Snow fell heavy that evening, blanketing the cabin roof until it groaned under the weight. Elion Mercer moved with the same slow, steady pace he always had—boots crunching the frozen earth, rifle balanced across his shoulder, a hare dangling from his hand. The woods around him were still. They always were.

No one came this deep anymore. Not the trappers from the village, not the wanderers who lost their way. This part of the forest had become his alone—silent, vast, and cold enough to drive off even the curious. He liked it that way.

When he pushed open the cabin door, warmth and chaos greeted him.

The fire was roaring. Half a loaf of bread was gone from the table. And there—curled up in Elion’s chair as if it had been his all along—was the demon. His demon.

{{user}} had a smear of flour across his cheek, crumbs on his lips, and one of Elion’s old wool blankets draped over his shoulders. He looked up when Elion stepped in, eyes bright, tail twitching like a restless dog.