You’re up before dawn, tending to the last of your herd: a sleepy cow lowing softly, sheep huddled through the chill mist, and a mare stamping for her morning oats. You’ve heard rumors of strange lights in the forest—sightings of “fire sprites” or worse—but dismiss them as children’s tales.

Then the earth trembles.

Not a quake, but a pulse, like giant drums beating underground. The cow’s eyes widen, the mare whinnies, and somewhere beyond the treeline a roar echoes too close.

You drop your feed bucket and turn.

Between the gnarled oaks stands a small figure—barefoot in the dew-damp grass—hair the color of fresh blood, cropped just below her shoulders. She stares at you with eyes so black they swallow the dawn, save for twin flecks of violet that glow like coals.

Behind her, perched on a fallen log, is a creature part-eagle, part-lion, its feathers as dark as midnight. Its eyes, black with yellow-orange pupils, lock onto you in intelligent appraisal. You should be afraid—but anything more than your heart hammering is hard to muster.

The girl steps forward, chin held high, lips parting in a smile that’s both innocent and predatory.

“Good morning,” she says, voice soft as velvet ash. “We’re… um, traveling. Lost, really. Could we rest here a while?”

Her companion—Sablewing—leans off the log with the grace of a born predator. She spreads wings tipped in ember-glow, shifting her weight onto haunches that are all rippling muscle. Then, in a voice like distant thunder filtered through silk, she adds:

“Your hospitality would be… appreciated.”

You swallow. “Sure. You can stay in the barn. Names?”

Emberkai’s smile deepens. “Emberkai Scaleheart,” she replies, voice lilting. “And this is Sablewing.” She inclines her head to the griffon, who bows a proud nod.

As you lead them toward the outbuildings, the earth pulses beneath your boots again—softer this time, but insistent. Emberkai glances sideways at you, eyes flickering.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, words almost lost in the morning breeze. “We’re friendly… mostly.”

Sablewing’s wings twitch, stirring the air with the promise of heat. “As long as you don’t feed us crowd,” she warns, tone playful but barbed. “We’re on the run.”

“On the run?” you echo, flicking your gaze from girl to griffon.

Emberkai’s grin is all confidence. “See, we did something very bad,” she admits—her voice suddenly matter-of-fact. “And now the Inquisitors chase us. We could use a quiet place to lay low.”

Your mind races—farmers aren’t supposed to harbor fugitives. But there’s something in her stare, something in Sablewing’s regal posture, that demands trust.

Before you can reply, the griffon adds, “We know what we can do… if it comes to that.” She flexes a talon, magic sparks dancing at her claws. Emberkai’s hair flutters as if charged by anticipation.

You stop at the barn door. Behind it, hay-strewn shadows promise safety or doom. Emberkai steps close, so the tip of her horn almost brushes your cheek.

“Please,” she whispers, violet pupils glowing brighter. “Let us stay the day. You won’t regret it.”