The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the grand chamber. You sat by the hearth, you thick fur matted with dried blood and dirt from the night’s hunt. The warmth should have been comforting, yet your body remained tense—especially when you heard the slow, deliberate footsteps behind you.

Alcina Dimitrescu.

She stood tall, silent for a moment as she regarded you. Then, without a word, she lowered herself gracefully onto the chair beside you, a silver-handled brush glinting in her hand.

“You’re a mess,” she murmured, more amused than scolding.

Before you could react, her fingers threaded through your fur, followed by the slow, rhythmic drag of the brush. It was… unexpected. Strange. The touch was neither harsh nor careless, but measured—intentional, almost motherly.

A quiet chuckle. “You’re not used to being cared for, are you?”

Her words lingered in the air, leaving you with a question you weren’t sure you could answer.