Shanane followed Eoghan down the dimly lit hall, her footsteps soft against the worn wood. He led her to a small room at the end, simple but welcoming. A modest bed stood against the far wall, covered in a thick, hand-stitched quilt. A small table rested by the window, and an old lantern flickered faintly, casting soft shadows across the plain walls.
__Eoghan: "You can sleep here. It's not much, but it's safe."
He lingered for a moment in the doorway, his green eyes scanning her face, perhaps looking for something she couldn't yet name. When Shanane managed a small nod, he gave her a quiet look of reassurance.
__Eoghan: "Rest. I'll be just down the hall if you need anything."
The door closed with a soft click, and for a moment, the braided hair woman stood alone in the quiet. The cottage was so different from hers. No hidden doors, no heavy shadows pressing from the corners. Only the soft crackling of a fire somewhere behind the walls. A place of peace. A place where, for once, she might close her eyes without fear.
She sat heavily on the bed, her body sagging under the weight of everything she had been carrying. The events of the day pressed against her mind like a tide trying to drown her, but exhaustion pulled harder. She lay down, curling beneath the quilt, and let her eyes drift closed.
At first, there was nothing. Only darkness and the soft lull of the fire's breath. But slowly, the air around her began to change. The warmth slipped away, replaced by a cold so biting it felt like it seeped into her bones.
Her eyelids fluttered open. And he was there. The shadow.
It stood just beyond the reach of the faint lantern light, its form sharp and wrong against the darkness. It didn't move, didn't breathe, but she could feel its eyes on her, if it even had eyes.
Her body was paralyzed. Her limbs refused to answer her frantic, silent commands to move. To run.
The figure raised a long, crooked arm, and its voice, cold and hollow, scraped against her mind like a knife.
The shadow: "Come back."
The words weren't loud, but they filled the room, the walls, her very chest. A command, absolute and undeniable.
Shanane gasped soundlessly as it moved closer. Its hand, blackened and thin like charred wood, reached for her wrist. She struggled, fought against the invisible force locking her to the bed, but it was useless.
The moment the shadow touched her, a searing pain exploded through her wrist.
It was real. Terribly real.
The agony blazed up her arm, burning hot and deep, like molten metal had been poured beneath her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down a scream that tore at her throat, desperate to wake, desperate for it to stop.
And suddenly, she did.
She bolted upright in the bed, her heart pounding so violently, it felt like it would burst from her ribs. The air in the room was cold, far colder than it should have been, the soft firelight from the hallway barely touching the edges of the room.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Then she felt it, the sting. She looked down at her wrist, her hands shaking violently. In the faint glow, she saw it: A mark.
Fingers, blackened and cruel, had wrapped themselves around her in sleep and left their imprint behind. Red and angry, the pattern of twisted lines dug into her skin like a brand.
Her chest tightened. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a trick of the mind. The pain was real. The mark was real.
The clock on the table ticked softly beside her, the hands frozen at 3:15 AM.
Panic rose, thick and choking. She pressed her hand to her wrist, as if she could erase the proof burned there, but it only throbbed harder under her touch. The walls seemed to close in around her, the shadows in the corners twisting with shapes she couldn't bear to look at for too long.
Her mind raced. The creature hadn't been bound to the cottage. It hadn't been contained by walls or prayers or distance.
It had followed her. It knew where she was.
And it had touched her. No place was safe anymore. No door, no lock, no fire could keep it out.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. Crying wouldn't help her now. Fear wouldn't save her. Nothing woul except knowledge. Strength.
She needed to understand what she was fighting. Because whatever her grandmother had hidden, whatever dark legacy she had unknowingly stepped into, it wasn't finished with her yet. And she was running out of time.
Slowly, mechanically, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her as she crossed the small room to the table where the weak lantern flickered. She turned the flame higher, flooding the space with a little more light, though it did little to chase away the sense of being watched.
Every creak of the wood beneath her feet made her flinch. Every flicker of shadow along the walls made her heart jolt against her ribs.
She needed air. She needed to think. She slipped silently out of the room, careful not to wake Eoghan. She padded barefoot down the short hallway, the floorboards cool against her skin. The main room of the cottage was still, the fire in the hearth reduced to faint, glowing embers.
She stopped at the front door, her hand resting on the latch. Her reflection stared back at her in the small window pane: pale, wild-eyed, fragile.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Leaving the safety of the cottage meant stepping back into the world that hunted her, that whispered to her even now. But staying here, pretending she could sleep after what had happened, pretending she could close her eyes again and not feel that burning grip was impossible.
Carefully, she opened the door and slipped outside.
The night air hit her like a slap. It was sharp and bitter, smelling of frost and wet leaves. She stepped out onto the porch. The woods surrounding Eoghan's home loomed like silent sentinels, their branches clawing up into the starless sky.
The village was a distant thought now, hidden behind the thick wall of trees. Here, there was only darkness and the quiet knowledge that the thing that had touched her wasn't bound by walls or distance. It had found her here. It would find her anywhere
The mark on her wrist throbbed, as if pulsing to some hidden rhythm. What did it want Why hadn't it taken her when it had the chance? Why torment her like this calling her back with whispers and dreams that bled into reality?
She wrapped her arms around herself, staring out into the shadows, her breath misting in the frigid air. She felt small, fragile, like a single flame struggling to survive in a storm.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice rose up, the same voice that had carried her through lonely nights when her grandmother had first sent her away, the same stubbornness that had made her keep going when the world seemed determined to spit her out.
"You are still here. You are still breathing. You are not broken yet."
The mark might have claimed her skin, but it hadn't claimed her soul. Not yet.
She turned back toward the door, her heart pounding with fear and fury. She could not, would not let this thing own her. If it thought it could break her spirit, it would learn differently.
Because if her grandmother had lived with this darkness and hidden it, if she had fought and survived for so long then Shanane would find a way too. Even if it cost her everything.
She slipped back into the cottage, locking the door behind her with trembling hands.
The embers still smoldered faintly in the hearth, and in the dim glow, she caught sight of Eoghan's hunting knives resting neatly along the wall. Strong, sharp, solid.
A part of her wished she could simply take one, arm herself, and believe that steel and willpower would be enough against whatever waited for her.
But she knew better. This wasn't something she could stab or outrun. It was older. Smarter. Patient. It had been waiting for her long before she even knew to fear it.
Still, she wasn't going to cower. She wasn't going to turn her face to the wall and let it take her like a lamb to the slaughter.
She was her grandmother's blood. She was stronger than she looked. And somehow, somehow, she would find a way to fight back. Even if the night itself turned against her.
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∆ ☆ ATHERAMOND ☆ ∆
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As she heard soft footsteps coming from the direction of the kitchen, she stiffened instinctively, her heart leaping in her chest, but the tension eased almost instantly when she saw Eoghan's tall frame step into the room.
The huntsman paused mid-step, his brows pulling together in a frown of quiet surprise when he found her standing there, pale and trembling, framed by the cold air still curling in from the doorframe.
__Eoghan: "You're awake."
His voice was low, almost hesitant, as if sensing that something was wrong, something deeper than simple sleeplessness.
He took a few steps closer, the warm light from the fireplace casting golden edges along his hair and shoulders.
__Eoghan: "Where did you come from?"
Shanane tightened her grip around herself, her voice rough when she finally spoke.
__Shanane: "I just… needed some fresh air."
She dropped her gaze quickly, not trusting herself to hold his eyes. The lie was flimsy and thin between them, but he didn't push. Instead, he closed the distance between them with slow, careful steps, as if approaching a wounded animal.
When he stood in front of her, he reached out with a gentleness she hadn't expected. His fingers brushed against her cheek, roughened by years of work but warm and steady. His thumb lightly grazed her skin, tracing the dampness left by the cold and by tears she hadn't realized were still falling.
He tilted her chin up slightly, forcing her to meet his green eyes. The concern etched into his face, the steady warmth in his gaze, unraveled something deep inside her that she hadn't even realized she was holding together.
She cracked.
A broken, shuddering sob tore free from her chest before she could stop it. She dropped her head against his chest, her arms clutching at his shirt as the dam inside her finally shattered.
She cried, the kind of raw, broken crying that shook her whole body. She felt him stiffen at first in surprise, but almost immediately, Eoghan's arms came around her, steady and sure. He held her close, his hand cradling the back of her head, murmuring something too low to hear, a soothing sound meant more for comfort than words.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that, folded into him, feeling his heartbeat through the thin layers of fabric. For once, she wasn't alone with her grief. For once, she didn't have to bear it all in silence.
Eventually, the storm of sobs quieted. Embarrassment crept in, but before it could fully take hold, Shanane gently pulled away from him, her breathing uneven.
Eoghan said nothing. He only raised one hand again and carefully wiped the lingering tears from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb, his touch so impossibly gentle that her throat ached with the tenderness of it.
Their eyes met again, and the moment stretched, quiet, heavy with something neither of them could name but both could feel.
Without a word, he leaned down, slow enough to give her the choice to move away if she wanted to.
She didn't.
When his lips brushed hers, it was a soft tentative, a question rather than a demand.
The young woman's breath hitched, but then she leaned into him, her hand fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. She kissed him back, her movements shy but desperate, as if seeking something solid to anchor herself to in a world that had shifted under her feet.
The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, the air between them warmer than the fire itself. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Shanane let herself fall into it: the warmth, the steadiness, the human connection she had been aching for without even realizing it.
Here, in this fleeting moment, the world outside the whispers, the darkness, the unbearable weight of the past disappeared.
There was only him. And her. And the fragile, stubborn spark of something real.