The air between you and Maika feels different now.
It's not thick like anger, not yet — but the quiet has teeth.
Her arms are still folded, but her weight has shifted forward. Her eyes don't flinch. The low light from the hearth paints the side of her face gold, the rest shadowed.
You set the parchment aside slowly. "You're not wrong."
Her brow lifts slightly, but she doesn't speak.
"The runes," you continue, "aren't from here. They… are from the demon realm."
Her breath changes — not a gasp, but sharper. Alert.
You press on before she can speak. "I learned them there. Studied them, trained with them. It's not something I can hide in my work — it's too ingrained. But that's all I'm going to say about it. The reasons… the circumstances… are mine to carry."
For a heartbeat, there's no movement between you. Only the faint hiss of the fire.
Then Maika's chair scrapes back. She stands, her expression shifting from surprise to something tighter. Her hand goes to the wand hanging from her belt, and she draws it without hesitation.
The wooden tip points toward you, her stance low and ready. Her voice comes out steady, but louder than usual. "So you could be a demon spy."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke.
You don't move — not because you're frozen, but because you've been here before. Not in this cottage, not with this person — but in the space where trust teeters on the edge of being pulled away entirely.
Her grip on the wand doesn't waver. The easy warmth she carried in the days you've known her is gone now, replaced with something sharper, protective.
You meet her eyes.
"I'm human," you say, slow and deliberate. "I was born human. I'll die human. You don't have to worry about that."
Her wand doesn't lower.
"I've severed my ties to the demon realm. Whatever I learned there stays in my head, but there's nothing left, no bond. That bridge is burned."
Her eyes flicker — not quite believing, but not dismissing either.
You take a breath. "But if you're still against me being here, I'll go. I wasn't planning to stay forever. I'm not here to intrude."
That makes her blink, the defensive edge faltering for a moment. But then her shoulders square again. "It's not about whether I like you, Stormy. It's about the village. I can't risk its safety for you. Not if there's even a chance you're lying."
"I understand," you say. And you do.
Her wand lowers, but she doesn't relax. "I trust you… but I can't put Willowmere in danger. You get that, right?"
"Yeah," you say quietly. "I get it."
You don't talk after that.
Maika sits back down, but the work between you for the rest of the evening is mechanical. Passing jars, sealing lids, labeling paper packets — all done in silence. Her gaze no longer lingers, not in suspicion now, but in distance.
When the last of the day's work is put away, you retreat to the small sleeping room.
You sit on the edge of the narrow bed, looking at the single chair where your few belongings rest — your worn hoodie folded on top, the Demon King's cloak draped over it like a shadow that refuses to fade.
There isn't much to pack.
There never is.
The night is long. You lie awake staring at the beams above, the scent of herbs hanging heavy in the still air. Outside, somewhere past the cottage, a wind chime rattles faintly.
You think about the people in this village — the old woman by the well, the children running with glowing stones, the quiet nods you've been given without question. And you think about the way they'd look if they found out. If the first thing they knew of you was that you once belonged to the place their old stories call enemy.
By the time sleep finally comes, it's thin and restless.
Dawn comes gray and cool. The first light cuts across the floorboards in pale stripes.
You sit up, pull on the hoodie, and fold the cloak carefully over your arm. It's heavier than it looks, and for a moment you almost set it down — but you don't.
When you step into the main room, Maika's already there. She's standing by the counter, back to you, measuring dried leaves into a pouch. She doesn't turn when you set your folded things on the table.
"I'll be gone before midday," you say.
She hesitates, but still doesn't turn. "Alright."
There's nothing more to add.
You pick up your things again, pull the door open, and step into the cool air outside.
The village is just waking — smoke rising from chimneys, the faint sound of water being drawn from the well.
You walk toward the path out of Willowmere.
You don't look back.