The road was choked with merchants and mongers, every step a collision of scents and shouting tongues, banners of dyed cloth flapping like restless spirits above the stalls. But then—like breath drawn and held—the noise fell away.
It moved along the thoroughfare not as a being, but as a hush, an absence. Voices faltered in its path, laughter curdled, and space unfolded as if the very air recoiled. At the hollow's center walked a girl, alone, untouched—shunned as though her presence bore the creeping sickness of prophecy.
A child's voice broke the unnatural stillness.
"Mama, did she play at noon? Is that why she's all muddy?"
"Don't point," the mother hissed, her words trembling. "Judgment falls quickest on those who mock, and sweet things vanish from the tongues of the wicked." She dipped her head. "Forgive my child," she said—though the words were not offered to the girl, but to something unseen, something feared.
The girl gave no sign of hearing. She moved on, basket in hand, toward the stalls. The grocer flinched at her approach, gaze pinned to the ground, as if eye contact might brand him. He weighed her purchases in silence, fingers barely brushing the items, eager to see her gone.
With each item added to her satchel, the murmurs swelled. Not words—just glances, the rustle of disgust disguised as caution. The air grew heavy, like mist before a storm.
Then came another presence.
A man—unkempt, cloaked in road-dust and arrogance—drifted from the edge of the crowd, eyes sharp with mischief. His lips curled in a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well, well," he drawled, loud enough for all to hear. "A slave out shopping? What next—goblins peddling grain?"
As the tension thickened, a few bystanders spoke—not with urgency, but with a peculiar, detached calm.
"Let it go," one murmured.
"Judgment finds the careless," sighed another.
The outsider scoffed, glancing at the villagers as if they were the mad ones. "Have they all lost their minds?" he muttered.
But before he could turn back toward the girl—his body seized. His eyes rolled into white, and he crumpled to the earth like a marionette with cut strings.
Silence fell.
The market froze. Voices died in throats, footsteps faltered mid-stride, and even the wind seemed to retreat. The clamor of trade, once ever-present, vanished beneath the weight of something unseen.
All eyes turned.
There, standing in the hush like the eye of a gathering storm, was Alistair Pendragon. Still as stone, his face betrayed nothing—no fear, no rage. Only silence. The kind of silence that knew things, ancient things. His presence alone felt like a held breath, waiting.
Whispers passed like ghosts.
Hands curled into fists.
Some waited for thunder. Others for flame. For divine reckoning, or its unholy twin.
And yet—nothing.
No fire from the heavens. No voice from on high. No shift in the wind to mark a turning.
Only silence. Long. Heavy. Unnatural.
Time stretched. Seconds bled into minutes, each one more unbearable than the last.
Then, slowly, the world began to stir. A wheel creaked. A merchant drew a shaky breath. Life resumed—but not as it was before. Something unspoken hung in the air, clinging to every movement like a veil.
Across the square, Alistair Pendragon brushed the dust from his hands a few rocks by the tip of his boots, already distant from what had just occurred . His eyes found Morgana, and softened.
"They never leave you be, do they, Morgana?" he said, voice low, almost fond. He took a step closer, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
"Mind if I walk with you? I must say, it's quite the feeling—the way they part like reeds in a stream."
Morgana didn't look at him.
"You should mind your own business. I don't need you shadowing me."
He laughed under his breath, unoffended.
"And yet, here I am—and you haven't chased me off yet."
There was ease in his words, but something beneath them, something watchful, lingered as he matched her pace.
The day wore on. The sun climbed higher, its light drawing sharp lines across the worn stones of the road.
At last, Morgana sighed.
"Don't you have anywhere to be? It's nearly noon—your kin will think you've vanished."
Alistair tilted his head, thoughtful. Then with that same maddening calm,
"Actually... I was wondering if you'd mind a guest."
Morgana groaned, pressing her fingers to her brow.
"You really don't give up, do you? Keep pestering me like this, and they'll have you banished before the week's done."
Alistair smirked.
"Banished? Then I'll wear it like a crown. Better to be shunned beside you than walk amongst the blind."
He leaned back with the careless ease of a man who'd walked through fire and come out scorched but grinning, arms crossed, the ghost of laughter still flickering at the edges of his mouth.
"Don't trouble yourself. Truth be told, I'd welcome the empty roads. No more festivals choking the streets, no more pressing through crowds who pretend not to see you while staring all the same."
That did it.
Morgana turned, swift as a lash. Her voice, usually guarded and low, cracked the air like brittle glass.
"Don't say that. You don't mean it—you *can't*."
There was something raw beneath her words, something unmasked. "You don't understand…"
Whatever else she meant to say caught in her throat. The jest had gone from Alistair's face. His smirk was gone. What remained was silence—and in it, a shadow that hollowed his gaze.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, brittle and heavy.
"They are already avoiding you ? since when ?"
Alistair didn't answer.
She drew a breath, slow and unsteady, and looked skyward. The sun had begun its slow descent, its light fractured through the clouds like dying embers.
"I tried to stop it. Gods know I tried. I thought if I played along, if I kept ignoring you, it would pass. But it never does, does it?"
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Better this way, maybe. "
He turned to her again, his tone softer, but steadier.
"You know, I've always enjoyed your company. Even if the others think it odd. And truth be told…"
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are we really so different?"
Alistair's mouth twitched, almost a smile. But before long, she cut in again.
"Enjoyed my company?" she scoffed, folding her arms tight across her chest like armor. "Is that what you call trailing behind me like a mutt? Or pacing in silence for half a day, waiting for me to say something?"
Alistair faltered. The words struck true, and for once, he had no shield of wit to raise.
"I—I was worried about you," he said, the words quiet, careful. He turned his head slightly, as though the admission cost him. "Still… I liked it. The quiet. The way everything settles around you, like the world forgets how loud it's supposed to be."
And there, in the half-light of a dying afternoon, something rare occurred.Alistair Pendragon—blushed.
Morgana hesitated, her gaze flickering away before she whispered, "Fine… only this once." A faint flush touched her cheeks, barely noticeable in the shifting light.
Across from her, Alistair's expression softened, a rare warmth overtaking his usual mischief. "Thank you," he murmured, as if the words carried more weight than they should.
For a while, they walked in silence—not the strained quiet of uneasy company, but something softer, something understood. The town slowly faded behind them, swallowed by the whispering trees and the winding path leading to the forested hills.
This was Morgana's home—not the village, never the village. Getting along with the townsfolk had never been an option, and the thought of living among them had long since been lost. She simply couldn't risk it—not after everything her family had endured.
As they neared her home, an uneasy tension crept up Morgana's spine. What if he doesn't like it? What if he laughs? What if he finds it wretched? The thoughts swirled, tightening around her chest. I should have thought this through…
She parted her lips, ready to say something—to brace herself for whatever came next—when Alistair beat her to it.
"That's quite the beautiful house." His voice carried none of the hesitation she had feared. If anything, it brimmed with genuine wonder. "I love it… It's like the forest swallowed it whole, made it part of itself."
His face lit up, eyes glimmering with the excitement of a child laying eyes on a long-dreamt-of treasure. He stood just outside the house, his gaze sweeping over the timeworn structure. The building seemed to exist in a strange paradox, old yet somehow new, as if time itself had forgotten to age it. Its wooden frame creaked in the wind, but there was an odd sense of freshness about it, an almost eerie preservation.
The house, half-claimed by the forest, felt like a relic from another world—untouched, waiting. As his eyes drifted from the overgrown garden to the weathered windows, something caught his attention.
One of the windows, dark and silent, stood out against the faded glow of the house. At first, it seemed nothing more than a shadow, a gaping blackness in the wall, but then—
Two gleaming eyes pierced the dark.
A black cat, its fur blending with the night, appeared in the window. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another.
"Mee-Meow?"
The sound was soft, almost playful, but there was something unsettling in its tone—like it wasn't quite meant for him. The cat didn't blink. Not once.
Aleister felt a strange stillness fall over him. It wasn't fear, but a growing awareness, as if the cat had recognized him in a way he could not yet understand.
He had to remind himself that it was just a cat. But that eerie stare, unmoving, seemed to stretch beyond the ordinary, as if the house, the cat, and the world itself had just taken a closer look at him.
As the long sunset melted into dusk, two figures sat atop the hillside, with Morgana's cat curled lazily between them—its tail flicking in idle contentment. The fading light painted the sky in embers and gold, but the night stretched its fingers across the horizon, eager to claim its dominion.
For a while, neither spoke, lost in the quiet rhythm of the evening. Then, at last, Morgana exhaled, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Alistair… if you could leave this village behind—if we could break free from it… No—if we never had to come back… would you go with me? Somewhere far, where we could just live, quietly?"
The cat let out a slow blink, purring against the quiet. A breeze stirred the tall grass, carrying with it the scent of earth and distant rain.
Alistair shifted, turning to her. "Morgana, I—"
The last light slipped beyond the hills. Their figures, once outlined against the dim glow, blurred into the dark—until nothing remained but the night.