(Eli's POV)
The howl came again at dawn.
Long and low, drifting over the frost-covered fields. This time, it was closer.
I climbed the ladder to the barn's hayloft and scanned the treeline. The forest was still—too still. No birds. No wind. Just the sharp breath of cold air and the faint snore of Rook in the stall below.
Wisp stood beside me, hackles raised. He didn't bark, just stared. Focused.
When I climbed down, I checked the fence again. Reinforced the southern perimeter with every spare board and nail I had. Alina came to help without being asked.
"I don't like the quiet," she said.
"Me neither."
We worked in silence for a while. Trouble followed us, dragging sticks and shiny bits of scrap into a pile. The reptilian—still unnamed—slid into the deeper end of the pond and didn't come out.
Animals feel danger long before people do.
Later that afternoon, I took Wisp into the eastern field to train further. I brought jerky, rope, and my patience.
We practiced sitting. Shake. Stay.
"Come," I said, crouching low.
Wisp blinked away, reappeared behind me, then barked excitedly.
"Close," I muttered.
An hour later, he was finally responding to "stay" by actually staying—for three seconds. Then he blinked again.
It was progress. Sort of.
But the real shock came when I set the jerky down and turned to grab a water skin.
There was something new in the field.
It wasn't there a second ago.
Small. About the size of a calf. Brown hide, four hooves, spindly legs—but no eyes. Just long ears and slits for a nose. Its mouth twitched as it sniffed the air, head tilting.
Wisp whined, unsure.
The thing turned toward him. Then toward me.
It didn't charge. Didn't run. It just stood there, sniffing, wobbling slightly. Like a newborn foal.
I stepped forward slowly. "Hey... hey, easy now."
It didn't flinch when I reached out. My hand brushed its leathery flank—warm and shaking. Not injured. Just scared.
I led it back to the barn. Rook snorted as we entered. Trouble climbed to the rafters. The reptilian peeked out from the pond.
I guided the creature into a spare pen with straw and water. It settled immediately, curling its legs beneath it.
Wisp sat outside the gate, watching it without blinking.
Day 15 – Journal Entry
New creature arrival:
Species: UnknownDescription: Four-legged ungulate. No eyes. Long ears. Height: ~3 ft at the shoulder. Est. weight: 200–220 lbs. Behavior: Passive. Frightened. Non-aggressive. Sensitive to sound?Diet: Unknown. Provided grain and water—grain refused, water taken
Wisp displayed hesitancy. No aggression. Creature responded to voice but not touch cues.
Temporary name: "Echo"
Pen reinforced. Additional hay spread.
Alina came out after sundown, wiping flour from her hands.
"What is it this time?"
"No idea. Doesn't see. Listens instead."
"Echo?"
I blinked. "What?"
"The name. Echo. It fits."
I nodded. "Yeah. It does."
We stood there together, watching the barn.
Somewhere out in the forest, something howled again.
Wisp didn't blink this time. He growled.
That night, as the moon rose behind scattered clouds, I sat beside the pen where Echo lay curled up, barely moving.
Alina came out again, wrapping a shawl tighter around her shoulders. She sat down beside me on the overturned barrel, close enough that I could feel the warmth off her skin.
"You ever seen anything like that before?" she asked.
"No."
"You say that a lot."
"I mean it a lot."
She gave a dry chuckle. "You got any idea how to care for it?"
I looked down at my open journal, half-filled with scratchy notes and question marks. "Not exactly. But I've seen descriptions of things like this. Mutations caused by exposure to magic... sometimes worse things. Creatures born different—twisted. They're not always dangerous, but they're never normal either."
"Chaos-touched?" she said, immediately uneasy.
"Maybe," I admitted. "It could've been born near a corrupted leyline or wandered through something tainted. The lack of eyes, the sensitivity to sound—it's not natural, but it's not rabid either."
Alina leaned forward and brushed some straw out of the pen. "So what do we feed it? You're saying grain's out."
I nodded. "Too dry. Too processed. I'm thinking maybe the mushrooms near the pond. I saw some patches a day or two ago. Should've logged them."
"I'll gather a few at dawn. You rest."
"You don't have to—"
"You've been running on fumes for two days, Eli. Sleep before your brain stops working."
I gave her a sideways look. "You sound like a wife."
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretending to be one, remember?"
"Yeah. But you're better at it than I expected."
She didn't smile, not quite. But her hand brushed against mine for a moment before she stood.
"You ever wonder why they come to you?" she asked before heading back inside.
"Every damn day," I said.
Day 16 – Journal Entry
Echo (tentative ID: Mutated ungulate — possible magical or Chaos exposure)
Feeding test: Mushrooms from pond – accepted
Refused: barley, oats, dried grass
Sensitivity to sound confirmed – flinches at loud noises, follows soft clapping
Status: Stable. No aggression. Vocalizations minimal. Sleeps often.
Other observations:
Trouble hoarding shiny objects – stole a spoon today
Rook has begun pacing before dusk
Wisp follows Echo, unprompted. Protective?
Reptilian still unnamed – prefers warm stones, very active midday
I need to start categorizing these creatures by known types. Cross-reference abilities, behaviors, even biology. This is starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a damn pattern.
If the next one breathes fire, I'm building a moat.
Rurik returned around midday from chopping wood, sweat running down his brow. "Forest's too quiet," he muttered. "You hear that howl again?"
"Yeah. Two nights in a row."
"I've seen blood on tree trunks. Something's moving through. Big. Alone, maybe, but fast. Not beastmen. Not their style."
"Think it's watching us?"
"I think it's hunting something. Could be us. Could be what's in your barn."
He took a long swig from his waterskin, then added, "If you've got monsters, someone else might want them."
The thought stuck with me the rest of the day.
When the sun dipped low again, I sat Wisp in front of me for another round of training.
"Sit."
He blinked—sat.
"Good boy." I tossed him a bit of salted pork. "Shake."
Paw on my hand. Tail wagging.
"Stay."
This time, no blink. He held the pose, tongue lolling.
I smiled. "We might make a ranch dog out of you yet."
Then Wisp growled. Low and deep.
I stood and turned to the treeline.
A shape. Something upright.
Then it was gone.