Dawn bleeds through the cracks in the shutters as Enna stitches the first wound. Light pools on the floor, tepid and silver, outlining the huddled forms of travelers who pack the cottage. Injuries turn their faces into sharp lines of pain; bandages soak to ruin under quick, calloused hands. She doesn't let herself pause. Doesn't let herself think about the desperation in their eyes or the weight of their numbers. From one cot to another, she kneels and works, herbs and cloth flying under her swift, urgent touch. Her pulse keeps a frantic rhythm, matching their ragged breaths and the rumble of distant hoofbeats. The scent of blood rises around her—copper and salt and fear—and she fights to ignore the way it makes her gut clench.
The small room buzzes with quiet chaos, a murmur of voices crackling against the tension in the air. Wounded travelers jostle for space, shifting as their pain spikes and recedes. Each pained grunt tugs at Enna, pulling her from one torn limb to the next. She keeps her focus sharp, movements quick and deliberate. Her hands work relentlessly, pressing down on gauze and tying off thread. A lantern flickers, casting thin shadows that stretch and shiver. Despite the crowding and confusion, she maintains an unyielding pace, determined to hold the desperation at bay. Her eyes dart, finding each new injury and prioritizing the most urgent. She doesn't let herself feel the exhaustion that creeps at the edges of her awareness, the deep pull of something dark and looming.
Her knees hit the floor beside the gravely wounded man. His skin is pale, slick with sweat, and his chest rises and falls in stuttered, gasping motions. A fresh stab of pity pierces her resolve, but she pushes it aside. Her fingers press around the wound, and she grimaces at the severity of it—a deep, ugly thing that bleeds relentlessly. Herbs. Cloth. Pressure. She works with rapid precision, hiding the tremor in her hands. The wound pulses, a sickly red that threatens to expose her. She clamps down on the urge to channel her power, the instinct to heal completely. But she's not just a healer. Not to them. She's survival and secrecy and the desire to stay hidden, always.
The glow recedes. She breathes again, fingers steadying as she returns to her supplies. It's a dance she knows well: control over urgency, concealment over compassion. She risks a glance around the room. The bodies. The bandages. The pressing weight of all those she still needs to save. They multiply before her eyes, each one a burden she takes on despite herself. But she's chosen this. This village. These people. It's the only way she knows to push back against everything else.
Voices swell with sharp insistence, travelers speaking through clenched teeth as their pain dulls enough for words. "Vampires—" one mutters, catching her ear. Another joins, overlapping with the first. "Attacked at night—" and "Blood magic—" and "Villages burning—" The accounts splinter and crash against each other, each one more grim than the last. Her mouth tightens into a hard line, fingers clenching and unclenching with each new revelation.
The panic rises around her, a palpable thing she can almost taste. It mixes with the sweat and the blood, settling like a stone in her stomach. She doesn't flinch from it. Instead, her resolve deepens, roots twisting into place despite the chaos. Her hands move faster, tying and knotting, sealing and binding. Each action a vow: she won't let the fear win. Won't let it push her away.
A murmur runs through the room, tense and fearful, the travelers' words underscoring each tremor and twitch. "Nowhere safe," a voice says. "Not anymore." Their looks are stark, pressing for answers she can't give them. Her eyes flit over faces contorted with fear and resolve, each one a reminder of why she can't stop. Of why she stays, even when staying feels like a trap snapping shut.
From one to the next she goes, steady and swift, hiding the fear that gnaws at her insides. Her determination becomes its own kind of pulse, echoing through the cottage and threading her movements with urgent certainty. She works as if she can outrun the danger. As if the speed of her hands can keep it from catching up. The morning creeps by in a blur of red and white, pain and resolve. She binds and mends, stubborn and silent, until the frantic tempo is all she knows.
The market churns with bodies and voices. Enna slips between clusters of villagers, their raised fists and anxious faces making her chest clench. She doesn't stop, doesn't meet their eyes. Just moves quickly, quietly, through the tangled mess of people and produce and handmade goods. Some stand in small groups, others pace alone, the sharp angles of fear drawing deep lines in their features. "Leave now!" one man shouts, his arm slicing through the air. "No time!" a woman echoes, dragging a toddler through the crowd. Enna watches from the corner of her eye, measuring each exchange like she's taking stock of the wounds she's left behind. Abandonment, or death? It's the question they all whisper, the question she won't let herself ask. Not yet.
She doesn't slow. The noise builds around her, vibrating through the morning air. Vendors call out over the din, trying to lure customers with the promise of fresh bread, new clothes, safety. Beneath the routine clamor runs a new strain of tension, tight and brittle as it frays through the crowd. She weaves through it all, her hands brushing against jars of honey, soft woolen scarves, a child's wooden toy. Unwanted memories cling to her fingers.
An older man waves her over, panic in his eyes. "We need to leave," he says, voice crackling. "They're coming. It's not safe."
Another villager, a woman with arms crossed over her chest, counters with a sneer. "And where do you think we'll go? The villages nearby—" She breaks off, leaving the rest to hang in the air like a noose.
They stand at an impasse, facing each other down like two opposing tides. Enna keeps her distance, invisible in her silence. A group gathers, faces taut with indecision, as she observes from the periphery. Words spike and ricochet. Leave. Stay. Nowhere safe. She knows their terror because it's the same as hers. She feels it clawing at her, demanding an answer she isn't ready to give.
She stops at a weathered cart piled high with wool and furs. The owner looks at her, eyes wide with a plea she refuses to acknowledge. He makes his decision before she can make hers. Throws a bundle in her direction, turns his back, and begins to gather the rest with frantic speed.
She doesn't move. Just stands there, the urge to flee twitching in her muscles. Around her, the village fractures. Neighbors turn from each other, backs hunched against the threats they can't outrun. Words like weapons. Looks like scars. The divide widens, cutting through her as surely as it does the market.
A family passes by, laden with all they can carry. Two children follow closely behind, stumbling to keep up. The woman at the head of the group pauses, meeting Enna's eyes with a mix of apology and urgency.
"Don't wait too long," she says, casting a glance at the young ones. "We won't survive this."
Enna's fingers tighten on the bundle. It feels like she's gripping bone. She watches the family move away, feels the echo of their hurried footsteps beneath her skin. They are a reflection of what she should be, what she would be, if not for the tether of her own stubbornness. Her stubbornness, or something else? Something that binds her to this place even when every instinct screams to leave.
A shift in the noise draws her attention back to the market. A group forms near the center, their voices clear and determined above the rest. "We stay," a man declares, his fist pounding into his palm. "We fight." He's flanked by others, heads nodding in agreement. They lay out a plan, the rough beginnings of a defense. Talk of walls, traps, weapons. Their resolve flickers against the chaos, a candle trying to hold back the night. She can't look away.
They gather strength in numbers, and she feels more alone than ever. One by one, they move into action, each villager taking on a task, a role. They've chosen a path and march down it, certain they can hold back the dark. Her own choice looms larger, more impossible, with every moment she hesitates.
Enna's eyes flit back to the cart owner. He's still packing his things, but she can see the way his hands shake, the way fear etches itself across his brow. He catches her watching and pauses, his face a question she knows too well.
"Don't stay," he tells her, words heavy with history she refuses to remember. "Don't do what she did."
The name he doesn't say lingers in the air, a ghost she can't escape. It hovers as she turns away, as she pushes through the thinning crowd. Her own fear, her own choice, pushes back. She's torn between the comfort of flight and the stubborn belief that maybe, this time, she can make a difference. Maybe, this time, she won't watch the world burn from the safety of the shadows.
The market recedes behind her, the heated arguments and urgent voices fading into a dull roar. Her feet move quickly, instinct and willpower keeping her on a course she's not sure is right. She doesn't let herself look back, but the decision she has to make follows her. The echo of the villagers' panic. The sight of their determined faces. They're burned into her mind, reminders that she can't run from this forever.
Enna's footfalls are steady, almost calm, as she reaches the front step. Her hand trembles as it closes around the doorknob. She pauses there, feeling the hum of a decision she hasn't made yet vibrating through the floorboards. It pulls at her, a magnetic force drawing her inward, pulling her down into something darker than fear. The cottage is empty, but not. Voices from the morning haunt the room, crowding her thoughts. She kneels to quiet them, finding instead a note, Lorin's hurried scrawl. Danger, it says. Danger, she knows. She stands again, motions taut and precise, packing for an escape she won't let herself name. Not yet.
The door swings open, a breath of cold air rushing past her. She hesitates on the threshold, eyes sweeping over the room like a final inventory. The cottage feels foreign, like she's seeing it for the first time and the last. Shadows stretch across the floor, pulling at her like fingers. She closes the door behind her, sealing the ghosts inside.
The quiet presses against her ears, too loud in its emptiness. The chaos from the market lingers in her mind, the panic still echoing as she fights to keep it distant. She moves to a loose floorboard and lifts it, finding a slip of paper buried beneath. The words are hurried, the ink smudged as if by unsteady hands. They leap out at her, unmistakable in their urgency: They know. You must leave.
Her chest tightens. She crushes the note in her fist, letting it drop to the floor. It lands like a stone, heavy with the decision she can't keep avoiding. She breathes deeply, forcing calm, and lets instinct take over. Letting herself feel the desperation would be too much. Letting herself listen to the other voice inside—the one that tells her to run, to hide, to survive—would be admitting too much.
Her hands work rapidly, the movements rehearsed and mechanical. She gathers herbs, tinctures, bundles them with her meager belongings. She pauses, looks around the cottage, and feels the weight of every choice she's ever made pressing in on her. It's a familiar burden, one she's borne all her life, but it doesn't get any easier. She is strong. She is cowardly. She is both, and neither, and too much of everything in between.
The talisman sits on a shelf, a rough carving of wood and string. She fingers it, feeling the grooves of the etched symbol beneath her touch. It's meant to keep her safe, to shield her from those who hunt her. She isn't sure it works, but it's the only protection she knows. She ties it around her neck with a quick, decisive motion. The wood clinks softly against the glass of a nearby jar, the noise unnaturally loud in the silence.
She turns, her eyes catching on the small package still sitting on her table—the one wrapped in black cloth, faintly pulsing with unreadable magic. She'd forgotten it in the whirlwind. Forgotten it, but it hasn't forgotten her.
Enna unwraps it slowly, the cloth falling away like unraveling shadow. Inside is a vial of dark liquid sealed with wax and carved with sigils she doesn't recognize. A folded piece of parchment sits beside it. Her name scrawled on the front.
With a breath held too long, she opens it.
"For when you can no longer hide," the note reads. Nothing more.
The vial is cold in her hand, colder still against her skin. The magic thrumming within it is unlike hers—older, stranger, like a song in a language she shouldn't understand but almost does.
She places it carefully into her bag.
Just in case.
She moves faster now, her resolve hardening with each passing second. Her hand closes around the bundle, knuckles white, her grip fierce. She reaches for a small, plain box. Lifts the lid. An ornate dagger glints up at her, its edge cruelly sharp even in the low light. She hesitates, then shuts it again. Leaves it behind.
The morning light fades, leaching the world of color as it seeps into twilight. The village lies hushed beneath a deepening sky. Too hushed. It unnerves her, this waiting silence, stretching out like the calm before a storm. She holds her breath, listening. For what? Her own resolve breaking?
A noise from outside. Not from the village, but beyond. It snaps through the stillness like a crack of lightning. Her head jerks toward it, heart stuttering in her chest. She crosses to the window, cautious, pulling back the edge of the curtain.
Figures at the village outskirts, silhouetted against the darkening horizon. Watching. Waiting. Eyes glinting with a cold light that finds her even in the shadows. They're too far to be certain, but she knows. Knows they see her, even now. The decision she has to make rears up in front of her, more impossible than ever.
They're coming for her. The truth of it punches through her like a fist. The very thing she ran from, all those years ago, rising to meet her again. The fear she's ignored, now as real as the first drop of blood.
Her grip tightens on the bundle. She wants to run, to throw herself into the night and not stop until she's forgotten this place, forgotten herself. But she can't, can she? Not when they're already so close. Not when leaving might mean the end of everything she hasn't allowed herself to care for.
The figures remain, motionless and menacing. Her mind races, weighing the chances she knows she doesn't have. Leaving is suicide. Staying might be worse. The edges of her vision blur with the effort of deciding. Her life—each fractured choice, each frayed possibility—spreads out before her like a map of wrong turns.
She's still frozen at the window, eyes locked on the shadows that stretch like claws across the village. Her heart drums in her chest, a frantic beat to the same two words: Leave. Stay. Leave. Stay. She can't let go. Can't give up. The worst part of her hopes they come, just to take the choice away.