Page 11 of The Wild Hunt

"One stormy night, the Huntsman and his family opened their cottage to some strangers seeking shelter. They didn’t think twice about it—it was only natural to offer shelter. The strangers were grateful, and before they left, they told the family that their kindness would be repaid someday, though they didn’t say how or when."

She takes a sip of her ale, eyes twinkling with the delight of storytelling. "Years later, Fergus, the Huntsman’s son, decided the life of a hunter wasn’t for him. He had a sense of adventure and wanted to explore beyond the forests. During his travels, hemet and fell in love with a princess. But, as in all these tales, there was a competition for her hand in marriage. Fergus wasn’t the strongest or wealthiest of the suitors, and it seemed like all hope was lost. That’s when those strangers reappeared."

Bridget’s voice lowers, drawing me further into the story. "They gave Fergus the tools he needed to win the competition—a bow that never missed, a cloak that made him swift, and a charm for luck. With their help, he won the princess's hand, and they lived happily ever after. Some say those strangers were old gods, others say powerful fae. Either way, their kindness returned to them, just as promised."

She finishes the tale with a soft smile. "So, you see, it feels right to open the cottage to others. Who knows, maybe one day the kindness shown will come back to me in some unexpected way."

The fable lingers in the air between us, filling the pub with a sense of something ancient and magical.

"That’s beautiful," I say, still processing the tale. "Do you think there’s any truth to it?"

Bridget laughs, a light, carefree sound. "Oh, I think there’s truth in all our old stories, even if we don’t know how much. Whether they were gods or fae, or just strangers who wanted to repay kindness, I like to believe in a little magic. And this land, with all its history... it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?"

As the evening wears on, the pub gradually empties, the laughter and chatter of the patrons slowly fading as they head home. The warmth of the food and drink, coupled with the long day, begins to catch up with me. I stifle a yawn, feeling my body grow heavy with exhaustion.

Bridget notices and smiles. "Long day, huh?"

I nod, finishing the last bite of my stew. "Yeah, but a good one. I think I’m ready to call it a night."

"Me too," she agrees, standing up and stretching. "It was great getting to know you, though. I really hope you come back tomorrow night."

"Definitely." I smile, genuinely meaning it.

After settling the bill, we both step outside into the cool night air. The village is quiet now, with only the soft rustling of leaves and the distant sound of the sea, the soft murmur of people inside their homes breaking the stillness. We part ways at the crossroads—Bridget heading back to her home, and me making my way to the path back to the cottage.

She is such a comforting person to be around. Something about the way she talks makes me feel safe, and her words are always so genuine. Her warm and easygoing nature made me feel at ease, more so than I expected. It was nice, sitting with someone who didn’t expect anything from me—someone who just wanted to share a meal and a conversation.

But that fleeting feeling from earlier, the sensation of being watched, returns, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stop abruptly, scanning my surroundings, but the forest is still. Only the gentle rustling of leaves stirs in the breeze.

I shake my head, forcing a laugh under my breath.You're just tired. You need sleep.

Continuing on, the cottage comes in to view and I push the door open and step inside before closing the door firmly behind me. I lean against it for a moment, letting the coziness of the space settle my nerves.

Bridget was right—this place has a way of getting under your skin. But I wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing or not.

With that thought, I make my way to bed, stripping off my clothes along the way and pulling the blankets up as I let their heat enfold me like an embrace. My eyes drift closed, and I let the sound of the sea and the distant winds lull me into sleep.

The last thing that follows me into my dreams is the memory of vibrant green eyes.

Chapter 7

Cianán

My long fingers trail along the wood of the table beside me. A painting rests there, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the window, as if offering itself to me. It’s unfinished, but I can already tell she has true talent. There’s something raw, something intensely personal, captured in the strokes she’s laid down. Her artistry intrigues me—it offers a glimpse into her mind, her soul.

I wonder how she would paint me if given the chance, how she sees me. Well, how she sees the visage I present to her, cloaked in glamor to dull the true signs that I’m not from her world. If she were to see me without the glamor, would she look at me in awe or in fear? Would she be one of those humans who became sick with obsession for another glimpse at magic?

The atmosphere in the cottage is still, deep in the heart of the night. The only sound is the distant murmur of waves against the cliffs, though my ears pick up the subtle hum of the forest on the other side—the rustling of leaves, the nocturnal stirrings ofcreatures. As I draw closer, the steady rhythm of her breathing fills the air, each breath deep and even, a soft symphony of sleep. She is already complacent, leaving the door unlocked, inviting me in without realizing it.

I glide through the cottage, silent as a ghost, taking in the small details that hold traces of her. The faint scent of her lingers in the air, teasing my senses. Bold but with a subtle undertone of smoke, as though she sat too close to a fireplace. Discarded clothes lie draped over the chairs, her presence clinging to them. The fabric is soft against my fingers as I raise it close to my face and breathe in her essence. It’s intimate in a way that stirs something darker in me, a sense of possession taking root.

Finally, I step into the bedroom. She lies deeply asleep, her body relaxed and at peace under the blankets, unaware of the danger hovering so close. I take a moment to observe her—how her chest rises and falls in rhythm with her breathing.

The moonlight highlights her pale skin, giving her an ethereal glow, the faint freckles on her cheeks like scattered stars. Even in the faint light, her hair seems to shimmer with deep reds and oranges, like a flickering flame that I want to thrust my fingers into and see if I would get burnt. I can see the curve of her lips, slightly parted as she dreams.

The stillness of the room hums with anticipation. I could reach out, brush her hair away from her face, feel the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. But I remain rooted in place, savoring the moment, the thrill of watching her in her most vulnerable state.

I wonder what she dreams of. Does she sense me here, even in the deepest corners of her mind?

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