"Elian…"
The name slipped from his lips so softly she nearly missed it.
She froze. Her heart thudded once—loud in her chest. She hadn't asked him anything. Hadn't spoken yet. But he spoke as if answering someone.
"Elian," he repeated, voice low, hoarse, "That's… my name."
Then silence again.
Cira knelt beside him, checking his pulse—not too fast. His breathing, shallow but steady.
"Lumen," she whispered. The fox emerged, eyes serious for once. "Go to the cottage. Bring the salve and the blanket. You know where."
The fox shimmered once, then vanished into the trees like starlight scattered by wind.
Cira glanced back at the boy.
No, not boy. Older. Maybe twenty-one… twenty-two. Still so young to be lying unconscious and alone in a forest that did not welcome strangers easily.
Her eyes softened, though her mind remained sharp.
She had met humans before. Many. Traders. Travelers. Even strangers passing through the village. But this one didn't feel like one of them.
He didn't feel like anyone at all.
Like he'd been placed here.
By mistake… or by fate.
The silence of the forest pressed in, and for a brief moment, time felt… still.
Cira's breath caught—not from fear, but from something quieter. Something colder.
A memory.
It came uninvited, like a ghost pressing gently at the edges of her thoughts.
She had been maybe ten, wild-haired and defiant, standing at the edge of the village square. Her tunic was too big, hand-stitched by someone who'd meant well, but not known her measurements. Dirt lined her knees. She didn't care.
It was market day. The square bustled with color and sound—clay pots, spice baskets, roasted corn turning over small fires. Children ran barefoot, laughter echoing across the cobblestones.
But Cira stayed near the shadows, clutching a small pouch of herbs she was supposed to trade.
A traveling storyteller had arrived that day—his hands painted in curling blue symbols, his voice like thick velvet. He gathered the children near the fountain, and Cira had drifted close, drawn by the cadence of his voice.
He told a tale of a boy born under a falling star, a boy who didn't speak, but carried a strange glow in his chest. The villagers in the story feared him. Until one day, the stars themselves whispered his true name—and only then did the boy begin to speak.
"His name," the storyteller whispered, "was like a key. And once he spoke it, everything he had lost began to find him again."
The crowd of children gasped.
Cira didn't.
She had raised her hand, dirt under her nails. "What if someone doesn't have a true name?"
The storyteller looked at her—really looked—and the crowd quieted.
"Then they are either lost," he said slowly, "or waiting to be found."
Cira had looked away, unsure why her chest ached.
She'd never forgotten those words.
Now, years later, she knelt beside a stranger whose name barely lingered on his tongue.
"Elian…" she whispered. "Is that all you have?"
His face was pale, cheek scratched where bark must have scraped him. One of his hands twitched faintly in his sleep.
The forest was still watching.
Cira stood, brushing the moss from her knees. Her decision came like instinct.
She pulled his arm gently over her shoulder, hoisting his weight with quiet grunts. He wasn't light, but she was used to carrying things—bundles of wood, pails of water, injured foxes. This was just a stranger.
A strange stranger.
"Don't die on me," she muttered under her breath. "I've already got one magical creature at home. I don't need another one bleeding on my rug."
The journey to the cottage felt longer than usual, though the path was familiar—over the stone ridge, past the twist-root tree, and through the thick fern-curtain that hid her clearing.
Her cottage waited, nestled like a secret between the trees. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the door creaked open just enough to let the light spill through.
Lumen sat on the porch step, tail wrapped neatly around a small satchel and a folded wool blanket. His ears perked when he saw her.
"Good boy," Cira said, breathless.
The stardust fox gave a soft snort.
She nudged the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside. The scent of herbs and firewood wrapped around her like an old cloak. Carefully, she lowered Elian onto the worn couch near the hearth. The blanket went over him in a practiced sweep. The salve, already warmed from Lumen's carrying pouch, was set beside a clean cloth on the side table.
Her hands moved with quiet purpose—dabbing the wounds, smoothing the salve into bruised skin, brushing his hair gently back from his brow.
There was something in his face she couldn't place. Not just pain.
Loneliness.
The kind that carved itself in silence, not tears.
When she finished, she sat back and just… looked.
He didn't wake. But he was breathing easier now.
"You don't feel like a beginning," she said, voice barely above the fire's whisper.
A pause.
"You feel like something I lost and forgot I was looking for."