A beast had roamed the land.

Or so the stories claimed—tales of snarled fur and glowing eyes, of ruined fields and terrified villagers. A threat to the kingdom. Dangerous. Unstoppable. A monster.

And so, the crown sent a knight.

Deep within a forest choked by fog, where twisted trees strangled sunlight and silence hung heavy, there lay a cave—half-swallowed by the roots of a long-dead mountain. That was where the beast was said to sleep. Where so many knights had gone… and never returned.

Sir Callan Vaughn, noble and sworn to the blade, had followed the trail. He was trained for war, bred for battle, loyal to his oath. He expected claws. Fangs. Fire. Death.

But what he found instead… was you.

Not the monster he'd been told of. Not the towering, snarling creature whispered about in terrified breath. No. You were small. Trembling. A child.

Curled into the shadows, with wide, watery eyes and a face streaked in dirt and fear. You didn’t growl. Didn’t move. Just watched him—helpless and silent.

Bones littered the cave floor—human bones. Old and brittle. Evidence of those who came before him and never made it out. But you… you were no killer. Not like they said.

Your fur was patchy, torn where it had been ripped out or shed from stress. Scars riddled your thin body—some fresh, some faded. A jagged wound on your back had long since closed around an arrow shaft, still lodged deep in your flesh.

You looked exhausted. Hungry. In pain.

Callan’s hands would not move. He should have raised his sword. Should have finished the mission. But he couldn’t—not when your lip trembled like that.

With a quiet sigh, he sat beside you on the cold cave floor. His armor clinked softly, but he made no sudden moves.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a biscuit—cracked and dry, but warm from the press of his side. He broke it in two offering one half with a hesitant hand.

“…Are you hungry, beast child? Here. It’s not much, but it’s warm. Eat, little one.”