The return journey to the shrine unfolded beneath a canopy of slowly shifting light. The forest had fallen quieter now, the hush of late afternoon broken only by the occasional chirr of insects and the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the cooling breeze. The blood-spattered sack slung across Del’s shoulder swung in rhythm with his steps, the dinkus carcass tugging at his balance with each stride. Ahead, Misty led the way, her sleek ginger form slipping between shafts of sunlight like a living shadow—tail high, ears pricked, alert to the world around her. Every so often, she paused to test the air or glance back, her pace unhurried but never idle.

  The light had turned long and golden, filtering through the branches in fractured mosaics that lit dust motes mid-air and painted the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. A bird with a rust-red crest darted between branches above, its wings sending a flurry of leaves into the breeze. The air carried a heady blend of warm moss, churned earth, and the faint iron tang that still clung to the kill.

  Del's boots pressed into the softened trail—worn smooth by time and disuse—its surface cushioned by a layer of damp leaf litter and fallen pine needles. Behind them, the hush deepened, settling into that strange stillness that arrived just before nightfall. Not ominous, but expectant. As if the land itself were drawing a breath before the dark.

  A pair of chimes pinged from the interface strapped to his pack, muffled slightly by the fabric. He shifted the strap and flipped the panel open, brushing aside a dangling fern as he read:

  [Your sneak ability has improved slightly; try not to get caught.]

  [Tracking has improved slightly; it’s the little things that matter.]

  He let out a quiet breath, one corner of his mouth lifting. Not a dramatic leap, but steady progress nonetheless.

  “Misty, I may not be the best student,” he said, watching her weave around a moss-cloaked stump with feline grace, “but you’re a pretty good teacher.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, the last slivers of amber light catching in her eyes. ‘Of course I am. Did you ever doubt it?’

  “How could I ever, oh mighty feline?” he replied, sketching a shallow bow with one hand pressed to his chest. “Queen of Claws and Wisdom. Dispenser of cryptic life lessons and unsolicited sass.”

  A soft snort escaped her, just louder than the rustle of bracken underfoot. ‘At least you’re starting to recognise greatness. It only took a dozen near-disasters.’

  He huffed a quiet laugh. “Harsh. You wound me.”

  Her tail flicked once, slow and deliberate. ‘If you’re wounded, it’s probably your own fault. But credit where it’s due—you didn’t entirely ruin the hunt.’

  “Glowing praise. We should carve it into a tree or something.”

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  She turned back to the trail, but her ears remained tilted slightly in his direction. He recognised that posture. She was pleased. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, of course, but there it was—in the subtle lift of her shoulders, the looseness in her gait. For once, he might actually have met her expectations.

  Which was vaguely alarming.

  The shrine came into view a few minutes later, revealing itself slowly between thinning trees and fractured shafts of copper light. Its timeworn steps glowed faintly under the setting sun, long shadows gathering in the crevices of its ancient stone. At the base, Elara and Naomi crouched in the grass, surrounded by trampled greenery and a scatter of vivid blooms. Naomi’s sleeves were rolled past her elbows, her cheeks flushed with effort as she worked, brow furrowed in the kind of intense focus that only children seemed to manage.

  She looked up as soon as she heard their approach. “Hi, Del!” she called, her voice bright and effortless, carrying across the clearing like a bell. A bouquet of blue-stemmed flowers waved overhead in triumph. “I’m getting flowers to make Myrrith’s house pretty again!”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” he said, stepping carefully around a patch of reclaiming ferns at the path’s edge. “I’m sure the goddess will be delighted.”

  Naomi beamed at that and returned to her task with renewed purpose, humming softly to herself. A few stray petals clung to the loose strands of hair that framed her face. Wildflowers were tucked behind one ear—pink and white and just beginning to wilt—and her fingertips bore the smudges of green sap and crushed leaves.

  Elara rose smoothly as Del approached, her gaze already sweeping over the carcass hanging from his shoulder. He let the sack drop with a wet thump onto the grass, where it sprawled across a patch of flattened clover. The scent of blood lingered faintly in the air, though the breeze made quick work of chasing it toward the trees.

  Without a word, she crouched to inspect the carcass. Her fingers traced the edge of the wound near the shoulder, then shifted to the mess at the throat, her touch deft and assured. He’d seen that expression before—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she tilted her head just so. Silent assessment. Calculating.

  “Nicely done,” she murmured, not quite looking up. Then her gaze flicked toward Misty, now stretched out along the top of a mossy rock like some smug household deity. “...Misty.”

  “Hey, I helped,” Del said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t just drag it back like luggage.”

  “Of course you did, Del,” Elara replied sweetly, brushing her hands together as she stood. One hand reached up to tap lightly against his cheek in that maddeningly condescending way she’d made her own. “You even managed to hit it.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  There was a pause—just long enough for him to think she might follow it up with something vaguely kind.

  Then came the grin. That damnable, wicked grin managed to be both infuriating and entirely accurate.

  From her perch, Misty let out a low, purring snort. Her tail twitched lazily, like a punctuation mark to the exchange.

  Then, as if on cue, the cat flopped onto her side in an extravagant sprawl, purring louder now, clearly inviting tribute. Elara obliged without hesitation, kneeling to run her hand over the soft fur of Misty’s exposed belly.

  ‘This one appreciates my skills,’ Misty crooned, stretching into the attention. A moment later, her claws hooked around Elara’s fingers and she began to nibble and wrestle with feline glee, twisting like a kitten caught mid-hunt.

  ‘And this one tolerates my… eccentricities,’ she added, batting playfully at Elara’s wrist with both paws, smugness radiating off her in waves.

  “At least I can manage one thing,” Del muttered, drawing his knife and kneeling beside the dinkus. The blade slid in with surprising ease. For once, the skinning went smoothly—no torn hide, no slipping grip, and no need for improvised profanity.

  By the time he scraped the last of the hide free, his hands ached, but the result wasn’t half bad. Not perfect, but serviceable. When he glanced up, Misty was sprawled out nearby, one hind leg in the air as she lazily groomed her paw. Naomi sat not far off, humming to herself as she continued arranging her gathered blooms into neat, clustered bundles. A sweet, crushed flower scent drifted through the clearing.

  “Right,” Del said, wiping his hands on a cloth and gesturing toward the stripped carcass. “Let’s get the best cuts off this before something with more teeth than manners picks up the scent.”

  Elara was beside him in an instant, crouching with that fluid grace of hers that always seemed just slightly inhuman—like gravity hadn’t quite finished deciding how it applied to her. She moved with quiet purpose, her hands already at work, locating joints and sinew with the ease of long experience.

  “I’ll help. It’ll be quicker this way.”

  ‘Quicker, and less messy,’ Misty remarked from her perch on a low stone, her tone light. ‘You do have a gift for turning butchery into interpretive horror.’

  Del didn’t look up. “Helpful as always.” He sliced carefully along the spine. “One day, you know, I’ll surprise you with my sheer competence.”

  ‘I look forward to the miracle,’ she purred, her tail curling around her paws like a satisfied sigil.

  Between Elara’s precision and Del’s determination not to embarrass himself, they made steady progress. The shoulder came off cleanly, the haunch took only a little coaxing, and the ribs followed with minimal fuss. They stacked the choice cuts and Misty’s personal favourite, the liver; into the sack, tying it off. While the rest of the carcass was left in a tidy heap for whatever scavengers might find it.

  Naomi skipped over, arms overflowing with colour. She held up a particularly vibrant bouquet—sunbursts of orange and deep purple, threaded with sprays of silverleaf.

  “Do you think Myrrith will like these?”

  “She’ll love them,” Del said, rising with a low grunt. His back ached, but it was the good sort—earned and honest. “I reckon she already approves. You’ve done a lovely job.”

  Naomi lit up at the praise and darted back to the shrine steps, carefully laying each bundle along the edge of the worn stone. Petal by petal, the space began to shift—an arc of colour softening the timeworn shrine, as though coaxing something gentle back to the surface. Elara joined her, kneeling to murmur suggestions, occasionally repositioning a bloom or tucking stems into patches of moss.

  Misty landed silently beside Del, her green eyes tracking the pair with something that might have been approval.

  ‘It’s a start,’ she said softly.

  Del gave a small nod. His gaze lingered on the shrine—the flicker of movement in the stone, the quiet warmth that seemed to hum beneath the lichen and old carvings. It didn’t feel abandoned anymore. Not quite. Something in the air had shifted as if the place itself had begun to stir.

  When Naomi finished, they gathered their gear and prepared to leave. Del slung the meat sack over his shoulder, its weight solid and grounding. Misty had already slipped into the undergrowth ahead, her tail flicking through the ferns like a brushstroke.

  They followed the path downstream, the river flowing steadily to their right. Its current ran faster now, weaving around roots and sun-bleached stone, sparkling in the gaps where the light touched it. The breeze had grown cooler, carrying the scent of damp leaves and something faintly floral. Whatever tension had lingered around the shrine no longer clung to them—its presence had eased, slipping away like mist burned off by the sun.

  The forest began to thin. Trees stood further apart, their branches letting golden shafts of light fall across the trail. The undergrowth gave way to softer terrain—grass and low ferns, scattered with pale wildflowers that swayed gently as they passed. Misty stayed ahead, unhurried but ever alert, her ears twitching at every call and rustle.

  Del walked in thoughtful silence. From time to time, he glanced back to check on Naomi, who trailed a few steps behind with a relaxed bounce in her step. She still held the half-finished flower crown, weaving it idly as she walked, humming a tune without shape or end. Occasionally she bent to collect another stem, her eyes scanning the forest floor with unselfconscious curiosity. Elara remained beside her, her expression unreadable but calm, gaze often flicking skyward, measuring the light, the clouds, perhaps even the hour.

  The trees gave way at last to a sunlit clearing, where the scent of tilled earth and fresh-cut grass rolled in with the breeze. Ahead lay a cultivated field, ringed by a weathered fence of split timber and knotted twine. Neat rows of barley and wheat stretched toward the light, their golden heads nodding gently with each breath of wind.

  Beyond the fields sat a farmhouse—modest, square-built, its stones worn smooth with time and weather. Smoke curled from its crooked chimney in a thin, lazy thread. To one side stood a squat barn with a lopsided roof, its timbers sun-faded and moss-tinged. A chicken coop nestled nearby, half hidden behind a hedge. The yard was scattered with forgotten tools: a rake propped against a wall, an old wheelbarrow tipped sideways, a dented milk pail, rusted at the rim. A heavy plough leaned at an angle beside the barn, its blade buried in weeds, dulled with disuse.

  Del slowed, eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene. The place looked lived-in—but not recently. No voices, no clatter of tools. Just the wind through the grain.

  They had barely closed half the distance when a wiry terrier burst out from behind the barn, barking furiously. It bounded toward them, its patchy brown-and-white coat bristling with nervous energy, tail wagging like a blur of indecision between welcome and warning.

  Elara halted, her eyes narrowing, attention sweeping across the yard with quiet calculation.

  “This isn’t on any of the maps I’ve seen,” she said, her voice barely above the wind.

  “Which makes it either a sanctuary,” Del murmured, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, “or trouble.”

  Misty glided forward, low to the ground, her nose twitching as she tasted the air.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s the former,’ she commented with a trace of dry humour threading her words. ‘I’m not in the mood to rescue you again.’

  Del gave a faint snort and stepped after her, his tread light on the path.