The dark door opened with a deep, cozy creak, and a cloud scented with warm forest honey, roasted hazelnuts, and dried rowan berries drifted out into the cool autumn air. In the doorway appeared the elderly badger lady, and watched her guests through the mendet spectacles. Her gaze did not even fall upon Fian; instead, her dark eyes traveled past his shoulder toward Vela. The old lady’s face brightened with delight: “Oh, little mouse, how lovely that you’ve come along, too!”
The silence that followed this remark was so thick that even the birds in the trees seemed to decide they would rather spend the rest of the afternoon in a different part of the forest.
*Little mouse.* She’d done it again…
Vela offered the old lady a polite smile, yet she did not stir a single muscle. She did not even appear to breathe.
Even her ears remained frozen at the exact angle they had held when the word was spoken. Only deep within her ice-blue eyes, where the timeless, merciless cold of the Eternals usually lurked, did a tiny, bottomless abyss open up. Then, Vela slowly extended her paw; the old lady took it gladly, patting the back of Vela’s paw with her own. Turning to Fian, she added, “Ah, lad – back again, are you? It’s so wonderful that both of you found your way here.” She took Fian’s paw, patting it just as she had the other. “And you’ve arrived at the perfect moment; the great cauldron is already on the fire, and the coals for baking are truly hot. Come in, come in -don’t let the cold draft into the hallway! My old bones can no longer abide the chill blowing up from the stream.” With a rustling flourish, the old lady turned around and bustled down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. No sooner had the back of her striped head vanished behind the doorframe than Vela slowly turned to look at Fian.
It was no ordinary glare; her ears flattened back so completely that they nearly merged with the fur on her neck. If looks could exact a fiery toll, Fian would have been left as nothing more than a neat little pile of ash on the doormat.
Fian blinked. His foxy ears tilted slightly to the side. They were half-alert, half-wearing that particular blend of innocence and ignorance that regularly pushed Vela to the very edge of her nerves.
He raised his arms a fraction, paws facing upward, hunched his shoulders toward his ears, and shaped his expression into a perfectly silent, “What…?” Vela’s eyelid twitched. She took half a step toward him, moving with absolute silence. When the shadow of her figure fell over him, “One word,” she whispered. “Just one single word, one wrong note on your lute, one crooked grin, and I swear, I’ll ‘practice walking’ with you, using your collar, until you finally understand…”
Fian let his arms drop, cleared his throat ever so softly, and brushed a paw against the leather band around his neck. “Technically speaking,” he murmured, barely audible, while already taking a precautionary step backward across the threshold into the sheltered space of the hallway, “she greeted you first. By the rules of etiquette, that makes you the more important one. Therefore, I am your companion, andnot the other way around.”
“I am a huntress of the North,” Vela hissed, moving across the threshold with the supple, predatory grace of a beast of prey, and pulled the door shut behind her. “The last thing I am is a little mouse.”
Fian looked into her eyes. “Good forests … I’m fairly certain she didn’t mean it literally,” he replied dryly, then turned away. “If we stand here in the hallway growling at each other, she’ll think there’s something wrong with the chimney draft. I… wow…”
Fian stopped in his tracks, gazing down the hallway. Everywhere, there were drawings and paintings depicting the forest all around. Fascinated, Fian paused to examine them one by one, sketches in charcoal, paint, and ink that captured life within the Mistwood Forest.
Fian and Vela crept slowly along the corridor, admiring the artwork.
They were quiet snapshots of their life: A stag in the morning mist, the silhouettes of crows perched on bare branches, the bustling activity of a marketplace. Yet, the further they ventured into the hallway, the darker the subjects became.
Suddenly, Fian stopped before a frame hanging somewhat apart, tucked into the shadow of a massive oak beam.
The image depicted a dark wolf.
Its eyes glowed like frozen glass beneath the full moon—cold and piercing. His fur shimmered almost silver in the pale light, and his paws were pressed into the damp earth, his claws menacing and deadly—yet the wolf did not merely seem dangerous; he was striking. Fian stepped closer. His gaze met those eyes directly. He appeared almost hypnotized by them. The eyes had been captured on the rough paper in charcoal—vivid, lifelike, and rendered with meticulous detail.
It was as if the wolf were staring straight out of the darkness and into Fian’s very soul.
Slowly, he tore himself away from that icy gaze and shifted his attention to the upper portion of the image. He tilted his head, blinked, and drew a deep breath. “I know these trees,” he murmured, his brow furrowing. “And I think this shows what happened back then…” He never got to finish the sentence.
As if out of nowhere, Vela’s claws shot forward. It was the same forceful, merciless precision he remembered from that morning over breakfast tea, many months ago. She seized him by the neck — firmly, unyieldingly — and yanked him around. With raw strength, she forced his gaze away from the drawing, compelling him to look directly into her own face, now darkened with the aura of a huntress with her inner glow. She leaned in close. “My little bard,” she whispered. Her voice carrying that dangerous, deep, vibrating undertone that made one’s blood run cold. “I told you once: we do not speak of this.”
Fian felt the hard, sharp edges of her extended claws pressed against his throat. He looked into her eyes; they were calm, filled with a quiet dignity. Once again, he let his shoulders slump, yielding without a word. Sensing the resistance drain from his posture, his silent submission to her judgment, to her decision, Vela paused for a single heartbeat.
Then, she let out a soft breath. The wild flicker in her eyes vanished, and she released him. Then, with a gentle movement, she nudged his shoulder and guided him further down the hallway. Fian followed her trustingly toward the light spilling from the kitchen, never once looking back.
As they left the image behind in the shadows of the corridor, a final, faint ray of light fell upon the bottom edge of the drawing—a spot that had escaped Fian’s gaze. Beneath the wolf’s menacing claws, deep within the moss depicted in the drawing, the image continued. As they moved away, Vela paused for a heartbeat.
Something in the lower part of the drawing had caught her eye.
For a fleeting moment, her expression softened.
Then, squaring her shoulders, she walked on.
“There you are at last!” the old lady called out from the kitchen.