For a long breath, they simply looked at each other—two living things moving alone through the cold.
Then, without ceremony, the stag turned and vanished between the trees.
The hush returned all at once, deeper than before. Collin exhaled slowly, his breath blooming into nothing. His heartbeat sounded oddly hollow in his chest.
Just for a moment, he’d felt less alone. Not saved, not seen—but acknowledged. As if the forest itself had paused to say,you’re not the only one out here.
But now the stag was gone. And the only watchers left were the trees.
After several miles, the path began to rise sharply beneath Dragonfly’s boots. The mountain revealed itself slowly—first in the strain of her thighs, then in the shift of her breath, as though it were testing her resolve. The forest thickened around her, the trees closing in like sentinels, their branches weaving a quiet labyrinth she didn’t mind getting lost in. The trail she had been following faded in places, replaced by narrow deer tracks that meandered through the undergrowth like secrets—and she followed them, as if the mountain might whisper one meant just for her.
More than once, she veered off course, climbing over fallen logs or pushing through brambles until the path reappeared like something half-remembered. But she didn’t mind. The detours felt familiar—like the way her life had gone lately, winding, uncertain, but not wrong. The mountain, even in its steepness, was honest. She had time. The whole day stretched before her like a promise, or maybe a question. And for once, she wasn’t in a hurry to answer it.
A gentle rain had come and gone throughout her climb, more mist than storm, like the sky was undecided. The clouds thickened slowly, dimming the day until it looked like evening had crept in early. She didn’t mind the gloom—it suited her. The quiet grayness matched the ache she carried, as if the mountain, too, remembered something it had lost and wasn’t ready to speak.
Dragonfly stopped when she found herself in the presence of a massive tree. How many people would it take, arms outstretched, to encircle this ancient giant? She tilted her head to glimpse the canopy above. The lowest branch was easily ahundred feet high, and the trunk rose beyond sight, vanishing into the mist. Around it stood younger trees, much smaller by comparison. This one had clearly stood alone for a very long time.
She studied its lofty boughs, heart quiet. Was loneliness a curse only humans knew? Or did all living things carry some sense of it? Had this towering being once felt its solitude before the birds came, before the beasts and men arrived in this land? Had it watched the passage of the sun and moon with longing, waiting for kin? And when the others finally came, did it rejoice in their company—or mourn the loss of silence, the end of being singular?
A sudden weariness pressed down on her—mind, body, all at once. Maybe this was a good place to rest. She sat beneath the old sentinel, letting her back sink against its rough bark. Even through her coat, she could feel its age.
She licked her cracked lips. What she wouldn’t give for a sip of water. In her haste to leave the farmhouse, she’d forgotten to pack anything—no canteen, no bread, not even an apple. She hadn’t planned this hike at all, just walked out the door and kept going.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head, listening. No stream, no creek, no whisper of water nearby. Only the steady pulse of her breath and the faint dripping of rain through the canopy. No birdsong, no small rustles in the leaves. Even the forest seemed to be holding its breath.
Winter in White Wood had a way of stretching time, turning days into gray repetitions. For the young, boredom bred invention—or mischief. Most nights, the public eatery filled with laughter, music, and the low murmur of shared secrets. It was where new friendships were made, old ones rekindled, and romantic sparks were fanned into brief, flickering flames.
Dragonfly and Arion often went there on dull evenings, more to pass the time than for any particular desire to socialize. Still, it was a place to feel young and noticed. She met plenty of girls her age, some of whom she grew to like, even trust. And then there were the boys—charming, confident, eager for connection. She didn’t mind their attention. Their compliments flattered her, and she flirted when it felt easy, playful. But she always made her boundaries clear.
She wasn’t looking for a winter fling. No cozy distractions, no shallow promises whispered by firelight. Her heart, though she tried to keep it hidden, was already tangled somewhere else.
One young man, Andrew, started pursuing her not long after their first meeting. He was a few years older, charming, and completely smitten—but far too serious. He kept asking her out, and she kept saying no.
Things got awkward fast when he suddenly proposed. After that, she avoided the eatery. When he started showing up at the farmhouse, she asked the housekeeper to turn him away. She couldn’t decide which was worse, to be pursued by someone she didn’t want or to be bored to death in a house full of strangers.
Dragonfly yanked off her gloves and rubbed her hands together hard, trying to summon back the feeling in her fingers. They were stiff and pale, nearly useless from the cold. Why hadn’t she brought her fire kit? Or water. Or food. She would’ve brought them all if she’d been thinking. But she hadn’t been—only rushing out the door when the first wave of chatty neighbors arrived, needing to escape before their cheerfulness smothered her completely.
A low, distant rumble interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She froze. It sounded like hooves—hundreds of them, galloping far off—but no, not hooves. Not horses.
Then it came.
The clouds split open, and the sky dumped its rage on the world. Rain hammered down in sheets, so heavy it bounced back up from the earth. Mist bloomed around her like smoke. She stayed where she was, hunched beneath the old tree, but there was no shelter to be had.
The rain drenched her, but it wasn’t the storm that undid her—it was the ache inside. She couldn’t hear her own thoughts. Could barely see beyond a few feet. Cold water streamed down her face, slid past her jaw, soaked through her collar. She pushed her hood back and tilted her head into the storm. Let it come.
Why not? She was already wet.
A strange laugh burst out of her, raw and sudden. It rang out through the roar of the rain, the only sound that felt like hers. She’d wished for water—and here it was, endless and merciless.
Maybe Collin had been right. Maybe the gods really did keep watch—not to help, but to be amused. And when mortals got too quiet, too ordinary, maybe the gods stirred the pot just to make things mor interesting.
By the time the storm had soaked her to the bone, when her clothes hung heavy and her fingers were numb stubs, she rose. Slowly, stiffly, she began the long walk back to the house.
The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time the farmhouse came into view. Dragonfly could already picture the guests inside—waiting out the storm with full plates, lively music, and easy laughter. Quietly, she slipped through the back door. Sure enough, the house rang with chattering voices and warm, familiar melodies. She crept down the long, empty hallway, dripping water with every step.
In her room, she peeled off her soaked clothes and left them in a heavy heap on the floor. The towel was too rough againsther chilled skin, but it helped. She wrapped herself in a thick quilt, pulled it snug around her shoulders, and sank onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. Her hair still clung to her back in cold, dripping strands. Even in the warmth, she couldn’t stop shivering.
The breakfast tray still sat untouched on the small table. She reached for the teapot, lifted the lid—cold. Still, she poured herself a cup. The lavender and chamomile were faint, but familiar. Even lukewarm, the taste quieted the restless storm inside her.
