The monster came back. It had big teeth and yellow eyes that saw only the dark. Elara squeezed her eyes shut. Her hand hurt, a throbbing ache that went all the way up her arm to her shoulder. The light had gone, leaving her hollow and cold. She felt brittle like an old twig about to snap. The ground was hard beneath her. Mud smeared her cheek. She could hear the wet snuffling sound of the beast, closer this time, and the sharp, hot smell of its breath. It was going to bite her. It had to. Everyone always hurt her. A shadow fell over the beast, deeper than the forest at dusk. Not a tree shadow, but something else, something solid. The snuffling stopped. There was a low growl, but it was not the beast’s. The air grew still, suddenly cold. Elara opened one eye, just a slit. The monster was frozen. It stood there, its massive head tilted, its yellow eyes wide and unblinking. It looked like a stone statue carved to look afraid. Then, without a sound, without a twitch, it dissolved. It just faded, like smoke in the wind, leaving only the damp, mossy smell of the forest floor behind. There was no blood, no struggle, no sound. Nothing at all. Elara pushed herself up, trembling. The man in the black coat stood over her. He was tall, taller than Uncle Richard, and his coat was dark, like night itself. She could not see his face clearly in the gloom, only the sharp line of his jaw and the deep set of his eyes. He did not move like other people. He was just *there*. He made no noise when he walked, or when he stood still. He looked down at her. His eyes were dark too, like tiny holes punched in the fabric of the night. She flinched, pulling her arms tight around herself. He would hit her. They always did. He knelt slowly, carefully, until his eyes were level with hers. The mud squelched beneath his knees, but he did not seem to notice. His hand, long and pale, reached out. It hovered near her cheek, not touching. His voice was soft, like the rustle of dry leaves. It was nothing like Uncle Richard’s shout or Aunt Margaret’s cold whisper. "Child," he said. His voice was rougher than she expected, but still quiet. "Who did this to you?" He looked at her hand, the swollen, angry red. He looked at the dried blood on her cheek, where a branch had scraped her. He looked at the torn hem of her dress. Elara just stared back, her mouth dry. She could not speak. The words stuck in her throat, thick and hard, like stones. She had not spoken in so long she thought she might have forgotten how. She just blinked, waiting for the blow. --- He waited. Elara did not move. Her tongue felt thick. She knew she should answer, but the words would not come. Her throat ached. She looked at his face again, trying to find anger there, or impatience, or the quick flicker of cruelty that always came before a slap. There was nothing. Just those dark eyes, fixed on her, steady. He smelled of cold air and old leather, not like the damp earth or the forest. "Tell me," he said again, his voice lower this time, almost a rumble. "Who brought you here?" He did not raise his voice. He did not grab her arm. He did not even frown. This was not how adults behaved. They yelled. They pointed. They pulled. She swallowed, hard. Her stomach hurt with hunger. Her head throbbed. She lifted her good hand, slowly, and pointed at the path that led deeper into the woods, the way Uncle Richard had run. It was a small, hesitant gesture, barely a twitch of her finger. He followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. A coldness seemed to seep from him then, a stillness that made the air around them prickle. He did not look angry, not like Uncle Richard. He looked... empty. Like a deep, dark well. Elara shivered, despite the fever. He turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her small, huddled form, the tattered dress, the thin arms. She finally found a voice, a rusty whisper that scratched at her throat. "Are you going to hit me?" The question hung in the air, small and fragile. It was the first thing she had said in days, maybe weeks. The man froze. His dark eyes widened, just for a moment, and then a strange expression crossed his face. It was not anger, or even pity. It was something she had never seen before, something that twisted his features into a grim mask. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He tried again. A dry, rasping breath escaped his lips, but no words. He closed his mouth, a hard line. He looked away, into the tangled undergrowth, then back to her. His hands clenched into fists, then slowly relaxed, uncurling until his palms lay open on the mud. He did not say anything. He just looked at her, and she looked back, waiting. The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. The forest seemed to hold its breath. --- Lucian had not moved. The child’s words, a reedy whisper, had snagged in his throat like a sharp bone. *Are you going to hit me?* The question was a physical blow, cold and precise. He had seen fear in a thousand faces, but never this absolute, worn resignation. It was a fear that expected harm, knew it was coming, and asked only its form. He forced himself to breathe, the air tasting of damp earth and the lingering scent of something wild. He had come here following a faint, desperate echo of power, a flicker that had gone dark almost immediately. He had expected a dying beast, perhaps, or a ward-crippled mage. Not this, not a child huddled in the mud, broken and starved, asking for the shape of her next pain. Habit took hold. His mind reached out, a gentle probe, seeking the soul. He sought truth, solace, memory. He sought the wounds of the mind that mirrored the wounds of the body. His power flowed, a tendril of dark energy, ready to unravel the child’s story from the very fabric of her being. It hit a wall. Not a ward, not precisely. Wards were barriers, a refusal to be seen. This was different. This was a door with no handle, no seam, no way to open it from the outside. A solid, unyielding surface that simply *was*. His power flowed around it, seeking purchase, finding none. It was a soul, he was certain, but it was sealed, utterly. Not hidden, not protected by active magic, but locked away behind something ancient and complete. It was like trying to read a scroll that had been turned to stone. He pulled back, a faint tremor running through him. He had never encountered such a thing. Not in any living creature. Not even in the oldest spirits, or the most powerful deities. It was an anomaly, a puzzle, but one that could wait. The child before him was real, tangible, and bleeding. He filed the oddity away, a minor data point in a universe of strange things. More pressing was the small, cold hand, the fevered skin, the hollowed eyes. He saw the marks of starvation, the tell-tale bruises of casual cruelty. He saw the infection blooming on her palm, a sickly yellow against raw red. Someone had done this to her. Someone alive. That was a truth he could understand. --- Lucian heard the rustle before he saw her. A woman, old and stooped, emerged from the deeper shadows of the treeline. She wore a simple, undyed dress, the fabric worn thin. Her hair was white, pulled back in a severe bun, and her face was a map of fine lines. Her eyes, however, were sharp, luminous, and fixed on the child at his feet. She moved with a quiet, deliberate grace, as if every step had been considered for a lifetime. She stopped a few paces away, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The lingering scent of arcane power, the child’s distress, his own dark presence. Nothing seemed to startle her. She simply observed, her expression unreadable. Lucian rose to his full height, a silent question in his posture. He had sensed no wards around her, no magic, nothing to explain her sudden appearance in this forgotten corner of the Ashen Wood. Her voice was low, clear, and surprisingly strong for her age. "She needs protection, Lord Nocturne." She did not ask. She stated. She knew him. He had never seen her before, but his name, whispered in this shadowed wood, held no surprise for her. "Who are you?" Lucian asked. His voice was calm, but a thread of warning ran beneath it. He did not like unknowns. She looked at him, her gaze unwavering. "My name is not important. Only hers." She gestured to the child, who still huddled, watching them both with wide, wary eyes. "She has no one. No family to claim her. No home that will keep her safe. What little remains of her bloodline is... absent." Her words were carefully chosen, precise, leaving gaps that only deepened Lucian’s suspicion. "And you would have me take her where?" he pressed. He did not often act on the pronouncements of strangers, however knowing they seemed. The girl was a mystery, a sealed soul, a broken thing, but she was *something*. "To the Temple of the Five," the old woman said, her voice firm. "That is where she belongs. That is where she will be safe." She did not explain why, or how she knew. She offered no proof, no plea. Only the stark statement. "Take her. Now." Her eyes flickered to the darkening sky, then back to Lucian, a strange urgency in their depths. "There is little time." Lucian looked at the frail child, then at the resolute woman. He considered the impossible barrier around the child’s soul, the desperate echo of power he had followed. He nodded once. "As you wish." --- Lucian rode in silence, the child wrapped in his heavy black coat. Her small body was a fragile weight against his chest. He could feel the heat of her fever radiating through the thick fabric, the shallow rise and fall of her breath. She had protested only with a small whimper when he lifted her, then had gone limp, her head falling against his shoulder. The motion of the horse, a steady, rhythmic sway, seemed to lull her. Her tense posture slowly softened, and he felt her small hands, clenched into fists moments before, relax against his tunic. He watched the forest blur past, the trees a dark wall against the fading light. He had not looked back at the old woman. Her request had been clear, her conviction absolute. He trusted instinct more than words, and her calm certainty had resonated. He glanced down at the child. Her face was pale, streaked with dirt and dried tears, but her expression in sleep was almost peaceful. The fierce lines of fear had smoothed away, replaced by the soft vulnerability of a child completely adrift. Her lips parted slightly, a faint sigh escaping her. He felt the subtle shift as she sank deeper into unconsciousness, her small body becoming heavier, utterly trusting in his hold. The strange door to her soul remained, solid and unyielding, but for now, it did not matter. He could feel the faint tremor of exhaustion in her, the deep weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. She had fought for something, for herself, and the fight had taken too much. He continued his pace, the horse’s hooves muffled by the forest floor. He had already set a course for the Temple of the Five, the destination imprinted in his mind. The air grew colder as night truly began to fall, and he pulled his coat tighter around the child. She did not stir. He rode on, a dark silhouette against the encroaching darkness, the precious, fragile cargo held safe within his embrace. --- Eleanora stood alone on the forest road, the silence stretching out around her like a shroud. The last faint hoofbeats faded into the distance. Only the rustle of leaves remained, a soft, whispering sound that seemed to mock her stillness. Her hands trembled. She lifted one, pressing it hard against her mouth, biting back the cry that threatened to tear from her throat. Her eyes were fixed on the empty space where the dark rider and his small passenger had vanished. She had done it. She had sent her granddaughter away, into the care of a Lord whose power was as ancient and unknowable as the forest itself. A Lord who would not guess her connection, who would not seek to exploit it. It was the only way. To name her, to claim her, was to condemn her. The watchers were always present, always waiting. Eight years they had waited, a patient, deadly presence in the shadows. The chill of the evening wind cut through her thin dress, but she felt nothing. Her mind replayed Lucian’s dark, unreadable eyes, the way he had listened, the swift, silent agreement. He was a Lord of power, yes, but also one of terrible grace. He would protect the child. He had to. This was the only chance, the only path to the Temple, the only hope for a life beyond the shadows of the Aldric house. Her breath hitched. She lowered her hand, her knuckles white. It was done. She stood there for a long time, a frail figure lost in the vastness of the woods, until the last flicker of light had left the sky and the stars began to prickle through the canopy. She was alone. Truly alone now. --- The watcher stepped from behind the thick bole of an ancient oak. They had been there for hours, a part of the forest, silent and unseen. Their gaze followed the old woman, tracking her every shiver, her every anguished breath. A faint smile touched their lips, thin and sharp. Eleanora had finally moved. Her secret, carefully kept for eight long years, was out. The child was found. They turned, melting into the shadows. Now, the hunt could begin. They knew where to look.

Are You Going to Hit Me