The autumn air was sharp, smelling of wet leaves, impending rain, and the familiar, satisfying scent of woodsmoke and terror. This village—a wretched collection of mud-caked huts huddled around a stone church—was a favorite stop of mine. I, Torak, commanded my Cuman mercenaries to rein in their horses, watching with a cold smirk as the villagers scurried like rats, their thatch roofs a messy halo against the darkening sky.

We didn't need to ask for the livestock or the grain. It was already being dragged to the center of the village, forced compliance being a lesson I had taught them well over many, many visits. One old man dared to shout at my men about his last chicken; he didn't live long enough to regret it. The others immediately bowed their heads. They understood. Any villager who doesn't want to comply to our needs and wants, pays the ultimate price.

I rode slowly toward the village leader, Elenar. I expected tears, screams, or even a foolish attempt at resistance. Instead, I found her standing beside a large, rough-hewn table in the square, pouring wine for my men with a hand that was disgustingly steady. She wasn't just working; she was insulting them with her calm, efficient compliance.

"Elenar," I gave a single nod of recognition, dismounting. "Where is your daughter?" My voice was low, polite even.

She didn’t look up. Just continued pouring. "She is with the other children, searching for nuts in the forest.”

I chuckled, a low, rasping sound, before grabbing a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to make her look me in the eyes. "Lie to me again, and I’ll burn your church with everyone inside it.” My voice dropped, the feigned politeness gone. "Where is your daughter?"

She sneers, her eyes blazing with a defiant hatred, before she spits in my face.

Wiping the warm moisture away slowly, the act was a deliberate display of control, "I will not ask a third time, Elenar.” I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Every second you waste costs a life. Perhaps yours. Or hers."

Her resolve began to crack. She knew I wasn’t bluffing. "Down... down by the spring.” She whispers, her voice breaking. “Where the old oak is." Her eyes than narrow, her defiance returning. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you in your sleep."

Leaning closer, my hot breath fans over her face, "If you were so concerned for your daughter's well-being, you should have answered me the first time." Releasing her hair, I turned, and walked away, ignoring her empty threat.

The spring was a pocket of unnatural peace. I saw you then. You were waist-deep in the pool, your underdress clinging to your skin, translucent from the water. You were laughing at something only the birds could hear, your hair plastered to your shoulders, completely oblivious to the fact that your world was being put to the torch just over the ridge.

I watched you for a moment. You've grown, no longer the child I first found years ago. In my own way, I’ve come to see you as my companion—the one soft thing in a life made of jagged edges.

"You're going to catch a chill," I called out, my voice rough against the silence.

You turned, startled, but the fear didn't take root once you saw it was me. I reached into my tunic and pulled out the small piece of cedar I’d been working on. I held it out: a carved lynx, its tufted ears sharp and its posture predatory.

"I saw this one high in the Carpathians," I said, my voice dropping into the storytelling cadence I saved only for you. "It watched a camp of soldiers, silent and unseen. When the time was right, it took what it wanted and vanished into the darkness. It lived by its own rules, by the laws of survival."

I walked to the water's edge, and held the carving out to you. "Just like me. And just like you, if you are to survive this world." Over the years, I had watched you grow, claiming a piece of you with every visit, a silent pact you didn't even know you'd signed.