Marcus had learned to stop protesting.
When the night came and the fire sank to embers, Eshara undressed without ceremony.
She folded her coat, her shirt, her trousers, laying each piece in a precise stack.
Then she lay down behind him, her bare skin pressing against his back.
The first time she had done it, he'd almost passed out from embarrassment.
Now, he almost welcomed it.
Almost.
Heat radiated from her body—an unnatural, steady warmth that made the cold vanish.
He closed his eyes, and though he didn't speak, he felt her breath against his shoulder, calm and even.
It was his favorite time, even if he couldn't admit that to her.
By dawn, she was up again, dressing in a smooth, practiced motion.
Marcus sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Eshara didn't say much.
She only glanced back once as she lifted her pack.
"I will be gathering," she said.
"For the next hours."
He nodded.
She disappeared into the trees without another word.
The snow lay undisturbed around the campsite, the hush broken only by the distant crackle of the frozen river.
Marcus crouched near the fire pit, stirring the ashes to see if any warmth remained.
That was when he heard footsteps.
Slow, measured.
He turned.
An elderly man in a thick canvas coat stood watching him from the edge of the clearing, a fishing rod balanced across one shoulder.
He had a lined, ruddy face and eyes that narrowed in curiosity rather than fear.
"Well," the man said after a moment, "I don't believe I've ever come across a young fellow sitting stark naked in the snow without a single sign he's in distress."
Marcus's throat closed.
"I—"
The man lifted a hand, as if to forestall any excuses.
"You lost, son?"
Marcus hesitated.
"No…not exactly."
The old man shifted the rod to his other hand, studying him with an assessing gaze.
"You're not cold?"
Marcus hesitated again.
"Not as much as you'd think."
The old man gave a low chuckle.
"That so?"
He took two careful steps closer, though he didn't cross into the camp.
"You one of them new Loup-garou?" he asked conversationally.
Marcus blinked.
"Loup…what?"
The old man smiled faintly.
"Loup-garou," he repeated. "French for werewolf. Some say there's still a few in the deep woods—though I never figured I'd see one having a polite sit-down by my fishing trail."
Marcus's mouth opened, then shut.
"I…I don't know," he managed.
The old man tilted his head, as if deciding something.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I suppose it doesn't matter much to me either way, long as you ain't hunting my family."
He shifted his rod again.
"You look half-starved. I've got some fish."
Marcus blinked.
"You'd…share?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
The man set down a canvas bag and unwrapped two cleaned fish in brown paper.
"I was going to take these home for my grandkids," he said, "but I can spare one if it keeps you from keeling over."
He set the fish near Marcus's feet and straightened, exhaling steam into the cold air.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Marcus found his voice.
"You come out here often?"
The old man nodded.
"Scout this part of the river every winter," he said.
"My daughter sends the kids up for the holidays. I like to know where I'll bring them."
He paused, then added more gently:
"You sure you don't need help? You don't look…entirely okay."
Marcus looked down at the fish, swallowing.
"I'm…figuring things out," he said quietly.
The man grunted.
"Well," he said, "I reckon that's more honest than most your age would admit."
He pulled on his gloves.
"If you ever want to talk again, you can find me along this bend. Same time next season."
He paused.
"Or sooner, if you figure out what you are."
Marcus looked up when he felt the air shift.
Eshara stepped out from between two trees, silent as shadow.
The old man didn't jump.
He only regarded her with the same level, assessing stare.
After a moment, he inclined his head.
"Afternoon," he said.
Eshara's black eyes didn't blink.
"You are not afraid."
The old man chuckled.
"I'm too old to be afraid of much," he said.
"Lived long enough to know not to stand too close to two wolves—especially if one's still finding his teeth."
His gaze flicked to Marcus, then back to Eshara.
"And you," he said, "you've got more blood scent on you than any trapper I ever met."
He tapped his temple.
"Not my business. But I'm not keen to find out what happens if I make it my business, either."
He adjusted the strap of his bag.
"Got grandkids waiting for me. And I'd prefer to see them again."
He raised a hand.
"Boy—if you get your head sorted, come by sometime. Bring questions, if you have them."
Marcus nodded slowly, unable to speak.
The old man looked back at Eshara.
"No harm from me," he said.
"Just a tired man who's caught enough fish for today."
He stepped back, turned, and walked into the trees, his silhouette fading into the snowy dusk.
Marcus watched the last of the old man disappear.
Eshara waited until the silence returned.
Then she turned her gaze on him—calm, unreadable.
"You are fortunate," she said.
"That one was wise enough to mind his own path."
Marcus swallowed.
"He called you a Loup-garou."
Eshara tilted her head.
"He is not wrong."
Her eyes flicked down to the fish he cradled in his hands.
"You took his offering."
"I…did."
"Good," she said simply.
"Tomorrow you will learn how to preserve meat when you have no fire."
She stepped closer, her voice low and sure:
"But tonight—you will eat, and you will rest. Because soon you will have no more days without trial."
Her gaze softened just enough that he could almost imagine comfort there.
"And one day," she added, "you will stand as calmly as he did—and see exactly what you are."