There were days when Xerces forgot what it meant to be warm.
Not the illusionary warmth of magic or the shallow flicker of a fire—true warmth. The kind that came from holding someone's hand. The kind that came from being seen and trusted.
The kind that Mira gave him in pieces.
He didn't know what to do with those pieces.
And worse… he was beginning to want more of them.
The townsfolk still avoided him.
He had grown used to their stares, their silences, their whispered curses. Suspicion clung to him like ash. The crop-devouring beast had left its mark, but its blame had fallen squarely on his shoulders.
A stranger.
An outcast.
Wrong.
And yet—she stayed.
He found himself drawn to her more and more.
Not just because she was kind.
But because she saw him—through the illusion, through the brittle charm he barely maintained, through the carefully constructed mask he was still learning to wear.
When she laughed, it warmed something in him that had long since withered.
And when she looked sad, he felt it in the hollows of his bones.
Tonight, she found him near the ruins of an old windmill.
It had collapsed long before he arrived in the village—just a skeleton of stone and rusted metal now, crumbling beneath moss and moonlight.
He sat there, alone, trying to practice the human smile.
It never quite reached his eyes.
When she approached, he didn't turn. But he felt her.
Like a hearth behind him.
"I didn't think you'd be here," she said, settling beside him.
"Where else would I go?" he replied. "The tavern?"
She smiled faintly, but he could see the wear in her posture.
"I had another dream."
He looked at her then.
Her face was pale, the edges of her voice dulled with unease.
"It wasn't like the others. It felt… real. Like something watching me. Like something whispering my name from under the floorboards."
Xerces tensed.
"That's not just a dream."
"I know."
He looked down at his hands—at the magic that surged quietly under his skin, barely held together. It wasn't enough yet. Not for what was coming. Not to stop it.
But he wanted to protect her anyway.
That scared him more than anything.
"You shouldn't stay close to me," he said softly.
"Why?"
"Because something's coming. Something I don't fully understand yet."
"I don't either. But it's already here."
She held out her hand.
There was no wound, no thorn—but the skin had gone oddly pale in the center of her palm, and faint black veins curled outward like frost on glass.
"Magic," he muttered. "Or a curse. A mark."
She nodded. "I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
She looked at him.
And then: "Are you?"
He hesitated.
Then said, "Yes."
The silence that followed was not awkward—but heavy.
They sat under the sky, the ruined windmill groaning in the wind. The stars shimmered above them like watching eyes, and for a moment, neither spoke.
"I never asked what you really want," she said at last.
He blinked.
"What I want?"
"Yes."
He looked away, the illusion flickering briefly before restabilizing.
"I want to survive," he said. "I want power. Knowledge."
Then, quieter: "I want to stop being a monster."
She touched his hand—gently.
"You're not."
"I am."
"Not to me."
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, in the quiet cold, he allowed himself to feel something dangerously close to hope