Edward -
The sun had barely shrugged free of the horizon when Edward rode into town, hoarfrost cracking under the hooves of his weary gelding. His coat smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the pine resin of their forest, but here the air was different — thick with coal soot, baking bread, and the metallic tang of too many people crowded together.
He had meant to go straight to the solicitor's office. Instead, the warm lamplight of the tavern door had pulled at him like an old friend. A single drink to steady the chill in his bones became two, then three, until his head sank to his folded arms. He woke hours later to find the sun standing high and pale, his breath sour with ale and the day already slipping from his grasp.
Cursing himself, Edward pushed into the streets, only to be swallowed by their tangle. The cobbles were slick with meltwater, and the narrow lanes wound like the burrows of some great beast. Merchants shouted over each other, their voices bouncing from the stone walls; wagon wheels splashed through puddles, spraying his boots. Every turn seemed to lead him further from his goal, and more than once, he could have sworn someone moved just behind him — a shadow slipping away when he turned.
By the time he found the solicitor's narrow brick office, the sun was lowering, painting the windows in gold and blood. His relief was a physical thing, loosening his shoulders as he pushed open the heavy door. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, beeswax, and dust — and something else, sharp and faintly animal, that prickled the hair at the back of his neck.
This was his chance. His family's chance. Edward clung to the thought like a drowning man to driftwood. If he could bring back the promise of coin — a return to their mother's world of comfort and civility — he might finally erase the hunger and thin blankets, the wariness in Catherine's eyes when she glanced toward the treeline at dusk.
"Mr. Edward, I presume?"
The solicitor's voice was precise, each syllable weighed and measured. He rose only enough to indicate the chair across from him before lowering himself back into his seat, his gaze already dropping to the neat stack of papers before him.
Edward sat. The chair creaked faintly under his weight, its carved arms polished by years of nervous hands. The air was thick with the smell of beeswax polish and the faint, sharp tang of ink. Dust floated in the narrow bars of light that slipped through the shutters, turning slowly in the stale air.
The solicitor adjusted a ledger and began. No preamble, no polite easing into the subject — just the methodical stripping away of Edward's hopes. Numbers were recited in a dry monotone, each one falling like the toll of a bell.
"The value of the ship's returned cargo…" scritch — his quill moved, scratching on the page. "…offset by the outstanding debts to your creditors. Factoring interest…" Another scritch. "…and the cost of retrieval."
Edward shifted, the back of his neck prickling. "But—surely—"
"Scarcely enough," the man interrupted without looking up. "Not for silks. Not for jewels. Not for horses, nor for the blades your sons desire." His gaze lifted then, sharp as cut glass. "Not even enough to keep you solvent beyond the winter."
The office seemed to draw in around Edward, the air pressing close. He thought of Catherine's hands, red and raw from mending, of his younger daughters in dresses too thin for the cold, of the way his sons had grown quiet when they saw the larder shelves last month.
Edward stepped into the tavern as though the door itself were the threshold between shame and temporary oblivion. The place smelled of stale hops, woodsmoke, and damp wool. A single fire guttered in the hearth, casting an amber glow that barely reached the corners. He took a seat at the far end of the bar, slumping forward, fingers curling around the first glass before the barkeep even turned away.
He drank until the sharp burn dulled to a low, spreading warmth in his chest. For a little while, the world was smaller — reduced to the rim of his cup, the steady clink of coin against wood, and the rise and fall of conversation around him. But no amount of ale could drown the memory of the solicitor's voice, the numbers marching in relentless procession, stripping him down to nothing.
When he rose, the tavern seemed to sway on its foundations. He pushed his way through the warped door into the night, breath steaming in the cold. Somewhere down the street, a church bell tolled — low, mournful. He stood there a moment, coat collar pulled tight, before calling for his horses.
The harness jingled faintly as the stable boy fastened the leather. Edward climbed into the carriage with a heaviness that had nothing to do with drink. The wheels rolled slow over rutted, frozen ground, the city's lights dimming behind him until there was only the road, the forest, and the whisper of wind through skeletal branches.
From the Northern Wood -
From deep within the shadowed wood, the Beast lifted his head.The wind carried a scent — man, horse, and the sour edge of ale. Weakness clung to it, not the sharp desperation of prey fleeing for its life, but the slower bleed of a soul with no fight left.The wolf within stirred, pricking ears, tasting the man's direction.The curse within him whispered the same thing it always did when something strayed too close to his land: Soon.