(Eli's POV)
I woke before dawn, not from a sound, but from the weight of thought pressing on my chest. I couldn't sleep—not with how much was left unknown.
Outside, the wind was thin and sharp. I stepped out into the chill, boots crunching frostbitten grass as I made my way to the barn.
Echo stirred as I approached, those long ears twitching at the subtle creak of the door. Wisp blinked in behind me, giving the creature a low whine in greeting.
I knelt beside the stall. She—because I'd quietly decided Echo was female—rose from the straw, slow and graceful, her movements deliberate.
I studied her. The leathery skin. The hollow chest. The subtle rhythmic pulsing along her flanks matched the timing of her listening.
She had no place in the world I knew. Not exactly. But that didn't mean I couldn't give her one.
"You deserve a name," I said quietly, resting my forearm on the edge of the stall. "Not just a personal one. A proper name. A species."
She tilted her head slightly toward the sound.
"You follow sound. You move like a shadow. You feel everything around you, not with sight, but with senses none of us really use. No aggression. Not a predator. Not prey either. Something in between."
I thought back to the descriptions I'd read in old bestiaries and notebooks—the classifications, the subtle variants, the anomalies attributed to wild magic zones. And how, when no match could be found, the first record keeper had to step forward and say, 'This is new.'
"A Silendril," I murmured. "You'll be the first of your kind in my book. Echo, the first Silendril."
The name came easily—rooted in the silence and listening that defined her. A creature not made for war or terror, but something else. Something forgotten. Or perhaps something new.
Day 17 – Journal Entry
Echo – species classification: Silendril (assigned)
Traits:
Quadruped, approximately 3 ft shoulder height. Smooth, leathery hide. Long ears, highly sensitive to vibration and tone. No visible eyes; navigates through sound mapping. Diet: prefers pond mushrooms, roots. Disposition: passive, social, aware
Behavioral patterns:
Sleeps through daylight hours, active before dusk and dawn. Drawn to calm tones and soft vocalization. Appears soothed by Wisp's presence. Reacts poorly to sudden movement or loud noises
Additional Notes:
May have originated from a warp-tainted region or mutated from common livestockZero aggression recorded. No evidence of corruption
Naming justification: 'Silendril' derived from silence (absence of speech) and tendril (implied sensory reach)
Alina found me back at the house, boiling water for tea.
"You named her," she said, not asked.
"Yeah. Thought it was time."
She accepted a tin cup from me and sipped. "Silendril? Sounds like something out of an elven fable."
I gave a small shrug. "If they've got a better name for her, they can argue with my journal."
She smiled, more softly this time. "You're not just feeding them, you're making a place for them. Naming a thing gives it purpose."
"Or maybe I'm just tired of writing 'unknown species' every day."
She chuckled and leaned against the table.
"Rurik said we've got enough timber for the small corral expansion," she said. "Once we get some of that southern fencing up, we might have space for another creature."
I arched a brow. "That a prediction?"
"Call it a gut feeling."
She wasn't wrong.
Because that evening, something else howled in the forest.
And it was closer.
That evening, as the sun began to slide behind the treeline, a strange sound broke the stillness.
It wasn't the howl we'd heard before—no, this was softer. A bleating whine, short and confused.
Wisp's ears perked up, and before I could stand, he blinked toward the sound.
I grabbed the short sword, still resting by the door, and followed. Alina was right behind me, holding the old hunting bow she'd traded for from a traveling merchant a few days ago. I'd sharpened the tips myself.
We found Wisp standing guard at the edge of the northern field, tail low but still wagging slowly.
And in front of him was... something new.
Another baby.
The creature was small—barely two feet at the shoulder. Covered in a thick, mossy green fur with speckled markings along its back. Its eyes were wide and black, and tiny nubs of horns had just started to sprout from its skull.
It bleated again, low and uncertain, and took a shaky step forward.
Wisp didn't bark. He took one step closer and sniffed, then blinked behind the creature like he was herding it forward.
In the barn, I could hear Terror bleating anxiously from her pen. She never liked new arrivals. Sensitive to changes. Sensitive to stress.
"I've never seen anything like it," Alina whispered.
I hadn't either—but something about the pattern, the posture, the facial shape—it reminded me of something from old books. Not quite a beast of burden, not quite a wild thing.
A baby Gorehorn, maybe? But... the fur pattern was wrong. Mutated? Or just a regional variation?
It stepped closer to me, blinking slowly.
I knelt, offering my hand. It sniffed, then butted its head into my palm.
"Looks like we've got another one," I murmured.
We brought it to the barn and set up a smaller pen beside Echo. She tilted her ears, listening, but didn't rise. The new creature curled into the hay like it had lived there all its life.
Terror bleated again, louder this time, pacing back and forth. I gave her extra feed and stroked her neck until she calmed down.
Wisp blinked to the top of a feed barrel and watched silently.
"Let me guess," Alina said, arms crossed. "You know what it is, don't you?"
"Sort of," I said. "Might be Gorehorn stock, but too early to tell. It could be a juvenile from a related species. Either way, it's herbivorous, small horns, low aggression... probably safe."
"You sure?"
"Nope."
She sighed. "I'll prep more mushrooms and see if it eats them."
I watched the creature for a while longer as it dozed. Its breathing was steady. No visible injuries. Probably a couple of months old. Still young enough to imprint.
Which meant another mouth to feed. Another thing to train. Another unpredictable variable in an already chaotic sanctuary.
But it didn't matter. I couldn't turn it away.
Day 18 – Journal Entry
New arrival:
Tentative ID: Juvenile Gorehorn (unconfirmed subspecies), Approx. 2 ft at shoulder. Green mossy fur. Developing horn nubs. No aggression. Displayed comfort behavior when introduced to Wisp and myself. Vocalizations soft. Energy level is moderate. Diet: Unknown. Mushrooms and root veg offered for trial.
Name pending. Housing established in secondary pen beside Echo.
Echo has begun responding to soft calls. "Echo" is recognized name. Responds most to Wisp's movement.
Wisp: Training continues. Can now follow three verbal commands consistently.
Rook: Displays awareness of other creatures. Remains territorial with barn rafters.
Trouble: Tried to eat soap. Swatted by Alina.
Terror: Displayed signs of high stress after new arrival. Provided feed and contact. Calmed within fifteen minutes. Keep monitoring during future introductions.
Flicker: Active midday. Prefers basking on rocks near pond. Pescivorous diet confirmed—feeds exclusively on small fish and pond snails. Does not tolerate dry feed or distance from water for extended periods. Behavioral training not applicable yet.
Need to reinforce south fencing before larger creatures arrive. Running low on feed. Hunting trip required.
Morning brought cold winds and grey skies. I pulled my cloak tighter as I made the morning rounds, starting with the pond.
Flicker skittered from one warm stone to another as I approached, then plunged into the shallows and came up with a silver-scaled fish clamped in its narrow jaws.
It flicked its head once, snapped the bones clean, and stared at me expectantly.
"Greedy thing," I muttered, tossing another small catch into the water nearby.
Flicker snatched it mid-splash and retreated to a flat rock to feed.
Training was going slowly. Only Wisp responded well to commands. The others operated on instinct, hunger, and comfort.
But they were growing. All of them. And as they did, I needed more space, more structure, and more damn food.
And still, that sense lingered—that something was watching. That more would come.
They always did.