Page 44

Seren

They moved like shadows, slipping through the forest and into the river.

The bear led, hulking and sure-footed, his shoulders slicing through the current. Seren followed, feet numb, breath thin. When the water rose, he crouched and let her cling to his fur, carrying her across the deeper stretches without a sound.

When the river deepened and the current threatened to drag her under, the bear turned without hesitation and crouched low. With arms shaking from exhaustion, she clung to his thick fur as he carried her across the deeper waters, each step slow and careful. The current washed away more than scent.

It tried to wash away the feel of him.

The ache in her chest had worsened with each passing hour—an invisible claw tearing at her from the inside. The bond pulled like a chain, grinding down her strength with its unrelenting tug.

They hadn't touched in a long time.

Not even a brush of fingers. And it was killing her.

She didn't speak of it. But sometimes, her hand would rise in the dark and press flat against her chest .

As if she could quiet the pain with pressure.

She couldn't.

When they reached the cave, she felt the cold even through her bones. The mouth of the cave loomed —dark, moss-covered, breathing cool, damp air. It was musty, ancient, and utterly silent. The kind of place whispered about in bedtime warnings.

Seren felt no fear.

The bear entered first. This was his den. His sanctuary. His solitude.

She followed cautiously.

The walls were damp stone. The ground was uneven. There were bones scattered in the darker corners—animal, not human—but she stepped lightly around them. Her few belongings were bundled under her arm, a thin blanket folded beneath one, her backpack hanging precariously over the other shoulder.

The bear kept pacing.

Back and forth. Back and forth .

He was agitated—skittish. The rhythm of his thoughts brushed against her mind like a disrupted current. She didn't need words to feel the confusion radiating from him.

His heavy paws left drag marks on the dusty floor from his chaotic movements, his mind in chaos due to her presence in his sanctum. His thoughts whirled like storm winds—chaotic, anxious.

He didn't know what to do with her.

When she moved toward a moss-covered pile in the corner, he surged forward and roared, breath hot and fetid in her face. She didn't run. Didn't even flinch. Just stared up at him, tears rising—not from fear, but from everything else.

He backed off suddenly, ashamed. And vanished into the woods.

Seren exhaled—slowly.

She returned to the far corner, laid out the thin blanket in silence, and curled herself into it. It wasn't warm, but she was too tired to care. Her bones ached. Her chest ached more.

Sleep took her.

When she woke, she was warm .

Blanketed not in cloth—but fur.

The bear had returned during the night, curling beside her like a wall of heat. She didn't move. Just lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath.

The next day, and the one after, he brought her things.

Berries. Roots. Edible greens. How he knew she was a vegetarian, she did not know. He never ate near her, always taking his meat to the outer edge of the cave. But he was watching—always.

A red squirrel, a cheeky vole, and a robin had followed her through the woods. But the bear roared at them, and chased them off, pacing with anxious growls whenever they neared. Only she was permitted inside the perimeter of his loneliness.

That night, sleep didn't come easy. When it did, it came with sharp teeth.

She cried in her sleep, twisting under the thin cloth, breath hiccupping with sobs.

"No... Hagan..."

Her voice broke on his name .

The bear, watching from the shadows, rose.

He moved with surprising gentleness, backing into her space. Slowly, he lay beside her, pressing the curve of his back to hers.

After a while, he turned and laid his great head across her stomach.

A low, sorrowful growl hummed in his chest.

And gradually, her breathing steadied.

On the fourth day, she sat bundled in her cloak near the light shaft, knees hugged to her chest.

"I dreamed of him again," she whispered.

The bear listened, head low, still.

"I used to think that finally...finally... he saw me," she said, voice rough. "Really saw me. Like I wasn't just a duty or a prophecy or a role."

She rubbed her chest again—fingers trembling over the inked knot that wouldn't stop burning.

"But he didn't, did he?" she said bitterly. "He chose her. And I was left behind... again. Like nothing. "

The bear huffed.

"Why is it always me?" she asked, tears glistening. "Why do I always come second... or third... or not at all? Why can't I be first? Just once?"

She looked over at him.

He didn't answer with words.

Instead, he stepped closer and nudged her gently with his snout.

Bit by bit, in that cave of forgotten things, she began to speak.

Not all at once.

But in slow, broken pieces—about her childhood. Her loneliness. The pressure. The bond. The betrayal.

He stayed.

He seemed to listen.

And somehow... he understood .

By the fourth day, she was wrapped tight in her cloak, sitting near the edge of the cave's natural skylight as she spoke softly to him.

"Where are you from?" she asked. "What happened to you?"

The bear made a low, mournful sound.

"Do you have a name? Family?"

He became restless. Agitated. His large paws scraped the stone floor, and he turned away.

He left without warning.

Hours later, he returned dripping wet, carrying a bundle of fresh berries cupped in a hollowed gourd.

She smiled. "Thank you."

He lay beside her again that night.

She stared up at the cave ceiling as sleep pulled at her. "I wish I could help you."

She reached out once, her fingers brushing his thick fur.

He huffed but didn't pull away .

That night, she dreamed of starlight.

And woke to skin.

She blinked slowly, brain foggy, the weight beside her suddenly unfamiliar.

Her hand, once buried in fur, now rested on warm skin.

She froze.

So did he.

She turned—and found herself staring into a pair of wide, pale brown eyes. Human eyes. Set in a scruffy, bearded face, wild with confusion.

He looked down. Realized.

He was naked.

They both bolted upright—stumbling, startled, air punched from their lungs by sheer disbelief.

He scrambled to cover himself, twisting to shield his body. Wide-eyed, she tossed the blanket to him without a word .

They stared at each other in stunned silence.

Something magical had just had happened.

Something impossible.

The whispers in the wind danced like startled birds in her mind, and one thread of truth shimmered among them.

The Forgotten had come back.

No one ever had.

Until now.