Chapter 2 Encounter

The uneasy silence had not left me since dawn. It pressed against my chest like a weight, as if the very air was waiting for something to happen. I tried to brush it off while I worked through my morning chores, but the animals were restless too. Clover refused his oats until I coaxed him with soft words, and even the chickens clucked nervously, as though a shadow lingered nearby.

By the time the sun hung low over the trees, the tension had clawed its way under my skin. I could feel it in my bones, in the way the hairs on the back of my neck prickled every time I turned my back on the barn. Something was wrong. I grabbed the old rake leaning against the wall, its handle worn smooth by years of use, and muttered to myself, “If it’s some rogue mutt sniffing around, it picked the wrong farm.”

The closer I moved to the barn, the stronger the unease grew. The door creaked slightly when I nudged it open with my foot, and the scent hit me at once—earth, sweat, and blood. My pulse thundered. I tightened my grip on the rake and stepped inside.

The barn itself seemed to breathe around me, heavy with the smell of hay, leather, and the faint copper sting of blood. My lantern light swayed with each step, throwing shadows that danced across the rafters like restless ghosts. Clover stamped his hoof sharply, the sound echoing like a warning, his ears flat, his large brown eyes trained on the heap of fur and muscle sprawled in the dirt. He didn’t trust the stillness of the intruder, and truth be told, neither did I. The chickens, unsettled by the tension, clucked nervously from their perch, wings fluttering as though ready to take flight. Even the pigs were restless, their grunts and shuffles making the silence louder, more pressing. My boots scuffed against the floor as I moved stall by stall, letting my hand trail over Clover’s neck to calm him. “Easy, boy,” I whispered, though my own heart was beating too fast to steady his. The animals had always been my barometer, my protectors in their own way; if they were uneasy, I knew better than to let my guard down. Every sound, every shifting shadow, every uneven breath of the wolf lying there reminded me that the world I had built—this quiet, stubborn life of soil and fur and feather—was fragile. And here it was, cracked open by the weight of something I didn’t yet understand.

That was when I saw him.

A wolf, large and dark, sprawled on the barn floor, his body streaked with mud and blood. His chest rose and fell shallowly, a low rumble leaving his throat even in unconsciousness. My breath caught, but the shock only lasted until my eyes slid past him—then I froze for an entirely different reason.

One of my goats lay still a few feet away, its throat torn. The sight of it made my blood burn hot with fury. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hissed, my knuckles whitening around the rake. My farm was all I had left in this world, and I’d be damned if some half-dead beast thought he could wander in and take from me.

I stepped forward, ready to jab the metal tines straight into his ribs, but then something strange happened. The air shifted, thickening, humming, like a thread had pulled taut between us. A heat bloomed low in my chest, spreading to my fingertips. For a heartbeat, I found myself lowering the rake, my eyes drawn to the curve of his ribs as they lifted in ragged breaths.

What in the Goddess’s name was this?

I stumbled back a step, heart pounding, shaking my head hard to clear it. This was not the time for… whatever this was. He had killed one of mine. He deserved nothing but pain in return.

I raised the rake again, rage flickering bright, but when I leaned closer I caught sight of his face. Even in wolf form, exhaustion was carved into every line of him. His fur was matted with blood and dirt, his body trembling with the effort of simply staying alive. He looked more broken than dangerous.

My jaw tightened. I hated the flicker of guilt that curled in my chest. “No,” I whispered sharply to myself. “Don’t you dare soften.”

But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring myself to deliver the blow. Instead, I found myself calling softly over my shoulder, “Clover, bring me that old blanket by the haystack.”

The cow shifted and let out a questioning low. I snapped, though my voice cracked with unease, “Don’t give me that look. Just do it.”

To my surprise, Clover nudged the dusty blanket with his nose, pushing it awkwardly across the floor until it reached me. Muttering under my breath about my own stupidity, I crouched and spread it across the wolf’s body, covering the worst of the wounds. “This isn’t for you,” I told him firmly, even though he couldn’t hear me. “It’s for me. So I don’t have to stare at your pathetic state while I decide what to do with you.”

I sat back against the barn wall, rake still clutched in my hands, my eyes never leaving him. My heart refused to settle, beating hard against my ribs. It had been so long since I’d seen another wolf. Years. I thought I had buried that part of me deep enough that it couldn’t rise again. Yet here he was—an intruder, a killer, and somehow… more.

“Stupid,” I muttered again, pulling my knees up to my chest. The heat in my veins refused to die down, no matter how hard I fought it.

I kept telling myself I’d watch him. That the moment he stirred, I’d make him pay for what he did. But the hours stretched thin, and exhaustion tugged at my eyes. The rake grew heavy in my grip, my head tilting against the wall.

I didn’t even realize when sleep claimed me, my gaze still fixed on the stranger sprawled beneath the blanket, my enemy and something else I didn’t yet understand.