The moon slipped between the clouds, bathing the rooftops of the small snow-covered village in silver light. The torches in the houses flickered, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the silent streets. The air was cold and damp, carrying the smell of burned wood and wet earth, which always reminded Henry of the nights spent in the forge with his father.

Henry waited at the edge of the forest, where the trees began to form a wall of shadows and snow-covered branches. He had received news that the werewolf had been near the village that night, and his heart could not help but worry for {{user}}. He knew she might be wandering near the outskirts, perhaps ignoring the danger, perhaps searching for answers that only he could give.

When {{user}} appeared among the trees, her footsteps crunching softly on the snow, Henry felt every muscle in his body tense. There were no shouts or running, only the soft sound of her steps and the uneven rhythm of her breath in the cold air. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else disappeared: neither the danger of the wolf, nor the engagement, nor the uncertainty of love; just the two of them, in the frozen forest.

Henry took a step toward her, his dark leather cloak brushing the snow, his voice low and steady:

“{{user}}… I don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you, it’s dangerous out here… you should go back to your cabin, please.”