Naire followed Eryn back into the cottage, the door creaking softly as it closed behind them, shutting out the restless shadows of Rhysha's twilight. The warmth of the hearth greeted her, wrapping around her like a hesitant embrace, but it couldn't quiet the unease coiling in her chest.
The market's bustle still echoed in her mind, the fleeting glimpse of that unnatural shadow lingering like a stain she couldn't scrub away.Inside, the cottage felt smaller, more alive. The air carried the scent of simmering stew—root vegetables and herbs, rich and grounding. Two small figures darted forward, their footsteps light but eager.
Eryn's brothers, Lir and Tobin, collided with her in a clumsy hug, their arms wrapping around her waist. Their laughter was soft, unguarded, but their wide eyes flicked to Naire, curiosity sharp in their gazes. They didn't approach her, didn't speak, but their stares held a weight—innocent yet piercing, as if they could sense she was different.
Naire shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around the hem of her borrowed tunic. She wanted to shrink from their scrutiny, to hide the bloodstains and void-tainted marks that still clung to her skin, but there was nowhere to go.
The cottage was too small, too warm, too human.A woman stepped out of the small kitchen, her presence quiet but commanding. Eryn's mother. Her hair was streaked with gray, pulled back in a loose braid, and her face was weathered, etched with lines that spoke of years spent carrying burdens.
Her eyes—brown like Eryn's, but heavier, wiser—settled on her daughter first, softening with a love that needed no words. Then they moved to Naire, and the softness didn't fade, but it shifted, tinged with something else. Pity, perhaps, or sorrow. Not fear, not judgment, but a quiet understanding that Naire wasn't just a stranger who'd stumbled into their home.
"Here," the woman said, her voice low and steady. She held out a damp rag, its edges frayed but clean, the faint scent of herbs clinging to it. "Get yourself cleaned up for dinner. You'll feel better with some of that… mess off you."Naire took the rag, her fingers brushing against the woman's calloused hand.
The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through her—a reminder of human touch, of kindness she hadn't earned. She nodded, unable to find words, and pressed the rag to her arm, wiping at the crusted blood and blackened goo.
The cloth came away stained, dark and unnatural, and she felt the boys' eyes on her, their curiosity sharpening into something closer to wariness."Stop staring, you two," Eryn said, her tone firm but not harsh. She ruffled Lir's hair, nudging him toward the table in the corner. "Go set the bowls. Dinner's almost ready.
"Lir and Tobin obeyed, their footsteps scuffing against the wooden floor, but their glances darted back to Naire, quick and furtive. Eryn caught Naire's eye, offering a small, reassuring smile before turning to help her mother in the kitchen. The clatter of wooden spoons and the soft murmur of their voices filled the space, a rhythm of normalcy that felt almost suffocating to Naire.
She scrubbed harder at her skin, the rag cold against her wrists, her neck. The blood came away, but the void's taint lingered, a faint shimmer beneath her skin, like ink that refused to fade. She could still feel it—the pulse of something other, something that had merged with her in the Veil of Pyre. Her father's blood, his voice, his claim on her.
You are truly mine now. The memory clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, and she pressed the rag to her face, as if she could wipe it away."Dinner's ready," Eryn's mother called, her voice pulling Naire back. The woman stood by the table, ladling stew into chipped clay bowls.
Eryn was already setting out a loaf of bread—the same one she'd bought at the market—its crust still warm, its scent mingling with the stew's earthy warmth. Lir and Tobin sat at the table, their small hands clutching spoons, their eyes still flicking to Naire with that mix of curiosity and caution.Naire hesitated, the rag still in her hand, damp and heavy with the remnants of her past.
She didn't belong here, in this cottage, at this table, with these people who didn't know what she'd done—what she was. But Eryn's mother gestured to an empty stool, her expression gentle but expectant. "Sit," she said.
"You need to eat."Naire's throat tightened. She wanted to refuse, to retreat to the corner and let the shadows swallow her. But Eryn's eyes met hers, steady and unwavering, and something in that gaze held her in place.
She set the rag down, her movements slow, and crossed to the table, easing onto the stool. The wood creaked under her weight, unfamiliar, too real.The stew was simple—potatoes, carrots, a hint of thyme—but it was warm, filling the hollow ache in her stomach.
She ate slowly, her hands trembling as she lifted the spoon, aware of every sound, every glance. Lir whispered something to Tobin, too low for Naire to hear, and Eryn shot them a look that silenced them instantly. The mother watched, her expression unreadable, but she didn't press Naire with questions, didn't demand answers.
She just ate, her movements steady, as if this moment—feeding a stranger who'd emerged from the void—was no different from any other night.The silence stretched, broken only by the clink of spoons and the crackle of the hearth. Naire's mind churned, the weight of the void pressing against her thoughts.
She could still feel the shadow from the market, its presence lingering just beyond the cottage walls. It wasn't her father—not his chains, not his voice—but it was something tied to him, something that knew her. And it was close."You're not from the wars, are you?" Eryn's mother said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Her eyes were on Naire, not accusing, but searching, as if trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.Naire's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She shook her head, the motion small. "No," she said, her voice rough. "Not… not the wars.
"The woman nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. "You've got a look about you," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Like someone who's seen worse than war. Worse than most of us could imagine."Naire's chest tightened, her fingers gripping the spoon until her knuckles whitened. She wanted to deny it, to say she was just a girl, just lost, but the truth was too heavy, too raw.
"I don't know what I am," she admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them.Eryn's mother leaned back, her eyes softening, though the pity was still there, woven into her gaze. "None of us do, at first," she said. "But you're here. That's a start."Lir shifted in his seat, his small voice breaking the moment.
"Is she staying?" he asked, his eyes flicking between Naire and his mother, curiosity outweighing his caution now.Eryn glanced at Naire, her expression unreadable, but before she could answer, a sound cut through the cottage—a low, unnatural hum, like the air itself was vibrating. Naire's heart thudded, her spoon clattering to the table.
She knew that sound, that weight. It was the void, or something born of it, pressing closer.Eryn's mother stood, her movements sharp, her eyes narrowing as she glanced toward the window.
"What was that?" she asked, her voice low, tense.Naire's breath hitched. She could feel it—the shadow from the market, the thing that had followed her. It was here, just beyond the walls, waiting. "It's me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's here for me.
"Eryn's hand shot out, grabbing Naire's wrist, her grip firm but not harsh. "You're not alone," she said, her brown eyes fierce, unwavering. "Whatever it is, we face it together."Naire stared at her, the warmth of Eryn's touch battling the cold dread in her chest.
She didn't deserve this—didn't deserve Eryn's loyalty, her mother's pity, her brothers' curiosity. But as the hum grew louder, the shadows outside the cottage thickening, she knew she couldn't run. Not anymore.
Dinner ended in a quiet rush, the clatter of bowls and spoons giving way to the soft hum of evening routines. Naire's stomach was full, the warmth of the stew settling heavy within her, but it couldn't dull the sharp edge of unease that lingered in her chest.
The unnatural hum from outside had faded, but its echo still pulsed in her mind, a reminder of the shadow that had followed her from the market—something tied to the void, something that knew her name.Eryn stood, gathering the empty bowls with practiced ease, her movements steady despite the tension that had settled over the cottage.
Her mother was already herding Lir and Tobin toward a narrow doorway at the far end of the room, her voice low and firm as she urged them to wash up for bed. The boys' protests were half-hearted, their curious glances still darting to Naire as they shuffled out of sight, their small forms swallowed by the shadows of the hallway.
"Come with me," Eryn said, her voice soft but carrying that same quiet authority. She nodded toward the back of the cottage, where a rough wooden door led to a small, enclosed space. Naire hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the table, the coarse grain grounding her for a moment. She didn't want to move, didn't want to face the world outside the fragile safety of this room, but Eryn's steady gaze pulled her forward.
Naire followed, her steps slow, the borrowed tunic catching on her skin as she moved. The door creaked open, revealing a small, walled-off area behind the cottage, its wooden panels weathered but sturdy, shielding it from the forest beyond. A wooden tub sat in the center, its edges worn smooth by years of use.
A bucket of water steamed faintly beside it, the heat rising in soft curls, and a pile of fresh rags lay neatly folded on a stool nearby.Eryn knelt by the tub, pouring the steaming water with careful precision, her hands steady despite the weight of the bucket. "You need to get clean," she said, glancing up at Naire. Her brown eyes were soft, but there was a practicality in them, a refusal to let the moment linger on sentiment.
"That… stuff on you. It's not good to keep it on your skin."Naire's throat tightened. She knew what Eryn meant—the blackened goo, the remnants of void-tainted blood that still clung to her arms, her neck, her hair. She could feel it, heavy and wrong, like a second skin she couldn't shed. She nodded, unable to find words, and stepped closer to the tub, her fingers twitching at her sides.
Eryn tested the water with her hand, her brow furrowing slightly before she added a splash of cold water from another bucket. "Not too hot," she murmured, more to herself than to Naire. She stood, brushing her hands on her skirt, and gestured to the tub. "I'll give you some privacy. There's soap on the stool.
Call if you need me."Naire's chest ached at the simplicity of it—the offer of space, of care, of something as ordinary as a bath. She wanted to say something, to thank Eryn, to explain the weight she carried, but the words stuck in her throat, heavy with the void's lingering whispers. Instead, she nodded again, her gaze dropping to the steaming water.
Eryn lingered for a moment, as if sensing Naire's hesitation, then turned and slipped back through the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The sounds of the cottage filtered through—Eryn's mother murmuring to the boys, their soft giggles, the creak of floorboards as they settled into bed. It was a world Naire didn't belong to, a rhythm of life she'd forgotten how to follow.
She peeled off the tunic, wincing as the fabric tugged at the crusted stains on her skin. Her body felt foreign, too long, too heavy, marked by years she hadn't lived in this world. The scratches and bruises from the forest were still raw, and the faint shimmer of void-taint pulsed beneath her skin, like ink trapped in her veins. She stepped into the tub, the warm water stinging as it met her wounds, and sank down slowly, letting it swallow her up to her shoulders.
The heat seeped into her bones, easing the ache but not the weight. She reached for the soap, its herbal scent sharp and grounding, and scrubbed at her arms, her neck, her face. The water darkened, swirling with streaks of black and red, the void's remnants mixing with her own blood.
She scrubbed harder, her breath hitching, as if she could wash away not just the filth but the memories—the village burning, her mother's lifeless body, the inhuman man's laughter, the chains that had bound her to him.The water cooled too quickly, the steam fading into the night air. Naire's hands trembled as she set the soap down, her skin raw but cleaner, though the void's taint still lingered, a faint pulse she couldn't ignore.
She leaned back, her head resting against the tub's edge, and closed her eyes, trying to block out the whispers that still curled in the back of her mind: You are truly mine now.A soft creak pulled her back. The door shifted, and Eryn stepped through, carrying a folded cloth—a towel, rough but clean. Her eyes flicked to the tub, to the darkened water, but she didn't flinch.
"Feeling any better?" she asked, her voice gentle but practical, as if bathing a stranger covered in void-taint was just another task.Naire nodded, though the motion felt like a lie. "A little," she said, her voice hoarse, still unfamiliar. She stood, water dripping from her skin, and took the towel, wrapping it around herself.
The fabric was coarse, grounding, but it couldn't erase the chill that lingered in her bones.Eryn hesitated, her brown eyes searching Naire's face. "You don't have to tell me what happened," she said, her tone careful but firm. "But whatever it is… it's not just in your head, is it? That thing we felt outside—it's real.
"Naire's throat tightened, the truth pressing against her ribs like a blade. She wanted to deny it, to say it was nothing, that she was just a girl who'd gotten lost. But the shadow from the market, the hum that had shaken the cottage, the weight in her blood—they were all real, and they were tied to her. "It's… something I brought with me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Something I can't outrun."Eryn's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "Then we'll face it," she said, echoing her earlier words, her voice steady despite the uncertainty in her eyes. "But not tonight. Tonight, you sleep. You're no good to anyone if you collapse."Naire's lips twitched, not quite a smile but close. Eryn's pragmatism, her refusal to flinch, was a lifeline she didn't deserve but couldn't refuse. "Thank you," she said, the words heavy with meaning she couldn't fully express.Eryn nodded, stepping back toward the door.
"Come inside when you're ready. There's a bed for you. Mother's already got the boys settled."As Eryn disappeared into the cottage, Naire stood alone in the small, walled-off space, the towel clutched tightly around her. The forest beyond the wooden walls was silent now, but she could feel it—the shadow, the void, whatever it was—watching, waiting. It wasn't gone. It would never be gone.
She dried herself quickly, pulling the tunic back on, its rough fabric a reminder of the human world she was trying to reclaim. But as she stepped toward the door, a faint hum vibrated through the air, low and unnatural, just beyond the walls. Her heart thudded, her hand freezing on the doorframe.It was closer now. Not in the forest, not in the market, but here, circling the cottage like a predator scenting blood.
Naire's breath hitched. She could run, could flee into the night and draw the thing away from Eryn, from her family, from this fragile place that had offered her kindness. But her legs trembled, her body still weak from the void, and she knew running wouldn't save anyone. Not this time.
Before Naire could step fully into the cottage, a voice stopped her—a dark, feminine voice that slithered through the air like smoke, sharp and cold, laced with an amusement that sent ice down her spine. She froze, her hand still on the doorframe, and turned sharply, her heart thudding against her ribs.There, just beyond the wooden wall of the bathing area, stood a tall woman.
Her dress was black, its hem tattered and frayed, as if it had been clawed at by something unseen. Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, glowing faintly in the dim light of the evening.
Her eyes burned red, not with the warmth of fire but with something predatory, something wrong. Fangs glinted as her lips curled into a smile, and in her hands, she toyed with a long, black knife, its blade catching the faint moonlight as she spun it with practiced ease.
The air around her reeked of the void—thick, suffocating, a scent Naire knew too well, like blood and shadow and endless dark.Naire's breath hitched, her body tensing as she gripped the doorframe, the rough wood biting into her palm. She knew this was no human, no ordinary creature. This was what had followed her from the market, what had hummed outside the cottage.
This was something born of the void, something she had unleashed."I should thank you," the woman said, her voice low, melodic, dripping with a mockery that made Naire's skin crawl. She stepped closer, her movements fluid, almost gliding, the knife twirling between her fingers. "You freed me."Naire's throat tightened, her mind racing.
The void. The lake. The inhuman man—her father. She had dragged him into the Veil of Pyre, felt him unravel in its depths. But this… this was something else. "What are you?" she whispered, her voice barely steady.The woman's smile widened, her red eyes glinting with delight. "I've been in that void for centuries," she said, her voice curling around the words like a lover's caress. "Trapped, bound, forgotten—until you came.
Until you killed your father, the one who chained me, and others like me." She laughed, deep and resonant, the sound echoing through the night, making the forest beyond the cottage walls seem to shrink back.Naire's heart pounded, her legs trembling beneath the weight of the woman's words. She glanced at the cottage door, still ajar, the warmth and light spilling out, Eryn's soft voice murmuring to her brothers inside.
She couldn't let this thing—whatever it was—get to them. She pushed the door closed with a quiet thud, stepping fully into the bathing area, putting herself between the woman and the cottage. "Please," she said, her voice shaking but resolute. "Don't hurt them. Or me. I've suffered enough."The woman tilted her head, her red eyes narrowing, the knife pausing in her hand. "Oh, child," she said, her tone almost pitying, but laced with something darker, something hungry.
"I don't want them. I want you." She took another step closer, the scent of the void growing stronger, wrapping around Naire like a noose. "And since you killed your father, the one who held the chains, there's nothing to keep the others in check. More will come—monsters far worse than the ones already lurking in this pathetic human world.
And they'll come for everyone."Naire's stomach twisted, the weight of her actions crashing down on her. She had thought dragging her father into the Veil of Pyre would end it, would free her. But she had broken something, unleashed something—things like this woman, things that had been waiting in the dark for centuries. Her hands trembled, the damp towel still clutched against her chest, the borrowed tunic sticking to her skin.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered, the words raw, desperate. "I just wanted him gone."The woman laughed again, softer this time, but no less chilling. "Intentions don't matter in the void," she said, twirling the knife once more, its blade glinting like a promise. "You opened the door, child. And now it's wide open."Naire's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
She backed up, her bare feet slipping on the damp ground, the wooden wall of the bathing area pressing against her back. The woman was close now, too close, her red eyes boring into Naire's, her fangs glinting as she leaned forward. "You're strong," she murmured, almost to herself. "Stronger than he was, in the end. That's why I want you. Not to kill you, but to keep you. To see what you become."Naire's heart thudded, her mind screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something.
But her body felt heavy, still weak from the void, still raw from the bath, from the weight of a world she didn't belong to. "I'm not yours," she said, her voice low, trembling but defiant. "I'm not anyone's."The woman's smile widened, her fangs catching the moonlight. "Oh, but you are," she said. "You were his, and now you're mine. The void doesn't let go, child. Not ever."A sound broke the tension—the creak of the cottage door opening. Eryn's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the night.
"Naire? What's taking so long?"Naire's head snapped toward the door, panic surging through her. "Stay inside!" she shouted, her voice cracking. She couldn't let Eryn see this, couldn't let her get close to this thing. The woman's eyes flicked toward the cottage, her smile fading into something colder, more calculating."Friends?" the woman said, her voice dripping with mock curiosity. "How quaint."
She stepped closer, the knife spinning in her hand, its blade a blur of black and silver. "They won't save you, you know. Nothing will."Naire's hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She could feel the void stirring within her, the pulse of her father's blood, the jagged spikes that had once torn through her skin. It was still there, waiting, ready to rise again.
She didn't want it—she wanted to be human, to be the girl Eryn saw, the girl who deserved a bath, a meal, a bed. But the woman's red eyes, the scent of the void, the weight of her words—they were pulling her back, dragging her toward the dark."Leave them alone," Naire said, her voice steadier now, though it trembled at the edges. "If you want me, take me.
But leave them."The woman tilted her head, her smile returning, sharp and predatory. "Oh, I like you," she said, her voice low, almost a purr. "So brave, so broken. You'll make a fine addition to my collection."The air thickened, the hum from before returning, louder now, vibrating through the ground, the walls, Naire's bones. The woman raised the knife, not to strike but to point, its tip aimed at Naire's chest.
"Come with me," she said. "Or I'll go inside and see how much those humans mean to you."Naire's heart pounded, her mind racing. She could feel the void's pull, the temptation to let it rise, to become the thing she'd been in the Veil of Pyre—claws, spikes, rage.
But Eryn's voice echoed in her mind, steady and kind: You're not alone. She couldn't let this thing touch her, couldn't let it destroy the one place that had offered her a chance at something human.She took a step forward, her bare feet steady on the ground, her eyes locked on the woman's red gaze. "I'll come," she said, her voice low, resolute.
"But not because you want me. Because I want this to end."The woman's smile faltered, just for a moment, surprise flickering in her red eyes. Then she laughed, deep and delighted, the sound curling through the night like a warning. "Oh, child," she said. "This is only the beginning.".