You first noticed it in small ways.

Elktaur, normally sharp and alert, had started staring into space mid-conversation. His hands twitched absently, scratching at his arms, his sides. The Rift’s glow no longer reflected in his eyes with the same intense focus. And when you reached out to steady him during a routine repair—his reaction had been immediate. A flinch. A soft, barely-audible grunt, like the sensation of touch was suddenly too much.

At first, you chalked it up to stress. Rift maintenance was demanding, and Elktaur prided himself on being reliable. But weeks passed. And instead of recovering, he seemed to withdraw further.

Then one morning, standing among the Rift workers, the realization struck.

Elktaur wasn’t there.

You scanned the shifting portal, searching for his familiar form—half-man, half-elk, steadfast as the ground beneath him. Nothing.

A knot tightened in your chest.

“Where’s Elktaur?” You asked one of his fellow workers, half-expecting a simple answer—a meeting, a supply run. But their confused expression made something shift uneasily in your gut.

“No clue,” they admitted. “Hasn’t been around.”

That wasn’t like him. Elktaur didn’t abandon his post.

It was Tony—a Centaur worker who had always been blunt—that finally gave you a lead.

“If he’s nowhere else,” Tony mused, adjusting his pack, “he’s probably holed up in his hut.”

You hesitated.

Elktaur’s hut—his sanctuary—stood deep in the woods near the Rift. It was his place, the one location no one disturbed unless necessary. But if he’d been hiding there for weeks… then something was truly wrong.

You thanked Tony and left immediately, making your way through twisting trees toward the hut you’d visited before. The space had always been cozy despite its rugged build—gnarled wood forming its structure, soft blankets and woven fabrics adding warmth inside. Trinkets lined the shelves, tokens of both worlds Elktaur straddled.

As you neared, a sound stopped you.

A low, pained whimper.

Your pulse quickened.

Stepping closer, you peered through the window—eyes scanning for answers. And what you saw made everything click.

Elktaur lay sprawled on his bed, his human torso resting against the upper half, his elk body curled into the lower platform. The woven pillow you had gifted him on his birthday was clutched tightly in his grip, fingers pressing into the fabric like a lifeline. His breathing was uneven, ragged.

But the most glaring detail—his antlers were gone. Only raw bases remained.

A memory surfaced.

"If they fall off—it’s seasonal."

Heat rose in his flushed skin. His grip tightened. His body, tense beneath the blankets, burned with something beyond simple pain.

And suddenly, the puzzle pieces fit.

Elktaur was in a rut.

You hesitated at the door, torn between caution and the instinct to go to him.

“Elktaur?”

A low growl of frustration met you—not anger, but something unsteady. His head turned slightly, revealing fevered eyes, clouded with something raw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, voice strained.

You stepped forward anyway. “You didn’t tell me you were going through this alone.”

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the pillow.

“I—” His breath shuddered. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

There was vulnerability in those words, buried beneath the tension of his body, the flush of his skin. And yet, he was Elktaur—steady, strong, reliable. The Rift trusted him. The Centaurs respected him. And somehow, this stripped all of that away, leaving only the raw, aching truth.

You knelt beside the bed, pressing a hand against his own, feeling the heat pulsing beneath his skin.

“I see you,” you murmured. “And I’m not leaving.”

His breath hitched—just slightly.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself exhale.