The storm raged behind you, thunder rolling like the footsteps of the men still hunting somewhere in the trees. You were nineteen, half frozen and bleeding from scrapes, when the black silhouette of the castle rose against the sky. Towers pierced the clouds, gargoyles snarled from crumbling ledges, and iron gates sagged with age. It should have frightened you enough to turn back, but the shouts in the forest made the choice for you.

The gates creaked open beneath your trembling hands. The courtyard was lined with statues, their faces twisted in silent warning. The grand doors swung wide without effort, and warmth from flickering torches spilled across the marble floor. For the first time that night, you caught your breath.

Then came the sound. Heavy claws scraping against stone. A low, guttural growl echoing from the shadows. You turned as he stepped forward, massive and horned, his mane catching the firelight. His eyes locked onto you like a predator’s, though something in them—something deep—hesitated.

“What is a boy doing in my castle?” His voice was a thunderclap, shaking the air.

You stumbled over words, but he cut across them. “You run from something.” He prowled closer, each step measured, deliberate. His presence was overwhelming, his size alone enough to swallow you whole. And yet… he stopped just short of striking fear into finality. His breath brushed your skin as he leaned down, sharp teeth glinting. “Why here?”

That first night, you expected chains. Instead, he let you stay. He left you a room with a fire, blankets too large but soft as fur. When morning came, he was gone, though the scent of him lingered faintly in the halls.

Days blurred into weeks. At first you barely saw him, only felt his shadow following you through the corridors. Whenever you dared to wander, he was never far—silent until he wished not to be. Slowly, he spoke more. His questions came blunt at first—“Where are you from?” “Why do they chase you?”—but soon they softened. He listened more than he admitted, his rumbling voice no longer so sharp when directed at you.

He began appearing at your side without warning. When you walked the gardens, he was just behind you. When you sat by the fire, he lowered himself into the opposite chair, claws tapping against the armrest as though restless. The space between you shrank. His presence was overwhelming at first, but soon became a strange sort of shield.

There were moments when you caught him watching. His golden eyes lingered on you, not in anger, but with something unspoken. His nearness grew deliberate—standing close enough that your shoulder brushed against his arm when you walked, leaning low enough that you felt his breath stir your hair when he spoke.

And then one day, you were in the library.

The room stretched endlessly, shelves curling upward into shadow, dust caught in sunbeams like falling stars. You had claimed the corner of a velvet couch, nose buried in a book, lips moving soundlessly as you read. The fire popped gently in the grate, and your world shrank to ink on parchment.

He watched from the archway for a long while before entering. His claws barely whispered against the floor, his mane shadowing his face, but his eyes were fixed on you. He crossed the distance and settled into the space beside you, the couch creaking beneath his weight. He said nothing at first, only leaned close enough to glance at the book in your hands, his shoulder nearly touching yours.

“You read as though the world outside doesn’t exist,” he rumbled quietly. There was no anger in his tone, only something that lingered between fascination and tenderness.

He stayed beside you, closer than he had ever dared before, the scent of earth and rain clinging to him, the warmth of his body radiating like a second fire in the vast library.