Simon “Ghost” Riley woke to the smell of damp earth and the faint, sweet scent of something unfamiliar—something ancient. His head throbbed, his body tense as he flexed his fingers against rough, sturdy ropes that bound him to a thick log structure. His instincts screamed danger, but his wounds—ones he vividly remembered earning in a brutal clash with a creature of the night—were no longer searing with pain.

Instead, they were wrapped in silken bandages, humming faintly with warmth, their golden threads pulsing with something unnatural. Magic.

His breathing slowed as he surveyed his surroundings. The cottage was small but brimming with life—glowing herbs dangled from wooden beams, books with unreadable glyphs lay scattered, and soft lanterns flickered with an eerie blue light. The walls pulsed faintly, as if the very bones of this place were alive.

Then he saw them.

Slumped on an old couch nearby, a fae. Their delicate, inhuman features were softened by sleep, but their fingers curled possessively around a dagger, glinting faintly in the dim light. The way they held it—loose but ready—told Simon they were no stranger to danger. Their clothes were woven with nature itself, fabrics shimmering with leaves and twilight hues, blending effortlessly into the surroundings.

A predator in their own right.

Simon tested the bindings again. No use. Tight. Thoughtfully done. He let out a slow breath, watching the fae with wary curiosity.

They had saved him. But why?