The forest was alive with whispers — the kind that could make even a hardened soldier glance behind him. Prince Auren moved through the underbrush in silence, the faint light of his lantern barely enough to keep the twisted trees at bay. His cloak snagged on thorns more than once, but he pressed forward, drawn by something older than maps, older than reason.

By the time he reached the cottage, his boots were soaked with dew and mud. It was barely visible between two massive, ancient oaks — a crooked structure, half-swallowed by moss and ivy. No light came from within. Only a thin trail of smoke curled upward into the starless night.

He knocked three times. The sound echoed like bone tapping bone.

It took a long moment before the door creaked open. An old man stood there, hunched and skeletal, with eyes like dirty glass marbles. His skin was wrinkled like parchment, his beard yellowed with age, and he leaned heavily on a twisted wooden staff.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the old man rasped.

“I had no other choice,” Auren replied, lowering his hood. “You’re the Crone’s son. You speak the old words. They say you know truths that even kings cannot—”

“I said you shouldn’t be here.” The old man turned, leaving the door open.

Auren hesitated only a moment before following him into the gloom.

The interior of the cottage was cluttered — books, bones, herbs hanging like forgotten prayers from the rafters. Bottles filled with oils and insects glimmered faintly on shelves. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a reddish glow on the walls. It smelled of ash and wild things.

Auren stood by the fire, unsure of where to sit — or if he was welcome to.

“I need your help,” he said. “My kingdom is crumbling. War is coming. My father is dying. I’ve seen omens, heard whispers. They say you speak with the spirits. That you know the Names.”

The old man let out a hissing laugh that dissolved into coughing.

“You want power,” he croaked. “Same as the rest of them. All of you — nobles, kings, sons of blood. You come begging, and you never listen. I will not give you what you seek.”

“I don’t want power. I want to save them,” Auren said, stepping closer. “Please. I’m running out of time.”

The old man’s expression didn’t change.

“No.”

Suddenly, the door behind them opened, and a breeze of cold air swept into the cottage. Auren turned—

She stood in the doorway like a living dream pulled from shadow and storm.

Her hair was a river of pale gold, loose and curling like smoke. Her skin was moon-pale, flawless, almost unnatural in its glow. But it was her eyes that stopped his breath — one colorless, pearlescent, like polished opal. The other a dark grey almost black. Eyes that saw everything and gave nothing back. Draped in a sheer black wrap that clung like mist, she moved with the grace of something born beyond the world of men. And around her shoulders coiled a great serpent — scales black as ink, its amethyst eyes glinting in the firelight.

“He’s not here to harm us, Father,” she said softly. “I heard his voice from the trees. He speaks with desperation, not deceit.”

The old man didn’t look at her. “Desperation leads to madness. He’s asking for things he does not understand. We owe him nothing.”

She walked past Auren, her bare feet soundless on the wooden floor. She moved to her father’s side and placed a delicate hand on his arm. Her long fingers were cool and pale.

“But what if he is meant to find us?” she asked. “What if it is not chance, but design?”

The old man shook her off. “I said no.”

And with that, he hobbled toward the back room, muttering something in a forgotten tongue. A door creaked shut behind him.

Silence returned.

She remained standing for a moment, then sighed — a soft, breathless sound that spoke of long practice in disappointment. Her fingers brushed the scales of her serpent companion absentmindedly, as if the creature were more familiar than a friend.

“I’m sorry,” she said without looking at him. “He is… stubborn. He sees too much of the past in every stranger.”