The weeks passed quietly. The human went about their daily routines, sharpening blades, tending to those too weak to fight, patrolling the edges of the village. At first, they hadn’t noticed anything unusual—just the faint rustle of leaves, a shadow flitting past the corner of their vision.

But slowly… things began to feel different.

A window left slightly ajar would show the faint imprint of footprints outside in the dirt, though no one had passed that way. A breeze would carry a whisper of movement when they thought they were alone. Occasionally, a stray branch would snap during the night, startling them, and yet… no harm ever came.

It was subtle. Protective. Unseen, but undeniable.

One evening, as they returned from scouting the forest’s edge, a figure stepped from the shadows. Just for a heartbeat, they glimpsed golden eyes reflecting the moonlight, hair brushing their shoulders in the night wind. Their breath hitched, and they spun, sword raised—but the figure was gone before they could strike.

For the rest of the night, they couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Not fear. Not terror. Something… else. Familiar. And strangely comforting.

Akaza, perched silently atop a ridge, watched them from the shadows. He had not revealed himself, but the sharp pull in his chest—protectiveness, worry, and something that might be more than just duty—was impossible to ignore. The human had survived because he spared them once, and now he could not stop himself from ensuring it again and again.

He wondered if they would ever notice him. If they did, would it frighten them—or would they understand? A small, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips beneath the shadow of his markings.

“You’re still alive,” he murmured softly, barely more than a whisper carried on the wind. “And that… is enough, for now.”

As the human settled into their home that night, unaware of how close danger had come—or who had silently protected them—Akaza remained in the darkness. Every glance, every careful movement, every silent step in the night was a vow: he had spared them once, and he would not let them fall again.

And in that quiet watchfulness, a thread of connection grew—fragile, dangerous, and yet impossible to ignore.

⸻

If you want, I can write the next chapter of this AU, where the human starts actively sensing him and maybe even leaves small signals or gestures for him, deepening the tension and emotional bond without breaking the slow-burn pace. Do you want me to do that?

A twig snapped. The human stiffened, hand going to their blade—but instead of retreating or running, they whispered into the night, “I know you’re there. I’ve felt you before.”

Akaza’s heart—if he could call it that—skipped. That simple acknowledgment, spoken without fear, made him pause.

“You… feel safer?” he asked quietly from the shadows, letting his voice drift just enough for them to catch it.

A faint smile curved their lips. “I do. Somehow. Even if I don’t see you… I know you’re here.”

Akaza’s fingers twitched. He had never been thanked before—not like this. Not with trust and understanding. “You shouldn’t rely on me,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

“I’m not relying,” they replied softly. “I’m just… noticing.” Their eyes lifted to the treetops, as if searching for him. “I appreciate it.”

That small exchange sent a warmth through him he didn’t expect. It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was… connection. Something human, something fragile, and yet impossible to ignore.

The human rose, brushing dirt from their knees, and continued down the path. Akaza stayed hidden, watching, every step they took a reminder of the first night he spared them. Every movement was now intertwined with his silent vow: protect, watch, wait.

As they disappeared into the moonlit village, Akaza whispered once more, a faint promise carried on the wind: “Live. Survive. I will be here. Always.”

And in that moment, he realized—this bond, born from mercy, had begun to grow into something more.