The first thing Olwyn felt was the ache—deep, twisting pain in his limbs as bones shifted and feathers gave way to skin. The air hit him cold, sharper than the water’s chill, and when the shuddering quiet finally settled, he was human again.

Bare, breathless, and half-curled beneath a blanket that could barely cover him. His body trembled from the remnants of the transformation, exhaustion seeping into his marrow. He could still hear the lake and the curse in his ears, mocking him with the echo of his failure.

The cottage was dim, lit only by a single candle. The scent of herbs lingered faintly in the air, mixed with smoke and the distant memory of warmth. He had not meant to end up here—hadn’t wanted to. But when his body gave out on the muddy bank, you had found him. He’d hissed at your touch then, feral and animalistic, too used to solitude to remember gentleness.

Now, you sat nearby, silent.

He swallowed, forcing sound from his dry throat. “I owe you…” His voice cracked, unfamiliar, almost foreign. He tried again, quieter. “I owe you an apology.”

The words scraped out like rust, fragile with disuse. He averted his gaze, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t have helped me,” he muttered—though it was less warning, more plea. Beneath the small, ill-fitting sheet, his hands curled into fists, afraid of how much it hurt to be seen.