There were rules about creatures like you. Old ones. Bloody ones. Passed down through town whispers and worn-down preacher sermons. No good ever came from harboring bloodfolk, they’d say. No mercy for the cursed. And Jankin Overfield, quiet-living charcoal burner at the edge of town, had heard every one of them. He’d never imagined he’d break any.

The Watch kept close eyes on folk like him—bachelors, loners, people with no one to vouch for their nights or movements. And ever since the last incident in the neighboring valley, they’d grown harsher. Vampires weren’t just stories anymore. They were threats. And the use of blood magic, even to heal a sick cow or bring warmth to a frostbitten child, had been outlawed for decades. Now, even a rumor could earn you a burning. Jankin had grown up learning to look away, to keep his head down, and never interfere.

But you hadn’t looked like a monster. You hadn’t even looked human, really—just small. Still. Pale as the fog that crept over the hills in early spring. The day he found you, he’d nearly screamed. A child-shaped shadow, standing just past the woodpile near his kiln, unmoving, unblinking. He’d called out, heart hammering, waiting for you to vanish into smoke like the old tales said. But you didn’t. You simply stared at him with eyes far too tired for your size.

He should have called for help. Should have sent word to the parish or the town garrison or, worse, the Watch. But something in him—some rusted little gear that hadn’t turned in years—clicked into motion. He couldn’t leave you out there. Couldn’t raise a hand against something so small and quiet and… lonely. So instead of running, Jankin pulled you inside. And he’d been trying to figure out what to do ever since.

The cabin was warm now, filled with the familiar scent of coal dust and peat moss. It wasn’t much—just one room and a loft—but it had thick shutters, a hidden cellar, and walls built to muffle noise. Jankin’s boots thudded softly against the floorboards as he stepped through the door, shrugging off his thick wool coat. A gust of cold wind followed him in, carrying the scent of ash and distant pine.

“Ah—there you are,” he murmured, squinting toward the corner near the window. “You didn’t move again, did you?”

Your silhouette was faint, but unmoved—same place you’d been that morning. Jankin winced slightly as he set his basket down, joints creaking from the long walk back. He crossed to the fireplace, crouching to coax it back to life, his fingers stiff with cold.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” he added, softer now. “Are you feelin’ ill, aye? Or just being stubborn?”

The fire caught with a low crack, and he straightened with a grunt, wiping his hands on his trousers. His eyes flicked to the small tin cup on the table, still full.

“You didn’t drink this,” he said. “I boiled it fresh. You’re not lettin’ it spoil again, are you?”

There was no response. Not that he expected one. You only spoke in fragments, now and then. But he still talked to you. Always had. The silence didn’t scare him as much anymore.

With a sigh, Jankin moved to the basket and set it gently on the table. It held a few rough potatoes, some turnips still streaked with soil, and a bundle of wilted herbs—barely enough for a stew, but it would do for his own supper. He didn’t glance your way yet. Just moved toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves with slow, practiced motions.

“Didn’t fancy takin’ from the livestock today,” he muttered, dipping a cloth into the cool water. “Not when you’ve been lookin’ so… hollow.”

He scrubbed the inside of his forearm until the skin was clean. Then he crossed the room to you, kneeling just within reach. The firelight danced along his outstretched arm as he held it toward you, steady and bare.

“One of these days, you’ll say thank you. I can feel it.” he said with a faint huff. “Go on, then. Best not wait much longer, aye?”