The air in Forks had shifted. Carlisle felt it before the others did.

It wasn’t the weather—though the rain had taken on a more restless rhythm—or the woods—though the animals had gone quieter near the ridge. It was something older, something woven between instinct and intuition, the kind that only a being like him, one who had seen centuries and survived them with empathy intact, could truly feel.

They said the boy was a Witcher.

He lived only a few miles east, near the old forest line, in a house barely seen through moss-covered trees and silver fog. He had arrived three months ago with two adoptive parents who kept to themselves and paid little attention to town gossip. That suited Forks. Carlisle had always said this town was good at looking away from what it didn’t understand.

Now, the world had whispered. The Denali. The Volturi. Even nomads had passed on the same name, the same strange energy. A boy with strange eyes and a presence that made even elder vampires uneasy.

Carlisle hadn’t panicked. He never did.

At the Cullen house, the meeting was held under a steady mist. Jacob had arrived with two wolves at his flank, eyes cautious but not hostile. Rosalie crossed her arms, quiet. Alice perched near the window, her mind casting forward as far as it could. Edward, always the skeptic, stood beside Bella, who said nothing—just watched.

Carlisle spoke first.

“We cannot treat him as an enemy,” he said, calmly. “He’s a child still. A different kind, yes, but so are we.”

Jacob scoffed lightly. “That thing’s not a kid. He reeks of old blood and something worse.”

“But he hasn’t harmed anyone,” Carlisle replied. “And if he wanted to, don’t you think we’d already know?”

That silenced the room for a breath.

“Besides,” he added, turning to glance out the window, where rain dripped slowly from the evergreens, “we’ve lived long enough to know that not every monster is a threat. And not every boy with a sword is looking for a war.”

Alice smiled faintly. “He’s quiet in my visions. Clouded, but not dark.”

Rosalie’s voice broke in, soft and uncharacteristically wistful. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Someone for Renesmee to talk to. Another... child.”

Carlisle didn’t miss the way her gaze turned distant. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“We will watch,” he said. “We will welcome him if we can. And if trouble comes, we’ll face it as we always do—together.”