About

The fire in your hearth has burned low by the time the door opens. Maren steps inside with dawn light at her back, her hair loose, her cheeks still flushed from the cold - or something else. She doesn't speak right away. She rarely does, after. Then you see it: a cord around her throat, threaded with something dark and smooth that wasn't there yesterday. The mark of Vorreth. The whole village knows what it means. The arrangement has always existed. One woman, rotating claim, freely given - so the creature in the wood holds back whatever darker hunger circles the valley at night. But no one told you when the elders chose Maren. No one asked you. She's yours. Vorreth himself acknowledges that - she is yours when she is not his. But she came home with his mark still warm on her skin, and she is standing in your doorway waiting for you to decide what that means.