The woods did not stir. No wind, no birds. Just the hush of something wrong.
Inside the cabin, she moved carefully. The bear pelt fell around her like armor, heavy and worn. She cinched it tighter than usual, adjusting the folds so they hung low over her belly. Her face was calm, but her hands betrayed her. Trembling, just slightly.
She had known this would come.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that reached toward her like old spirits. She let them reach.
Then —
Three sharp knocks.
And the door broke open.
Four soldiers. No heraldry, no courtesy. This was not an arrest. This was a warning sent on legs.
"There she is," said one. "Witch."
She said nothing. She would not give them her voice.
Another stepped forward and struck her hard enough to send her staggering. They surged like dogs from there — fists, boots, laughter. Someone upended her small table. Someone else kicked over the herb jars.
She fought when she could. Bit a hand. Elbowed a throat. Drew blood.
But four against one was never a fair fight.
They forced her outside, into the snow. Her knees hit the ground, ropes already tightening around her wrists. Her blood dripped into the white, steaming.
"We string her up on the door," said the leader. "He'll know what it means."
But one of them — the worst of them — lingered, eyeing her with something darker than hate.
"No. Strip her. Let him see what's left."
He reached for her pelt.
She began muttering.
Low. Breathless. Nonsensical, to any ear. Just a rhythm of broken sounds, scraped from deep in her chest.
"Shut up," someone growled. "Enough of your curses."
The pelt was ripped away.
They laughed.
"She's nothing," one spat. "Starved and wasted."
"Let him mourn this."
They chained her to the doorway with rusted iron — sacred and cruel. A symbol of what had been taken from her, and what would soon be taken from him.
She hung limp when they left.
Naked. Bloodied. Silent.
Inside the cabin, nothing moved.
But behind the wall, in a shadowed alcove, something breathed.
Soft. Small.
Waiting.