This evening was drenched in smoke and ember light.
The scent of roasting meat spread through the village like a spell, drawing even the most withdrawn from their huts. Oil lamps flickered from windows. Laughter stirred. Not loud or careless but cautious, hopeful. Like they didn't fully trust happiness yet. They want to believe it but the past was still present.
Good.
Let them believe it's something I give them.
The square had been cleared. A long wooden table stood at the center, crooked but sturdy. The table was lined with bowls of root stew, bread, and the centerpiece: smoked boar meat, dark-crusted, juices seeping into carved trays. A feast, by their standards.
They had brought out their best which wasn't much. But it was enough.
Children ran between legs. Some of the men dragged out old instruments a beaten drum, a whistle carved from bone. Women passed out food while casting glances my way, like I might vanish if they looked too long.
I didn't sit.
Not yet.
I circled them slowly, cloak clean now, hair tied back. My wounds wrapped in linen. Just enough to look worn. Just enough to look human. And more than enough for them to see it wasn't easy.
They needed to see me bleed. But they also needed to see me stand after it.
A little girl offered me a wooden bowl, arms trembling with how full it was.
I took it gently. "What's your name?"
She blinked up at me. "...Reni."
"Did you eat yet, Reni?"
She shook her head.
I handed the bowl back.
"Then go. Eat first."
Her mother gasped softly behind her. The girl nodded, lips trembling, and ran back to her seat. I let the moment hang there.
A man approached the village carpenter. Broad-shouldered, missing two fingers.
"Baron," he said with a respectful nod. "That was a brave thing you did. Most wouldn't dare set foot in the Whispering Forest, let alone come back with that beast."
I offered him a small smile, careful and slow.
"It wasn't bravery," I said. "Just necessity. Hunger is louder than fear."
He chuckled. "Still. You've earned this night."
No.
I designed this night.
"I only killed one boar," I replied softly, just enough for those nearby to hear. "You built this table. The others cooked the meat. The children lit the fires. We all earn what we build."
More nods. More murmurs.
Let the idea grow.
I finally took a seat. Not at the head of the table. At the middle. Where they had to see me, but not above them. Just among them. Like one of them.
But I wasn't.
I listened to their stories. Let them talk about old hunts and harsher winters. I even laughed lightly, politely and when the old man with the missing teeth tried to tell a joke. I ate, bit by bit, slowly. No greed. No pride. Just grace.
A boy asked me how I knew where the boar would be.
I answered, "The forest speaks if you're quiet enough."
They looked at me like I had magic in my veins.
Good.
Let them wonder what I hear when they don't. Let them fear how I move in the dark.
When the night deepened and the fires burned lower, I stood. Not all at once. Just… naturally.
They quieted.
I held up my cup water and said:
"To the hunt."
A pause. They waited for more. Some expected a speech. I gave them none.
"To the hunt," I repeated.
They echoed it. Louder. Some raised bowls. Some cheered.
And that was enough.
I turned, slipping into the night. The butler followed at a respectful distance.
As we walked toward the manor, the music behind us softened. The stars were hidden behind smoke. The wind carried the faintest sound of the forest.
"Do you think they'll follow you forever?" the butler asked quietly.
I didn't look at him.
"No," I said. "But long enough."