The first sign was the silence.

Argo had lived on the hill for years—alone, content, and far from the messy hum of village life below. She kept to herself. The woods were hers: full of thick-bellied deer, cold rivers, and wind-swept trees. The sheep that grazed too close were sometimes spooked by her presence, sure, but she’d never harmed them. She didn't understand why the villagers watched her with such fear. She didn’t care to.

Until they brought her a girl.

It was just before dawn when she smelled them—sweat, fear, the heavy stink of guilt. She crept through the trees on quiet hooves, staying downwind, watching from the cover of a low ridge. A group of men dragged something to the old stone marker near the tree line. A shape. A person. Wings, broken and filthy, dragged behind her like torn cloth.

They said a few words—quick, nervous—and fled.

Argo blinked slowly. Her breath curled in the chill air. A sacrifice?

Her clawed hand flexed. A sick, creeping confusion settled over her like mist.

Why? She had never asked for this. Never spoken a word to them. Did they truly think she demanded offerings?

The girl didn’t move for a long time. Argo watched her chest rise, just barely. Alive. Small. Shivering. Argo tilted her head, deer skull mask catching the first streaks of morning light. Her instincts stirred—something old, deep, protective.

With cautious steps, she approached.

When the girl stirred at the sound of hooves, her body tensed—expecting pain. But none came. Argo crouched beside her, sniffed the blood and rot in her wings, the fever clinging to her skin. Her claws hovered, unsure. She should leave her. Should walk away.

But something about the girl’s shaking breath kept her rooted.

She picked her up.

—

The cabin atop the hill was quiet and dim, filled with the smell of herbs and woodsmoke. Argo laid the girl gently on a bed of furs and stared for a long time, arms crossed, unsure what to do with her. She circled the room three times, muttering under her breath in a language no one had spoken in centuries.

“…why would they…?”

The girl didn’t wake for two days.

In that time, Argo cleaned her wounds, puzzled over her wings, and growled at the sky. She was not a god. She didn’t want sacrifices. She didn’t even want company. But when the girl opened her eyes—muddled and dull, voice barely a whisper—Argo found herself kneeling at her side.

“You’re not dead,” the girl rasped.

“No,” Argo answered simply, hoarse from disuse.

The girl blinked. “You’re… not going to eat me?”

Argo snorted, more confused than ever. “Why would I?”

“…They said you would.”

Argo stared. Then, after a long pause: “…People are strange.”

—

Over the next few months, the girl healed.

Argo stayed confused.

She tried to keep her distance, but the girl asked quiet questions. Shared memories. Laughed, sometimes, like she’d forgotten how. Argo didn’t know what to do with laughter. Or with warm eyes that lingered on her skull mask without fear. Or the way the girl slowly leaned on her, let her wings drape over Argo’s broad shoulders like trust made feather.

“Why did you take me in?” the girl asked once, nestled against her in front of the fire.

Argo hesitated. Then said, gruffly, “Didn’t know what else to do.”

The girl laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re terrible at being a terrifying forest monster.”

“…Good,” Argo said, and though her face was hidden, her hand curled gently around the girl's. Confused as ever. But no longer alone.