Oryen led Dydra through a narrow corridor, the wooden floorboards creaking under their weight. The dim glow from the hearth behind them barely touched the rough-hewn timber walls of the small room she stopped at. A straw mattress lay in one corner, a single wooden chest at its foot. Though modest, the room felt like a palace to Dydra. Her last sleep had been in a freezing cave, and nights before that had been worse—hot, extremely hot, mosquito-bitten, and lonely.
Oryen handed her fresh clothing, the fabric soft under Dydra's fingers, and pointed toward a door in the corner. "There's the washroom. I'll leave you now," she said gently, closing the door with a quiet click.
Dydra froze, her mind struggling to process the simple luxury. A washroom. Not a stream. Not a cave. She had only ever bathed in a washroom once, in Agatha's chambers, and only when Master was away. She set the clothes aside, undoing the pins in her hair, and Agatha's voice echoed in her mind, shrill and commanding, yet familiar. I hope she's safe, Dydra whispered silently.
Steam curled upward as she entered the washroom. The tub was already filled, and a sweet rose scent perfumed the air. She eased herself into the water, letting it lap over her sore shoulders, closing her eyes to rest her mind. The fragrance was soothing, almost unreal, and for the first time in days, she felt the tension in her chest begin to ease.
Meanwhile, in another part of the cottage, Oryen's calm demeanor shifted. She entered a small, dim room lined with shelves of aged, leather-bound books. An oak table bore more scattered tomes, thick with dust and history. Her fingers rumbled through the shelves, restless, searching. Usually serene, today her brows knitted with tension, lips twitching with irritation. The golden heart-shaped locket around Dydra's neck haunted her thoughts.
She moved from shelf to shelf, the sound of her boots muted by the thick rug. Nothing. Not a single trace of what she sought. Impatience flared, and she stomped, the echo hollow in the room. Then, realization struck. She knelt, fingertips exploring the wooden floor until a small crack yielded under her touch. With a shove, a plank shifted aside, revealing a dusty, sealed box, webs clinging like forgotten memories.
Ignoring the dust, she brought the box to the table and opened it. Inside lay a wooden-bound book, carved with the images of two heart-shaped lockets: one silver, one gold. She held it close, hands trembling, eyes closed. Whispering under her breath, she spoke words that sounded alien, almost dangerous.
"Athryx mueli takokma zrunrph."
The book rumbled softly, carved symbols glowing faintly. She whispered again, louder, her voice cracking under the strain.
"Athryx mueli takokma zrunrph."
The glow intensified, veins darkening around her neck. Black tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Her body vibrated, chest tightening with unbearable pain. She gasped, clutching at the table as her lips quivered to speak again.
"Athryx mueli takokma—"
The pain spiked. She toppled to the floor, dark veins crawling up her jaw. Her pupils went entirely black. The table shook, the shelves trembled, the entire room quivered under her torment. A piercing scream tore from her throat before darkness claimed her.
Strangely, the chaos was contained. Outside that small room, the cottage remained untouched. The fire burned, the herbs scented the air, and the walls held their quiet.
Dydra, oblivious to the turmoil just beyond, finished her bath. Rose-scented steam clung to her skin, warmth seeping into her aching limbs. She reached for a towel, wrapping it around her, and dried herself thoroughly. Dressing in the fresh clothing Oryen had provided, she tied her hair up neatly. Sitting on the straw mattress, a small smile played on her lips. Grateful. Relieved. Safe.
Rising, she ventured into the cottage in search of the elderly woman, noting the rustic details: the crooked beams, the glowing hearth, the tidy shelves. She found the main room empty, save for a small, brass kettle steaming gently on the table. "Maybe she went outside," she murmured. Hunger gnawed at her, so she decided to make something in thanks for Oryen's hospitality.
Hours passed. Dydra stirred a pottage on the stove, letting the aroma fill the room. She set it on the dining table, seating herself with a sense of accomplishment, unaware of the faintest shadow moving in the other room.
Oryen stirred, regaining consciousness. Her ocean-blue eyes returned, dark veins faded. Standing unsteadily at first, she eventually regained balance, her steps silent as she returned the wooden-bound book to the sealed box, hiding it once again beneath the floor. Her dark tears remained, streaks of black down her pale cheeks, her expression grim. She had failed to destroy the book. It must be hidden far from the girl; its power was too dangerous.
A faint scent of pottage reached her. Following it, Oryen entered the main room. She paused, startled to find Dydra sitting at the table, a humble pottage set before her.
Dydra turned at the sound of footsteps, rising slightly. Her eyes fell on Oryen's face, immediately noticing the dark streaks from the corners of her eyes. Her mouth opened, a question forming, but the words stumbled.
"What's that on your face?" she blurted. Immediately, she realized her mistake and tried to backpedal.
"It's… not that it's any of my business how you got that dark line. You don't have to tell me why. It's not like I'm commanding you. I just—"
"Enough."
Oryen's voice was calm, but carried weight. Dydra felt her cheeks warm, eyes dropping instinctively.
The older woman's gaze shifted to the table. "You made this?"
Dydra's fingers twitched. She nodded quickly, words tumbling over themselves. "I hope you're not offended. I wasn't snooping. I just… thought it would be nice to show a little gratitude for your hospitality. I didn't mean to… intrude or take advantage—"
"Let's eat, dear."
Oryen sat, ignoring the streaks of black on her face. Her presence carried a subtle darkness, an edge that made Dydra uneasy. Still, warmth lingered, her gestures gentle.
Dydra reached for a bowl, spooning the pottage with a trembling hand. She glanced at Oryen, the dark marks making the woman appear both fragile and terrifying. Yet, despite that darkness, Dydra felt a glimmer of hope. If Oryen could survive the power of the book, perhaps Dydra herself could learn to survive what had hunted her.
The room was quiet save for the occasional crackle of the hearth. Outside, shadows deepened as the sun dipped low, the forest whispering secrets in the wind. Dydra's mind wandered briefly to the vampire, Leonard, and Jerry. What had become of them? But for now, she was alive. Safe. And seated across from her, Oryen seemed both protector and enigma, a mystery waiting to unfold.
Biting into a small piece of bread, Dydra felt the simplicity of life settle over her. In the days to come, she would need strength, cunning, and patience. But tonight, for the first time in days, she allowed herself to rest, to eat, to exist without fear pressing at her chest.
Oryen's presence, dark and uncertain, loomed silently, yet there was a strange comfort in it. She did not speak further, letting Dydra finish her meal in peace. And Dydra, in turn, resolved silently that she would not squander this fragile sanctuary. She would learn, grow, and prepare. Whatever awaited her beyond the forest's edge, she would face it with every ounce of the cunning, courage, and fire that had carried her through the carriage, the chase, and the cave.
The sun disappeared fully behind the horizon, leaving the room dimly lit by the hearth. Outside, night crept across the forest, but inside, Dydra felt the first sense of warmth in days. For now, the darkness of the cottage, Oryen's mysterious aura, and the smell of herbs and pottage provided a strange, uneasy calm.
And as she gazed at Oryen, still seated silently, a new thought struck her: sometimes, even in the darkest moments, unexpected refuge could appear. Sometimes, the mysterious and dangerous could also be the protector she never expected.