Dawn unfurls across the village, draping the mountains in whispers of pink and gold. Enna ties off the last concealment charm, pulling it snug against the pulse in her wrist. Her room breathes the chill of night air, walls bare but for the herbs drying in bundles, their scent weaving through cracked windowpanes. Morning stirs beyond the door, the market rising with the first voices of the day. She steps into the street, each footfall deliberate, measured—as if the very ground might betray her.
Rumors cling to the morning air like mist, tangled with the smell of fresh bread and the weight of fear. They say vampires are coming. But it's the blood on her own hands she fears more.
Enna pushes through the village, face set in fragile calm. Another day. Another breath held. At the clinic, she moves through the motions of healing, her hands familiar with the rhythm. But when the traveler arrives—panic in his eyes, sickness in his veins—those hands falter.
In the hush of her small room, Enna's fingers move with meticulous grace. She binds the final charm, threads as thin as breath, knotting it tight until the magic hums beneath her skin. Light spills through the cracked window, brushing the bare wooden floor and catching on the curve of drying herbs. Their scent is a tether—to purpose, to memory. Her long white hair, unbound, glows ghostlike in the dawn.
One last glance around her space. Her sanctuary. Her prison. Then she steps outside, her footsteps a soft echo in the waking world.
The village holds its breath in the early light. Houses crouch low against the mountains, the silence braced for something it can't name. Enna walks with caution pressed into every stride, her cloak drawn close. She feels eyes on her, sliding past like blades.
Don't notice. Don't ask.
The market stirs like something thawing. Stalls creak open like old shutters. Enna weaves through women with baskets and vendors setting out bread. Scents swirl—wool, spice, sawdust. Beneath it, something sour with dread.
"...never seen so many of them..."
"...burned the place down..."
"...drained to the last drop..."
She doesn't turn, but the words catch. Barbed and unshakable.
They know.
Her pace quickens. Measured. Relentless.
The clinic waits on the village's edge, a squat stone building with shuttered windows and a sign that sways in the breeze. Inside, it smells of earth and metal, tinctures and trust. Enna hangs her cloak, rolls her sleeves. Her hands, pale as frost, begin their work.
A mother with a feverish child. A shepherd's sprained ankle. An elder with lungs that rattle from too many winters. Enna heals them all, voice gentle, touch steady.
No one sees what lies beneath her calm.
Until the traveler.
He stumbles in, fear clinging to him like another layer of clothing. Pale, shaking, eyes glazed with panic. She sees the shadow in him before he speaks.
"It's spreading," he gasps. "Like nothing we've seen."
She seats him gently, though her own hands tremble.
"Let me see," she says.
The bruises bloom dark and unnatural across his chest. Her heart stutters. This sickness doesn't follow rules. Doesn't respond to roots and reason. She hesitates. Then reaches for what she's spent years hiding.
"You're safe here," she lies. "I just need to prepare something."
At her table, her thoughts spin. It will take everything she is to stop this—everything she's not allowed to be.
She mixes herbs and powders with steady hands, crafting hope in a vial. He drinks, and the world holds its breath.
Then his body arches, seizing like something pulled by invisible strings.
Enna moves, her hands glowing, her magic a flare in the dim room. It burns through her concealments, raw and terrible. The traveler gasps—then stills.
Alive.
She collapses beside him, her breath a ragged thread.
"We'll know soon," she says. But her voice is only smoke.
She stares at the stone floor, waiting for the moment it gives way beneath her.
The forest presses close, branches swallowing sound and light. Enna walks fast, breath sharp, the woods a comfort she no longer questions. Here, no one watches. No one knows. Leaves crunch beneath her boots. Her basket swings at her side.
She gathers what she needs. Plant by plant. Ritual by ritual. Her hands remember the steps, even as her thoughts flee from the memory of bruises and fever. She works until her fingers sting and her shoulders ache. Until the ghosts stop whispering.
Then she sees it.
A shape in the leaves. Dark. Still.
A wolf.
Its breath is labored. Blood darkens its side. Enna hesitates, heart leaping and faltering all at once.
Then it whines.
She drops to her knees.
"Hush," she murmurs. "I've got you."
Her hands glow again, soft and golden, threading magic through torn flesh. The wolf breathes easier. So does she.
When it rises, whole, it pauses. Looks at her.
Then vanishes into the trees.
She remains, breathless, alone again. The magic still pulses in her skin. One more risk. One more secret.
If anyone saw...
She forces herself to stand. The basket is heavy now—with herbs, and with consequences.
The village is half in shadow by the time she returns. The sky smears purple and red. She sees them immediately. Strangers. Watching from doorways, leaning against fences.
They know.
Her steps quicken, heart lurching. She slips inside the elder's house.
Tension coils in the thick, smoky air. Leaders argue.
"They're coming."
"We should leave."
"We can't abandon our home."
"They won't stop until they have her."
Enna says nothing. Her silence is its own defense.
"Enough," the village head snaps. "We vote at dawn."
His eyes meet hers. Understanding. Warning. Doubt.
Then it's over.
Outside, the wind bites her skin. She walks until the house is gone and only her cottage waits, crouched in the trees like something remembering how to breathe.
Inside, she lights a single lamp. The glow is small and flickering. She collapses into a chair, exhaustion pooling in her bones. Then she reaches for the map.
Faded lines. Familiar routes. Places she might disappear.
She marks them, red ink blooming like blood.
Then comes the knock.
Once.
Twice.
A third, louder.
She stands, frozen. Heart racing.
The map slips from her lap.
She opens the door.
No one is there.
Only a package. Small. Wrapped in black cloth. Placed precisely in the center of the step.
The fabric shimmers, like shadow caught in moonlight. Her hand hovers above it.
Magic hums beneath.
Not warm. Not cold.
Just... waiting.
She picks it up. And everything changes