Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Maple Hollow was cursed. 

Late winter had set its grip on the village. Its icy fingers swept through, bleaching the town with snow. Though still fairly early in the day, the streets were mostly empty. What had once been a bustling tourist town, advertising beer tasting and tours of the vibrant countryside had faded into infamy. 

Poor Maple Hollow. How many had died that night?

The whispers flew through the region. Werewolves, a small pack of three, had torn through the village one Ringfall night almost ten years ago. They had left blood and tears in their wake. Families were broken. People died.

In the end Maple Hollow, known for beer and beautiful foliage, had gained a reputation steeped in rot. The most tourism they got were of morbid curiosity and seekers of glory. Afterall, there were still howls in the surrounding mountains some nights. 

Fletcher had seen strangers come through the town. The rumors of the pack lingering were rampant. Frankly, they were untrue. There was no pack hidden among the trees. 

But the strangers had always come to him. The disgraced son of the famous Ellen Black. The youngest of two but much less flighty than his fop of a brother, he had been groomed to take his mother’s place as the Viotto family head. However all that training meant little in the end. He had taken his father’s duties at the family forge instead. 

That is where he sat, scribbling orders down on a piece of parchment. The air was cold, filtering in through the open smithy. But the fire was warm enough that he had already shrugged off his coat.

It was still early, the morning sun peeking through the trees. He wagered he still had an hour before he needed to start on Adrianne’s horseshoes. The head of the town guard was as strict as she was strong. Her wrath was not one to tempt. 

There was even less time if the murmurs he had heard were true. There was a trio of Hunters in Maple Hollow and he was certain they would pay him a visit. 

~

The snow crunched underfoot as the pair of men walked along the stone path through Maple Hollow. The town was mostly quiet. Early afternoon didn’t bring much traffic in,despite all logic

Logan McRory exhaled sharply as he cast a shrewd glance around. Tall and lean with a chin adorned with unkempt bristles, he had a hawkish face of sharp angles under messily tied dark hair. A large two-handed blade was hung on his back, a deep red crystal set into its hilt’s center,

Unfriendly would be an apt description of his features. Unforgiving would also suffice. 

“It’s not exactly like I’d imagined,” he mused, ”Too ordinary. I would have thought it would be in more disrepair.”

The other man,Roland York, squat in stature with a head smooth as the surface of a stone,followed his companion's gaze.

 “Aye, but that's ‘cause you think every soddin’ rumor we hear is the divine truth,” he said, stretching his arms above his head as he walked. His bald head was covered with a burgundy wrap against the chilly air. 

His face was more open compared to Logan, eyes bright and friendly under his heavy brow. 

“If these people had the wits about ‘em to abandon their infected town, they would have done it years ago,” Roland added.

“Oi. Cleric. Get a move on. I want out of this bloody snow and into a warm inn, but you’re dragging your feet,” Logan snapped, glancing back over his shoulder.

One would be forgiven for not noticing the quiet figure a few paces behind them. It was, after all, a skill they had practiced to perfection. Only there when needed. Only seen when looked for. 

 Hazel was dressed in the signature cleric colors of ivory and red, their robes tucked under a matching fur lined cloak. Chestnut brown hair was carefully arranged to peek out from under their hood. Everything was deliberate,from their makeup and clothing to their graceful movements

“My apologies,Hunter Logan.” They bowed  before hastening pace to match the pair.

“No need for such intensity, Logan,” Roland scolded,halfheartedly. “She is our healer, best to not exhaust her before the brawlin’ begins.” There was a hatchet at his hip, almost hidden completely by this flask.

Logan sighed. “Maybe. I’m not sure about having such a delicate thing being the one person between me and an early grave, Roland.”

“Oh?” He gave a slight chuckle. “You really don’t see the appeal o’ bein’ tended to gently by such a sweet maid,”he asked. 

“Not now, Roland.” Logan said, taking a roll of parchment from his cloak and examining it. 

The town had once been the home of Ellen Black. That was what the brief Hazel had been given had said at least. Apparently she was some sort of famous Hunter. According to Logan, one of her children was still here, running the smithy. 

Hazel wondered what a famous Hunter would be like. Was Ellen Black like Logan and Roland or was she something more akin to a storybook hero? 

Motioning for them to follow, Logan trudged forward towards the telltale smoke of Maple Hollow’s lone smithy.

~

Fletcher had rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt. The heat over the anvil had become too much as he hammered at the piece of metal. The tongs were hot, even through the thick leather gloves. 

Blacksmithing was one of the few things he let himself find pride in. The act of creating something from nothing was impossible to replicate. Every blacksmith’s work was different. However, his craft was much like his father's. Efficient. Reliable. In the case of the weapons hanging behind him, it could be beautiful. 

But those were folly. Weapons of silver and crystal were not in demand in the town. There were no Hunters left and those that passed through rarely glanced at his work. 

Fletcher’s existence was a cautionary tale to them. The price of the hunt was your family and ambition. It was better to not settle down if you planned to raise your blade against the dark. 

Their scents hit him before their footsteps,aftershave and blood with floral perfume. Three humans. Strangers as far as he could tell.  Over the smell of steel and coal there was little else that he could glean. 

Fletcher grimaced, looking over his shoulder. 

Two men and a figure whose gender he couldn’t place. The men’s weapons were where he glanced first. Well made. Well used. Hunters.

“Good morning,” he said over the crackling fire. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah right.” It was the bald man who stepped forward, whipping the axe from his belt. His face was squared, jaw strong in the way that women liked to look at. Though set deep in his face,his eyes were animated with a grin. 

He ran a finger along the blade, coming to a stop where a large chip was missing. 

“Need to repair me blade. Lost a chunk o’ it recently in a scrap and I’m not quite ready to put it out to pasture yet.” He smiled as he spoke as if the expression came easy to him. The accent was distinctly coastal,the heavy twang of northern Fjorden in the dropped letters.“Gift from me mum, you know.”

Fletcher looked over the axe. It was quite well made,a silvery Torn crystal embedded directly into the blade. But it had seen enough use for the wear to show. He wondered what creature had caused that knick.

 “I have a few orders before you,” he said, ”Can you wait a day?” Those horseshoes were still on the forefront of his list. It did not do any good to anger the leader of the town guard. 

“We’ll be stayin’ at least one night, so a second to prepare will hurt little.” The bald man was clearly the more charismatic of the pair and knew it. 

The dark-haired man stepped aside towards the crystal weaponry, beckoning for the cleric to follow him. 

The figure in white finally crossed over the threshold and lowered the hood. Soft eyes shined almost golden in the glow of the fire and their long brown hair draped over slender shoulders and down the back. Around their neck was a fairly elaborate necklace, ebony metal and gemstones gleaming in the warm light. The cleric sighed, letting their mitten-clad hands fall back into place meekly.

They caught his eye. It was easy. The firelight hit them like the sun over a summer field. They were a spot of ivory in his decidedly beige toned shop. Noble perhaps? No. They wore the colors of a cleric. It was hard to tell if they were man or woman, their face holding a graceful androgyny that Fletcher had never seen.  

The situation made him uneasy. The robes of a cleric with such a delicate face never made a good combination when standing among Hunters. 

“Logan, will you need anythin’?” The bald man turned back towards his compatriot. 

Logan shook his head, not looking away from the displays. 

He was what most pictured when they thought of a Hunter, clad in dark colors and with green eyes like mirrors to reflect the world’s suffering.

 “Not something from a blacksmith, at least. But the scion of a famous Hunter might be able to give us information,” he said, evenly.

In the early years, Hunters had come to Fletcher’s shop,searching for Ellen Black. Fletcher had flinched when discovered. But a decade left little to surprise him. 

“Depends on the information,” Fletcher frowned. “You might be disappointed, my friend.”

Logan folded his arms and turned to Fletcher, sizing him up. “I’m sure you have some suspicion about our interest in this place,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “We’re on hire from Lord Garth to snuff out the werewolf threat in the region once and for all.” 

Logan motioned towards the bald man. “That’s Roland York. I’m Logan McRory. We hunt monsters,a profession I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“Of course. My name is Fletcher Black,” Fletcher did not offer a hand, choosing to nod. “But I believe you already know that.” 

“Some people claim the werewolves moved on. Others say they still hear the howls. And once you’ve heard a werewolf howl, you know the difference.” Logan put a hand on his hip.

Fletcher’s throat went dry. He had heard the howls too, of course. Werewolf sounds were garbled messes, coming out like the mix of beast and man that produced them. It was not too often. A night or so every few months had been broken with cries that sounded more like sobbing than howling. 

But those howls only came from one mouth. There was no pack in Maple Hollow.

“Lord Garth himself hired us and even provided us with a healer. A very rare thing, and expensive too I’ll have you know.” 

Of course they had a benefactor. Clerics were not cheap. They tended to be high maintenance and quite hoity toity.  The Lord himself though? It was strange for Garth to cast his eyes their way. Maple Hollow technically fell in Lord Reaper’s hands, though the ailing noble had not been seen out of his manor in decades.

 Fletcher’s eyes, almost unnaturally gold-hazel, landed on the cleric. They would not meet his gaze or offer a name. He did not blame them. 

“So we have no intention of letting our lordship down. Any leads you can provide would be appreciated.”

“The pack had a den in the old fort about twenty miles northeast from here,” Fletcher said, “It is a tough hike. No path. If there are werewolves in the woods, you’ll find them there.” 

It should be empty. He had made sure of that. But it had been years since he had checked. 

He paused. “I’m curious as to why Lord Garth is sending Hunters now and not a decade ago? There have been no attacks.”

“Who knows? It's just another job to us.” Logan said and shrugged. “The den will be our objective then.” He walked back over to the wall and leaned against it, just beside the cleric and the door, closing his eyes and waiting for Roland to finish.

Roland nodded in agreement as he went. “Get me axe fixed then we’ll go do a sweep of ‘em. See if anyone else has been around.” He leaned in, giving Fletcher a playful jab in the side with an elbow. “And with all the more gusto accompanied by such a lovely lass”,he whispered, gesturing towards the cleric. 

The cleric finally stopped averting their eyes, allowing them to meet with Fletcher’s. Soft, delicate lashes were accented by kohl and, if one looked closely, a stain of red was visible on the cleric’s lips. 

“Logan kept harpin’ on about how tiny her chest is, but small bosom or no, those lips are something to think about, eh?” Roland again kept his voice low enough to where only Fletcher could hear and grinned from ear to ear, clearly pleased with the pair’s companion.

“I suppose.” Fletcher nodded politely,though he thought his comments a bit inappropriate. Roland seemed good natured enough. His skill as a Hunter was left to be seen, though. Everyday is a gift in that line of work. The fact he made it far enough to stand at his door said much.

Fletcher looked at the cleric again. A woman,perhaps? They wore the dress and corset of one, that was certain. There was that floral scent in the air. Glass roses. They bloomed in the south, petals crystalline and fragrant. Perfume with the blooms was expensive. But it suited them. 

“She is quite pretty,” he admitted. He had eyes. It would be blasphemy to deny that they were not as fair as the flowers they smelled of. 

 “You’ll want to dress warmly, miss.” Fletcher addressed the cleric this time. “And mask your scent. No perfume. Anything floral will reveal you quicker than anything in this weather.” 

He motioned towards the mountains beyond with his hammer. “If there are werewolves they will be bold.”

The cleric’s eyes alighted, looking almost surprised at being addressed at all. “Oh. I will bear your words in mind.” 

Logan stood up off the wall. “If you’re done, we should make our way to the inn.”

Fletcher nodded. “Angela’s place next to the bakery is very nice. It is over the tavern.” 

Angela was a kind woman. Her and his father had grown up together, as thick as thieves. There were many nights where he and his brother slept on her front room floor. Of course Vivian had been there too. It had been difficult to tear Vivian from Fletcher’s side.

Of course things changed. They always do. She had more things to worry about than her fake nephew with a son who had not woken up from his slumber in over a year. 

“She’ll be happy to find you rooms.”

“Thank you.” Logan gave a nod and quickly slipped out the door into the snowy morning.

   

Roland moved to follow, but not before giving a subtle wink to Fletcher after passing by the cleric..”Take care o’ my axe,Black.”

“Yes,sir.”

Then the cleric was last, approaching Fletcher. Folding mitted hands over one another,they bowed deeply. 

“Thank you for your assistance,” they said, voice quiet.

Closer now, the smell of the perfume was even clearer, yet its aroma did not grow overwhelming, only softer almost, like it no longer was obstructed by the cold winter air. 

As the cleric looked up from the bow, their eyes met Fletcher’s and here he could see that they were in fact a soft golden color, much like his own.

Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat. He scrambled to return their gesture,bowing at his waist. 

The scent of them made his head spin. It was like lying among flowers,eyes tilted to a blue sky. He steadied himself with a hand to the table next to him. This feeling was unfamiliar. There was no name for it in his vocabulary.

He put up a hand before they could go.

“Wait.” His voice came out sharper than before,tempered with desperation. “What is your name?”

The cleric stopped, again taken off guard by being addressed. Shaking off the shock, they smiled gently, placing mittens upon the cloak’s hood.

“Hazel.”

And just like that, they pulled the hood over their head and walked out into the snow, the ends of their cloak and dress whipping up in the winter air.

Fletcher was left with the scent of soot, iron, and the lingering of flowers.

~

Angela’s Inn was a little building attached to the tavern. The inside was wood paneled, almost red in finish. There were a few faded paintings hanging on the walls. The side tables in the foyer were covered in lace doilies, the edges unraveling from wear. 

According to the placard on the wood, Angela herself stood behind the counter,dark hair pulled back in a tight plait. A quill in her hand scratched over a piece of parchment. She looked up over her spectacles, head not lifting to face them fully. 

“Good afternoon,”she said,”What can I do for ya’ll?”

Logan stepped to the counter, draped in a black cloak. His movements were deliberate and even, as he rested a hand on the edge.

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“Accommodations.” His response was somewhat curt,emerald eyes focused and sharp. “I was told to seek this place out by the Black who works the smithy. We need to prepare for our hunt.”

Behind him, Hazel stepped in as Roland held the door open.

“Lass.” He smiled as they went in. Hazel nodded politely. Roland was certainly kinder than most of their clients, at the very least assuming it was all not an act.

Nonetheless, Hazel was careful to tuck in Logan, focusing on not getting in his way.

Angela grimaced. “Fletcher told you to come here?” Her gaze slid past Logan and onto Roland and Hazel in turn. “What are you hunting?” She turned back to Logan. Even facing down a intense gaze like his,she didn't waver. 

“Werewolves.” Roland shrugged his shoulders. “Odd, I’d have figured you’d already known that.”

Hazel grimaced silently under their hood. Roland was trying to be sociable, but-

Angela pressed her lips together into a thin line. “You’re a decade too late,”she said. “The werewolves from that night were driven away.”  Crossing her arms, her sleeves rode up, revealing scarring up one of her arms from a slashing claw. 

Tracing across the deep lines, Hazel swallowed the anxiety in their throat. The scars were quite vicious but had long since healed.

“There are no werewolves for you to kill in Maple Hollow,” she continued. 

Logan sighed, hand tapping the counter before letting it slide back into his cloak. “Well, if that were true, we wouldn’t be here though, would we,” he snapped,”We’ve already received a place of investigation from the son of Black, so for the time being may we have a room?”

Angela opened her mouth,eyes narrowed. But she didn’t retort, simply nodding. “Just one?”

“Yes. One.”

The wood floor creaked as a man peeked in from the tavern. “Oi,Angie! Did you get the ship-” He was roughly sixty,with salt and pepper hair and a large nose. “Goddam-”

Not looking from her room ledger,Angela sighed. “The kirsch will be in next week,Kerry.”

He didn’t seem to be listening, lingering in the doorway as he watched them. “I-” 

Distrust was plain on his face. Hunters and clerics were definitely a rare sight here.

“Angie,” Kerry began,inching into the room. “Wh-What about the whiskey?” His voice shook,lingering a strange emphasis on the last word as he glanced from the men to Angela. 

Angela placed a large iron key onto the countertop. “The whiskey is where it should be,Kerry. But there may be drinkers tonight so be prepared.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Let Sheriff Adrianne know that things might get rowdy.”

Finally she turned back to Logan. “That is eight coins for the room,sir.”

“You two go on up. I’m going to have a look around.” Logan turned on his heel, walked out the door.

Roland laid the coins down for Angela. “I’m not much for whiskey, but do let me know if wine is added to the menu.”

Angela motioned towards the door that Kerry lingered near. "There is wine and food in the tavern," she said. "You get a meal with your room but-" She leaned in closer, her voice almost lost on Hazel's ears. "Here is a piece of advice, Hunter. Lose the weapons in my tavern. We do not like your lot here in Maple Hollow. I don’t want any trouble"

Roland held up his hands. “Fair enough. No axe at dinner, easily done.” He stepped back from the counter, tucking his pouch back under his flask.

“Good.” She straightened up, glancing at Kerry. “What are you waiting for? Go tell Adrianne!”

“M’sorry.” Kerry nodded,ducking back where he came from.

“Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” Roland said,”Come on, lass. Let’s go see that room.”

Hazel nodded, falling in behind him as he led them towards where Angela had denoted.  Their gaze lingered on her arm once more for a moment but quickly they averted their eyes as they left.

~

Their belongings had been brought to a room and securely put away by the fall of evening. Roland elected to retire early, having drunk and eaten his fill already. Soon he retreated upstairs to drift off to sleep. Logan declared he was going to scout out the rest of the town.

Hazel was to remain at the tavern. They did not need to go upstairs, just stay here. The Lord had provided them with money after all, so it wasn’t like it was coming out of the Hunters’ pockets.

And so Hazel sat patiently at a stool by the counter, cloak and mittens left upstairs.

Without the Hunters, the gazes that passed over Hazel were not hostile. Curious glances followed them as they sat. Whispers,barely audible,reached their ears.

“Beauti-”

“-Poor thing. A cleric!”

“That dress-”

Their outfit was not flashy by any means, but Hazel nonetheless felt eyes on them as they sat. It was the traditional ivory and crimson of a cleric. However, the dress and corset combination cinched in all the right places, tailored to give Hazel a feminine silhouette. Lord Garth knew the appeal of hiring out a cleric who also had the appearance of a delicate maiden ready to provide comfort. 

Hazel wasn’t entirely opposed to this though. The people who tended to hire such services often treated them well and as though they were protecting a princess. Purchasing the experience of knights protecting a lady, almost.

The evening chill was blown in as the tavern door swung open. Stray flurries of snow followed him as Fletcher Black walked inside.

Gone was the soot-covered clothing of hours ago. He had dressed in a clean shirt, taupe in color with a starched collar. Pulled over his shirt and simple pants was a well-worn jacket. The outside was made of soft leather and was lined with fur. There was clumsy stitching along the sleeves and seams, an attempt to mend it where the garment had tried to rip. A green scarf was wound around his neck.

Fletcher closed the door behind him,one hand smoothing back over his hair. The scruffy auburn locks were tied back from his face and looking cleaner than one would expect of his profession. 

Angela was behind the tavern counter and looked up when he approached. “Evening,Fletcher,” she called, already putting a small glass of amber liquid onto the bar. 

“Angela,” he greeted her with a nod,taking a seat down the bar from Hazel. He sipped from the offered glass. “Strong. Is it new?”

Angela nodded. “Reaper’s Landing Whiskey.” She motioned towards the bottle behind her. The label was simple,just a script on ivory. “They say it burns like hell.”

“They are right,” Fletcher offered a smile. “How much for a bottle?”

“Seven coins.”

Fletcher downed the rest. “I’ll get it to you after I finish Adrianne’s horseshoes if you save me a bottle.”

Angela returned his smile. “You have a deal.” She bustled away to wrap the bottle. “Oh yes-”She glanced over her shoulder to him. “A Hunter said he was sent by you?”

“Yes. He was.”

Angela turned back around, busying her hands with the bottle and brown paper. “Did it go alright?”

“As well as it could.” Finally he smiled down the bar at Hazel. “Good evening,Miss Hazel. I trust Angela took care of you?”

From behind the counter,Angela barked out a laugh but didn't say anything.

Hazel jumped,realizing how closely they had been watching him. He’d cleaned up well, that was for sure. “Good evening, Mr. Black.”

 They gestured towards the small glass that held a minimal alcohol wine. It was a safe choice, but certainly not as bland as water. After all, they had to see to the safety of the other two, but that did not mean something actually pleasant was not out of the question. 

“I am indeed in good hands.” Hazel smiled back, hands neatly folded in lap.

“Angela is a wonderful woman. And innkeeper.”  Fletcher finished off his glass without so much as a flinch. “Is this your first hunt,” he asked.

“Oh. No. Well, maybe a hunt for something like this...” Hazel ran a finger over the glass, lifting it to their lips and taking a sip. “Sometimes I provide relief to injured soldiers, often his lordship’s. I am not usually so involved in the encounter itself, but, even then it is not the first time.”

They looked back up to Fletcher and smiled warmly. “Do not fear. I will be safe. To fail to return me safely to my lord would surely incite his wrath.” 

Hazel was honestly not so sure how truthful that was. Lord Garth did seem rather attached to them but was it truly fondness? Or mere bemusement?

“Do not think I’m patronizing you,Miss Hazel,” Fletcher asserted, “I do not believe there is a pack in these mountains. But if there are wolves-” He took in a sharp breath. “They will be nasty.”

“Is that so? Then I doubt we will be in any real danger.” Hazel sighed in relief. “Wolves will likely find us too risky a prey compared to elk or the like.” 

Their cheeks flushed at the thoughtfulness of this blacksmith. Often, they were outright overlooked as the patrons guided their mission. Having so much attention was something Hazel was unaccustomed to.

“Miss Hazel. You mis-“ Fletcher stopped short, his own cheeks looking a bit pink

“Your concern for my well being, it-it warms my heart.” Hazel again brought the drink to their lips, the color in their cheeks not fading. “I’m sorry if I am not good at socializing, Mr. Black. Usually, my lord’s patrons take charge and I merely follow.”

“No need for apologies,” Fletcher said. “You’re quite fine, Miss Hazel.”

He watched them for a moment,mouth twisting in thought

“They did not introduce you.” He finally landed on what had struck him.

“A-ah.” Hazel fell quiet.

 “They offered both of their names, not your’s.” 

“You could say that-,” Hazel began, searching for the correct words, “I am a servant to Lord Garth. My imbedding is rare and costly. I am expected to use that power in service to him and one of those ways is by offering my services to adventurers and the like for a fee.”

They gestured to the dress and necklace they wore. “My attire is also provided by my lord. Extra incentive, he calls it.  Mr. York and Mr. McRory are rough around the edges,” they said,”They have done me no harm, and Roland treats me well. Although-” 

Hazel halted and sighed again, “-my role is often to provide comfort, be it magic or my presence. So often, I am seen not heard.”

Fletcher tore his eyes from them,tracing the wood surface of the counter.  He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. 

When he finally looked up, Fletcher gave Hazel a soft smile. “I hope your Lord treats you well at least.” 

It had been ages since someone had seemed truly concerned for their well-being. Not just the danger of the hunt, which honestly Hazel rarely was in. A pretty face with painted lips and gentle hands caressing the wounded and easing their pain was the service of Garth’s clerics.

The truth of those who became-or rather, were made clerics, was something else entirely. A very dangerous endeavor to delve into.

“I am simply one of Lord Garth’s clerics.,” Hazel said.  “I am given the same treatment as the others. Not to say that is without its comforts. I would not do such a disservice to the handmaidens who attend to us when we are not in employment.”

They folded their hands onto the tavern’s counter,tracing the wood surface with a finger.  “My lord rarely has time for each of us individually, but our attendants make sure we are taken care of.”

Fletcher drew back, having leaned in as they spoke “I apologize,” he murmured,”That was out of line of me.”

He cleared his throat. “Our backwater village must be quite drab compared to your home.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t say that,” they exclaimed,clasping a hand over their heart, ”My home was not too different. I was not always in the employment of Lord Garth.”

Fletcher chuckled. “Not a city girl then? Could’ve fooled me. I thought a baroness had walked into my shop.”

“You flatter me. I am much plainer than many of Garth’s other clerics.”

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Hazel took another drink, finishing the glass. “My hometown was a small village in Austa. I was recruited by Lord Garth about four years ago,” they said.

“Austa? Your accent is obvious.” Fletcher grinned, “Any warmer than up here?” 

Maple Hollow didn’t get warm until well past Ringfall. Crystals from the rings that surrounded their planet fell in most regions once a year, the harvest a time of celebration. In the spring, Maple Hollow had its own stone shower. Then they could be gathered and used or sold as magic conduits. 

“Indeed, although not drastically so. I remember gathering flowers with my sisters for the family shop every spring.” They faltered, a soft fondness filling their chest. Those days felt so long ago, yet at the same time not long at all. Even after being taken to the lord’s manor, that remained Hazel’s home, not the ornate castle.

“Hm,” Fletcher hummed, tracing the rim of the glass in front of him. “Last time I went I was barely a teenager. I cannot remember much of it. But the fields were lovely.” His eerily amber eyes watched them closely. “Does your family grow glass roses?”

“My eldest sister, Veridia, did. She always took care of us so it’s the least I could do to help her.”Hazel sat absentmindedly , running a finger through their hair. “She would braid my hair and teach me about makeup and perfume. She actually sends me perfume she makes even now. But you seem to have already noticed it,” they added

“Yes. It’s lovely.” Fletcher nodded. “I meant what I said about not wearing any into the mountains.” 

He grimaced. “Any lone werewolves up there will have gone mad without a pack. They will be running on instinct. Infect or kill.”

Hazel leaned forward, interest piqued. “I did not realize that werewolves were so interested in floral perfume,” they teased.

“Perfume means humans,” Fletcher stated, coughing uncomfortably. “It's not the scent itself, as enchanting as it is.”  He paused for a moment as he took in a deep breath. 

“I should be fine. Logan and Roland should do any fighting. Logan has actually hunted a werewolf before, if the stories about him hold true,” they said, voice not wavering. 

Hazel shifted in the stool, adjusting the skirt of their dress. “Roland, on the other hand fancies himself quite the ladies' man, should the stories he tells be true.”

“But if you need help-” He stopped, closing his eyes. “There is a Hunters’ cabin five miles east of the fort. Werewolves cannot enter. My mother fortified it herself. I can see the chimney smoke from the smithy.”

“That’s very kind of you.”  Hazel’s tone softened. Fletcher was not like the others. Hazel wasn’t an asset to protect, his concern was, at least hopefully, genuine.

They rose from the stool and stood, straightening their dress and giving a polite bow, hands folded in front.

“Should the worst come to pass, I’ll take shelter there.” Hazel smiled. “If you will excuse me, it is time for me to retire for the evening. Thank you for your company, Mr. Black.”

“Goodnight, Miss Hazel,” Fletcher answered,watching them go.

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