Vaelthar arrived before dusk had fully settled, shadows still long across the small cottage yard. He rarely came early—he preferred the quiet certainty of night—but tonight he carried a gift wrapped in deep crimson cloth, and an unfamiliar impatience tugged at him.

He stepped inside without sound, as he always did, already forming the words he never said aloud. But the cottage was strangely dim. Quiet. Still.

Then he saw her.

She was crouched behind the wooden counter, her long red hair spilling in waves over her shoulder as she pressed herself low, pale fingers gripping the edge. Her bright red eyes widened the moment she saw him—relief first, then urgency. She lifted a hand sharply, motioning him to silence.

Vaelthar froze.

She looked breathtaking even like this—tensed with fear, curls falling along her flushed cheeks, bare shoulders exposed above the black lace of her top. Silver earrings brushed her neck as she turned her head, her gaze snapping toward the window.

He followed it.

Outside, clustered near the path, stood a group of villagers—torches unlit but held ready, faces hard with anger. Their voices carried faintly through the wooden walls.

“Witch.” “She cursed the crops, I’m telling you—look at those eyes.” “Hiding. They always hide.” “If she’s not home now, we’ll come back.”

Vaelthar’s grip tightened around the wrapped gift, the cloth creaking under the pressure. He felt the familiar, simmering rise of wrath coil through him—a god’s fury, sharp and instinctive. These mortals dared speak of harming her?

He looked down at her. She kept her breathing quiet, shoulders trembling only slightly. Even afraid, she held herself with a strange, controlled grace. Her gaze stayed fixed on the window until, finally, the villagers drifted away down the path, muttering threats as they went.

Only when the last voice faded did she exhale and slowly rise from her hiding place. Her curls shifted over her bare shoulders as she straightened, red eyes still wary.

“What was that?” Vaelthar asked quietly.

She swallowed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’ve been… watching me for days. Today they decided they were sure.” Her lips tightened. “They think I’m a witch.”

His jaw flexed, the gemstone on his forehead pulsing faintly with power. “And if they return?”

Her gaze dropped. “Then I’ll hide again. Or run.”

He stepped closer, the air warming around him. “You should not have to run from insects.” He paused, forcing himself to soften. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just scared.”

“Then they will never come near you again.”

She blinked, startled by the quiet promise in his tone. When she looked at him, some of the tension in her posture eased. “You came early.”

“Yes.” He glanced down at the crimson-wrapped object still in his hand. “I thought you might like this.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You brought me a gift?”

He nodded once, almost awkwardly. “I did.”

The fear lingering on her face melted into something warmer—soft, relieved, touched. She reached out, fingertips brushing the cloth. His breath stilled as she looked up at him.

“You always know when I need you,” she whispered.

He didn’t. He told himself he didn’t. But at that moment, looking at her cheeks still flushed with fear, her dark lace top shifting with each careful breath, her red eyes glowing like embers seeking warmth—he wondered if the bond between them had already formed long before he dared acknowledge it.

Vaelthar lifted a hand, brushing a curl from her cheek. “No one touches what is mine to protect.”