the corner. She pulled out a folded cloth—a simple, coarse tunic—and set it beside Naire.
"You can't stay in those blankets forever," she said, her voice light but not dismissive. "This should fit."Naire stared at the tunic, her fingers hesitating before brushing against the fabric.
It was rough, practical, nothing like the tattered rags she'd worn as a child or the blackened, corrupted flesh that had consumed her in the void. She swallowed, the act of accepting something so simple feeling like a betrayal of the weight she carried.
"Thank you," she said, the words foreign on her tongue. She wasn't sure if she meant them, but they felt like the right thing to say.Eryn nodded, her smile faint but genuine. "I'll give you a moment to change," she said, stepping toward the door. "I'll be outside with the boys. Call if you need me."As the door creaked shut behind her, Naire was alone again.
The silence pressed in, heavy with the absence of Eryn's presence. She clutched the tunic, her fingers trembling, and for a moment, she could almost hear the inhuman man's laughter, soft and amused, echoing from the void:
You are truly mine now.She shoved the thought down, forcing herself to move. She pulled the tunic over her head, the fabric scratching against her skin, too tight in some places, too loose in others. It was human. It was real. And yet, it felt like a costume, a fragile mask over something that didn't belong.She stood, her legs unsteady, and crossed to the window.
The forest stretched beyond, its shadows shifting in the fading light. She pressed her hand against the glass, the coolness grounding her, but her reflection caught her off guard. Her face—older, sharper, marked by years she hadn't lived—stared back at her. Her eyes, though human again, carried a darkness that hadn't been there before. Not black, not void-like, but haunted.
A sound broke her focus—a soft knock at the door. Eryn's voice followed, gentle but insistent. "Naire? You alright in there?"Naire's breath caught. She hadn't told Eryn her name. The realization hit like a stone, sinking into her gut. She turned, her voice barely steady.
"How do you know my name?"The door opened slowly, and Eryn stood there, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening. "You said it," she said, her tone calm but careful.
"When you were… out. You kept murmuring it, like you were trying to hold onto it."Naire's throat tightened. She didn't remember that. She didn't remember much of anything from the moments before she woke here, only the weight of the void, the pull of the lake, the inhuman man's chains. "What else did I say?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.Eryn hesitated, her brown eyes searching Naire's face.
"You said… 'he's still there.' Over and over. Like you were afraid he'd find you."Naire's blood ran cold. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. The inhuman man—her father—was gone, swallowed by the Veil of Pyre. She'd felt it, seen it, known it in the moment she dragged him into the abyss. But the void wasn't a place that let go easily.
And the whispers, the weight in her bones, told her he wasn't as gone as she'd hoped."I don't know what that means," Naire lied, her voice flat, trying to bury the truth beneath the words.Eryn didn't press, but her gaze lingered, as if she could sense the lie but chose not to call it out. "You don't have to tell me," she said softly. "But you're safe here.
For now."For now. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truth. Rhysha might be quiet, might be far from the wars, but Naire knew better than anyone that safety was fleeting. The void had marked her, and whatever it had left inside her wasn't content to stay silent.
Before Naire could respond, a sharp cry cut through the air—not from the cottage, but from outside. A child's voice, high and panicked. Eryn's head snapped toward the door, her body tensing. "That's Lir," she said, already moving. "Stay here."But Naire didn't stay. Her legs, though weak, carried her after Eryn, the tunic catching on her skin as she stumbled out the door. The air outside was cool, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth.
The forest loomed closer now, its shadows thicker in the twilight. Two boys stood at the edge of the clearing, one clinging to the other, their small faces pale with fear."Lir! Tobin!" Eryn called, rushing toward them. "What's wrong?"The older boy, Tobin, pointed toward the trees, his voice shaking. "Something's out there," he said. "It was watching us.
"Naire's heart thudded, heavy and slow. She stepped forward, her eyes scanning the forest. The shadows moved—subtle, unnatural, curling like smoke that didn't belong. She knew that movement, that weight. It wasn't the inhuman man, not exactly, but it was something of the void. Something that had followed her.Eryn pulled the boys close, her voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders. "Get inside," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The boys obeyed, darting toward the cottage, but Eryn's gaze locked onto Naire's. "You felt it too, didn't you?"Naire nodded, her throat tight. She didn't want to admit it, didn't want to drag this kind girl into the darkness that clung to her, but the truth was undeniable.
"It's not safe here," she said, her voice low. "Not anymore."Eryn's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. "Then we'll face it," she said, her words firm, resolute. "Whatever it is."Naire stared at her, the weight of Eryn's courage pressing against her own fear, her own guilt.
She didn't deserve this—didn't deserve the kindness, the trust, the willingness to stand beside her. But as the shadows in the forest shifted again, closer now, she knew she couldn't run. Not this time.The void had let her go once. It wouldn't again.