It had been two days since Emila decided to haunt the forest, looking for the red haired male. Two days of moss pillows, charcoal doodles, and emotional constipation. Her "bed" was a nest she'd built under a crooked hazel bush, layered with ferns, her cloak, and her parchments.
Goldie, who returned the same day Lucien kidnapped her, had vanished at some point, probably to go chase squirrels again. Beans remained, silent as ever, curled near the smoldering campfire.
Em hunched over a crumpled parchment, furiously scribbling with half-burnt coal. The drawing: Lucien, mid-sneer. Except he had dramatic twirly horns, bat wings, and holding a staff.
She was adding shading to his hair when the bush across her shook. Then a meow. The orange wanderer was back, twitching her tail. With one very deliberate mrrp , she turned and trotted off into the underbrush.
"Oh you want me to follow you?"
She packed up her things and followed, Beans trotting behind her. Goldie led them deeper into the woods until the sound of running water reached her ears. A river cut through the landscape ahead, not that wide, no more than a dozen paces across, but the water ran dark and moving sluggishly.
They followed it, walked along the edge, the surface glinting between trees. Goldie padded ahead, ears flicking, whiskers twitching. She stopped at a shallow bend and stared, unblinking, at the line of trees across the water.
She wanted her to cross.
Emila hesitated. This part of Whirwood was unfamiliar, a place she'd always avoided. The river had a reputation. Whispers of forest spirits, lurking sprites… and yes, crocodiles. She didn't doubt any of it.
"Listen," she muttered to her cats, "if something grabs me, run. Don't come back. Don't help me."
Goldie chirped in reply, as if to say: Oh, we won't. The crocodile's going to love your salty skin.
She tucked Beans into her satchel and scooped up Goldie with one arm. The orange furball took the opportunity to sink her fangs into Em's skin and nibble, smug and purring like this was affection.
She waded into the river, the water cold and biting against her skin. It only reached mid-thigh, but it was enough to make her gasp. The current tugged gently, deceptively calm, while her skirt grew heavier by the second, sodden fabric dragging at her legs.
With a muttered curse, she gathered the hem in one hand, the other clutching Goldie. "Brilliant plan," she told herself. "Truly admirable."
And then, just to be safe, because she was knee-deep in bad decisions, she whispered a half-hearted prayer to any god still listening. It was far too late to turn back now.
A few steps from the riverbed, something coarse brushed against her thigh.
She bolted.
No. No. No. Not today.
Water splashed violently around her as panic surged. Her mind screamed of river spirits and scaled beasts and cold hands from beneath. She stumbled onto the pebbled shore, knees nearly giving out.
Goldie wriggled free the moment they were out, leaping from her arm with zero gratitude, already trotting toward the treeline. Beans clawed his way out of the satchel—and threw up again.
"I'm so sorry, Beans." She stroked his chin, guilt clawing at her chest. "I know this is stressful to you. But just imagine the amount of cat food I can make with those gold coins. I promise to buy you some toys after this."
Em squeezed the water from her skirt, glaring after Goldie.
"If this isn't the right place, Goldie," she muttered, "so help me, I'll feed you to the next crocodile myself."
Once again, they followed the river and the treeline, trees she could not recognize. Goldie padded ahead, every few minutes she veered off-course, chasing squirrels and lizards, pouncing on bugs, or stalking leaves as if they were prey.
Emila trudged after her, the terrain soft and uneven beneath her boots. It felt like they'd been walking for hours. The trees stretched endlessly ahead, tall and quiet, the river a constant companion murmuring beside them.
At some point, Em swore they were lost.
"This can't still be Gladeport," she muttered, frowning at the unfamiliar underbrush. She picked up a sharp stone and began marking the trees as they passed, just to make sure they weren't circling back. Eventually, they stopped beneath a tall ash tree to rest. Em tossed down her satchel, sighing as she sat on a moss-covered root.
Goldie and Beans were fed first: a rough mix of dried fish scraps and powdered roots she had foraged. It wasn't fancy, but the cats didn't complain. Her own meal was humbler—raw truffles and a carrot, chewed slowly as she watched the clouds begin to shift behind the canopy.
When they set off again, her legs protested with every step. Her boots a deadweight. Beans, dramatic as ever, gave up entirely and flopped onto a sun-warmed rock, refusing to budge.
Em stared at him. "Really?"
He blinked slowly.
With a groan, she scooped him into her arms. He didn't resist. Goldie, of course, walked ahead with renewed vigor, unbothered by mortal exhaustion.
Then, finally, the river curved.
Goldie followed the bend without hesitation. Em stumbled after her, struggling to keep pace.
Until she saw it.
Across the river, a clearing opened like a secret revealed. In the center stood a small wooden cottage, framed by maple and apple trees, their leaves just beginning to turn with the season.
She stared at the cottage. It was small, wooden save for the stone chimney puffing out a faint trail of smoke. A porch wrapped around the front, its posts tangled with creeping vines, like the forest itself was holding it close. Beneath an arched window sat a weathered bench. A simple stone path led to the door, and everything about it—worn, quiet, tucked between trees—felt impossibly peaceful.
It was beautiful. Dream-like.
Emila gaped, unbelieving. "This is where he lives?"
Not some towering fortress or enchanted tower floating in the clouds. No. He had this. A charming little cottage with a garden, a bench under window, and creeping vines like the forest personally decorated it for him.
She'd expected something more... sinister. Or dramatic. Maybe skulls on the fence. A throne made of bones. Not this cozy woodland charm.
The river was shallow here, clear enough that she could see the smooth pebbles below. The current was gentle. She stepped into the water, wincing as the chill curled around her ankles, and crossed.
The moment she set foot on the other side, the air shifted. Em thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The air shimmered faintly around the cottage, like sunlight catching on glass. She blinked, but the shimmer remained.
Then the scent—apples, warm and honeyed, mixed with something floral. Emila followed her nose toward the porch and found a small garden tucked to the side, under a ficus tree. Roses bloomed in tangled abundance. Petunias nodded gently in the breeze. Hydrangeas, pale blue and lavender, clustered in shade. And among the flowers were herbs. Real herbs.
She stepped into the yard like she belonged there and began pulling herbs, picking apples. To her delight, there are mushrooms, too!
"Gods bless me, this is a treasure trove!" she exclaimed, unsure where to put her loot.
That's when the door creaked.
She looked up. And froze.
Lucien stood in the doorway, shirtless, barefoot, very orange and sleepy and irritated .
She made a mental note to add some information to his profile:
Shoulders: wide, lightly freckled, sun-kissed Chest: tragically shirtless. Muscles: sinful.Hair: tousled, potentially magical. Probably cursed.Feet: long, goblin-like.
"What in the Cauldrons—how did you find this place?" He looked like he was about to burst an artery.
Em recovered immediately from the initial shock. She grinned and plopped herself into the bush like it was a throne.
"I followed the scent of despair and decay. You reeked of it."
Lucien blinked. "That's…poetic. And deeply rude." Then he sighed. "It was the cat. She led you here."
Goldie stopped clawing an apple and meowed in agreement.
"I really should've fed her to my goblin."
She gasped, hand to chest. "Are you implying I needed a guide? That I'm some directionless rodent?"
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "You are. You act like one. Looked like one."
She pointedly ignored his insults. "Do you know what they call me in the Guild?"
"…Vermin?"
She narrowed her eyes. "The Crow . Because I like shiny things. Like you."
He stared at her like she'd said she was mating with a tree.
"Shiny things? You called me a piece of shit yesterday."
She waved a dismissive hand. "You should get over it. I did, yes. I don't mean it. Not really. I don't like cursing. You provoked me."
Silence.
Lucien still looked like he was buffering. Emila's stomach meanwhile was growling. Her pathetic meal was hours ago and burnt all of it from those tedious and unwanted stroll by the river. She eyed the apple in her hand then hid it inside her pocket. She will save it for later.
"Erm, Lucien? Do you have some food inside?" she asked sweetly, picking grass from her skirt. "I walked for hours to find this place. I think I deserve a reward."
Lucien stared at her like she'd grown a second head.
"Food? Reward?" he repeated flatly, arms crossed. "You show up uninvited, again, after I explicitly told you not to follow strangers into the woods… and now you want bread?"
"Preferably something warm. I only had a carrot and some questionable mushrooms for breakfast."
His jaw tensed.
"Who told you to come here? Did you take ' don't follow me' as some kind of riddle?"
"I took it as a suggestion," she said, lifting her chin. "A bad one."
Lucien exhaled sharply, muttering something that she suspected wasn't polite. Then, he vanished inside.
She waited a beat and whispered to Goldie, "That's a yes. I can smell the bread."
Minutes later, Lucien re-appeared.
A bread flew through the air and almost smacked into Emila's chest, nearly knocking the mushrooms out of her hands.
"Eat," he said from his porch, voice flat. "Then leave. Or I'll unleash the goblins."
She caught the loaf, blinked at him, then beamed like he'd just proposed marriage.
"Thanks, Lucien. You're actually kind once you get past the part where you'd look like you'd slit throats in your sleep."
Lucien gave her one last glare before retreating into his cottage, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.