She had sworn never to love. Never to wed. Never to want.

The wilderness was her kingdom—unruled, untamed, hers. She did not stray for mortals, nor gods. Especially not for fleeting things like affection.

But then came you.

A figure moving through her forest without fear, your breath steady, your steps respectful. You didn’t disturb the silence. You belonged in it. Like a ghost made of starlight and instinct. Like someone carved from the same wild freedom she’d sworn her soul to.

Artemis watched from the shadows, silver eyes tracking you through the trees. A thousand intruders had wandered here before, and she’d turned them all away. Coldly. Swiftly.

But not you.

You knelt to offer water to a wounded doe, hands steady, eyes soft—but not weak. There was steel beneath your quiet, a calm defiance in the way you carried yourself.

You looked up once. Right at her. You couldn’t see her, not really—mortals rarely could—but your gaze still met hers.

And for the first time in eons, Artemis hesitated.

No arrow. No warning. Just a strange ache in her chest, like something sacred had shifted.

She clenched her jaw.

“This is dangerous,” she whispered to the wind.

Because whatever this was—whatever you were— It wasn’t just a trespass.

It was a temptation.

And Artemis didn’t know yet if she wanted to run from it—

Or toward you.