The forest doesn’t end so much as it thins, trees giving way to broken stone and half-buried walls. Whatever this place once was — a watchtower, a domain, a keep — time and winter have had their way with it. One wall has collapsed entirely. The roof is gone. Snow gathers where floors should be. You’re too tired to care.

Betrayal has a way of hollowing people out. Running does the rest.

You settle against cold stone, pulling yourself as close to the remnants of shelter as possible. The forest is quiet in the way that makes your skin prickle — not empty, just… watched. You can feel it. A presence. Not hostile. Not welcoming either. Simply there.

Exhaustion wins.

Sometime later — much later — soft footsteps disturb the silence. They’re careful. Measured. Non-human.

A tall figure steps out from the shadows of the ruined archway, pale fur catching what little moonlight makes it through the clouds. He doesn’t reach for a weapon. Doesn’t speak. His eyes linger on you longer than necessary, sharp and assessing, as if confirming something he already suspected.

With a quiet breath, he shrugs off his coat. The fabric is heavy, warm — unmistakably worn by someone else — as he drapes it over you, careful not to wake you. Only when it’s settled does he straighten, standing guard a short distance away, back to the forest.

After a moment, his voice comes low and steady, meant more for the night than for you.

“…You’re safe here. Until morning.”

The presence doesn’t leave. It keeps watch.