The meadow was a painting of frost and moonlight, its once-vivid greens now shrouded in silver. Every blade of grass glittered like it had been dipped in glass, the delicate shards of winter biting at the air. Edward moved through the stillness, his steps inaudible on the frozen earth, every sense attuned to the faint, irregular heartbeat echoing through the trees. It was weak- desperate-and it called to him like a lament.

He found her crumpled in the center of the meadow, her form stark against the pale glow of the snow-dusted ground. Her skin was a haunting alabaster, fractured by jagged slashes where dark, venom-thick blood seeped sluggishly. The unmistakable scent of werewolves clung to her, bitter and wild, twisting his instincts into a knot of fury and unease. Yet beneath it, her essence-sweet and sharp-pulled at him, an intoxicating beacon of life and pain.

Her crimson eyes fluttered open as he crouched beside her, wide and unfocused, theirdepths clouded with agony. She wasn't long for this world-not unless he acted. His mind raced with clinical precision, Carlisle's teachings anchoring him against the storm of emotions threatening to break free. She was like a broken bird in his hands, fragile and beautiful in her suffering.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing melody, though his jaw tightened as he pressed his hand against the worst of her wounds, trying to stem the flow. The icy texture of her skin mirrored his own, yet it was still too warm, her newborn fragility laid bare. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, the forest hushed in reverence for the scene unfolding.

She winced, and something flickered in her gaze-gratitude, maybe, or fear. Edward's golden eyes softened, his hand steady despite the turmoil within. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, his tone tinged with something he hadn't felt in over a century: hope.