Everyone blended together, faces unknown and bodies under cloaks and scarves. No one he recognized. He tried to not look disappointed as Agatha pulled herself free of the heated debate about yarn quality. She had another bag slung on her shoulder now, full of yarns of all color.

“Well, I’ve grabbed everything on my list.” Agatha followed Nezael’s gaze and patted his arm. “We’ve no need of firewood. Our lord has a skeleton to chop some of our own.”

“Right,” Nezael said and eyed Agatha. “No sweets this time?”

Agatha cackled, shaking her head. “I’m making you tarts later! Be patient.”

That would taste better than anything they could buy at the bakery and Nezael smiled at her. She looped her arm into Nezael’s and led him out of the market. Like the wind, they trickled out and no one would remember they were ever there.

They followed the usual trail alongside other leaving travelers and when Nezael felt a ward of his lord’s nearby, he and Agatha pretended to rest and drink tea from her bag. Well, she mimed drinking it to not ruin her robes. It wasn’t long before they were alone and slipped through the ward unseen. The paths were familiar here, surrounded by thorns and brambles while magic sung softly across the air in greeting. When they were within sight of the walls, Agatha slowed and extracted the jar of too few yellow buds from inside her cloak.

“Here,” she said. “Go fetch Izzy her petals. I can make the walk back from here.” She beckoned Nezael closer and he bent lower so she could bump her cheek to his. “I’ll have sweets ready when you return.”

He smiled at her, feeling the same expression radiate in return. “I’ll be back soon.”

“I’m roasting that hen for supper too! If you get lost, just follow all the good smells back.” She wiggled his fingers at him and practically skipped back to their tower.

Alone, Nezael gazed along the path he’d taken to the grove. His stomach fluttered anew, thinking of seeing the woodsman again, and Nezael breathed out to settle his feelings. It was useless indulging the emotion (although he still secretly held it close) because it would and could not lead to anything other than a little glance. He’d get the herbs and then leave.

Retracing his steps from yesterday was easy and he followed the same trail. The sun was sallow today, not the bright golden it had been, and the skies had turned gray. The foliage above wasn’t as brilliantly colored without the sun and the wind bit through them, crumbling them to pieces as it blew by. He drew his cloak tighter around himself and hurried.

The bushels were still their brilliant yellow in the grove when Nezael arrived and he got to work. The petals clipped off neatly with the edge of his knife and shivered as Nezael touched them. The numbing sensation of magic being taken was all too distracting against his bare fingers, but he persevered and trimmed as many herbs as he could. He continued until the jar was almost full and by then, his hands were frigid and red with no magic keeping them warm.

That was enough. He secured the jar in his bag and idly blew into his fingers to warm them up before heading back. Standing there, still and silent, he heard it. The log splitting from an axe cleaving it in two.

Without his intention, the same rhythmic sound entranced Nezael a second time.

He resisted, he really did, but his legs had other ideas and brought him right back to the tree from before and he afforded himself one quick look.

The woodsman was there yet again, woefully with a shirt on this time. Nezael’s cheeks warmed, embarrassed that he was disappointed at all, and he tried to shake the shirtless image from his mind.

With the same deftness as before, the man struck the logs in two, only needing one good slice for each of them. Nezael had no idea why the motions were mesmerizing or why this simple man was so fascinating. Whatever it was, it made Nezael’s stomach flutter in such a way he’d never felt before.

And this was where it ended. Nezael absolved to let himself have one more lingering look. Before he turned to lock it away in his memory, the man paused. Nezael once more wasn’t fast enough to hide before the man peered his way. Their eyes met a second time, Nezael’s entire body flipped into flight mode as his heart hammered in his chest, but then the man smiled.

The world seemed to stall and stutter. It was such a gentle curve of his lips against the stubble lining his lower jaw. Something so infectious, Nezael’s own lips wanted to mimic the motion.

“Hey,” the man said, his voice sending a shiver down Nezael’s back. “I didn’t mean to scare you before.” He gently put the axe down and faced Nezael slowly, like he feared frightening Nezael again.

No. He’d never been frightened. Not with what he could do with magic. He wanted to scoff at the idea, but he was frozen still. If he wasn’t frightened, then what was this blasted emotion coiling around his heart for a man he didn’t even know?

“My name’s Yorick,” the woodsman continued. “You don’t quite look like a wood nymph—although you’re certainly as fast as one.”

Nymphs were magical creatures residing in woods across the land and were made up of magic. As far as Nezael knew, the woods had no nymphs of their own—his lord’s magic would have driven out any hiding amongst the trees. There was a water nymph in the nearby lake upstream, however, but she kept to herself and Carrow never bothered her.

Focus. Nezael shook his head and bit back from engaging in conversation. “I should go,” he said instead and let his legs take flight to dash away.

“Wait!”

It was silly. Dangerous. His lord didn’t even know someone had built a cabin so close to his wards; it was too dangerous to be friendly and Nezael squashed the fluttering feelings down as his pulse raced. He wouldn’t come back for some time—they had enough herbs now—maybe the winter would drive this man—Yorick—closer to town.

Except the same thought made Nezael sad.

The distraction masked the way the cold wind became suddenly colder and only when Nezael’s cheek cracked from a needle-sharp gust did he pause. A glob of blood ran down to his jaw and he stopped outright, suddenly steeped back in reality. That was no ordinary wind. He pressed a hand to his cheek and peered upward, eyes wide.

There. It had moved behind him. He turned and found a ghostly form befitting a doe in the brush and he would have been tricked if he hadn’t felt the magic tumbling off it or smelled the rotting stench it left behind. Fur as white as snow, legs entirely skeletal as magic ate the skin and tissue away, and its eyes were wide, mirroring the world around it with no life left inside. Maybe once it had been a real doe—maybe some of it still was given how well-formed it looked—but magic had twisted any gentleness away. It was simply a beast now feasting on what magic left the tower of its own accord.

Normally, Carrow dealt with beasts such as this and felt them as soon as they formed, but this one got by unnoticed. And if left alone, it could easily be used to find their tower.

But what worried Nezael in this single moment was that it would hurt Yorick.

It galloped away and Nezael moved after it, drawing his magic tight through his body so he’d be ready to strike. As he rushed through the gap in the trees, after the ghostly frost it left in the air, he met a solid body on the other side. He jolted out of panic, magic slipping out of his fingers in some desperate plea to protect him, but he quickly dispelled it to prevent himself from hurting anyone.

Strong hands had steadied him, almost pushing him up against the tree as though to protect him, and Nezael blinked away the frost clouding the air to see Yorick. He was out of breath, like he’d truly chased after Nezael, and he opened his mouth to speak.

Nezael sighted the beast’s ghostly gleam behind Yorick and pushed magic back into his hands. Yorick saw the glow, shocked, and Nezael used the magic to throw them both into the shrubbery. The shock of hitting the ground jolted through Nezael’s arm, the impact shivering pain through his wrists and up his shoulders, and Yorick made a pained grunt, but it was better than what the doe had planned. Its ghostly breath blew over them, icicles as sharp as knives forming across the plants in its wake. Nezael pulled himself out from under Yorick’s protective arm and forced himself to his feet.

“What is that?” Yorick asked, coming up behind him.

“An accident. Stay there.”

Thankfully, Yorick knew how to take direction.

Nezael gathered magic, letting the frost nip his fingers as it formed, and drew the doe’s gaze away from Yorick. All it wanted was more magic and Nezael was a source of it. The doe charged with an unearthly growl full of fury while magic twisted its legs to move faster. Nezael shifted quickly, bracing himself, and the beast flew past, leaving a breath of cold, dead air in its wake. Nezael yanked the doe’s magic to his will, holding it tight, and morphed it into a current he could use. When he felt the frenzied heartbeat of the doe against his own, he pulled magic from within himself and sent it forward. It manifested as lightning crackling across the lingering frost and struck the doe so brightly, everything flashed white.

But that was it. The magic keeping the doe alive released itself and the doe’s body slumped to the ground. It was dead. Color returned to the fur, eating away the snow-white, and a mangled doe lay there as what it had been before the magic. Nezael drew closer and tried to catch the magic dissipating. It was more than simply errant magic, he was sure of it. Magic didn’t eat away the legs until they were nothing left but bones and on closer inspection, the doe’s chest had been bored through. Dried blood was bright against the fur, but he couldn’t tell how long ago it happened.

Nezael’s body wavered, suddenly lightheaded.

He would have fallen if a warm arm hadn’t caught him around the shoulders. It didn’t help his legs folding under him, however, but the arm gently lowered him down. Nezael’s vision swam with the movement until he looked up at Yorick peering down at him. Everything stopped when Nezael’s gaze was captured within Yorick’s. His eyes were a brilliant blue, almost like the summer sky.

“You good there?” Yorick asked.

Nezael swallowed and glanced away. “Yes. Sorry.” He exhaled. “It didn’t hurt you?” He glanced over Yorick, but found no bit of skin cracked or bleeding.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Yorick gently took Nezael’s chin to turn it and Nezael flinched back. “Ah—sorry. Your cheek stopped bleeding. Does it hurt?”

“No.” Nezael pressed his hand to it and winced. Maybe a little.

“What do you think made the doe act like that?” Yorick retrieved his arm and Nezael did his best to stay sitting upright on his own. “What did you do to it?”

“Magic,” Nezael said and his body chilled suddenly hearing it admitted aloud. “Don’t tell anyone I was here or what I did or what it was.” He tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate. Yorick reached out, but paused when Nezael held up his hands. “Don’t. Just... please. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.” Yorick gave him a disarming smile. “I’m sure that thing would have killed me at my cabin if it’d found it, huh?”

Nezael nodded and took the moment to memorize Yorick’s face. Just in case. It was rugged with an off-center nose, but it was still somewhat youthful beneath the stubble. His cheeks were red, flushed from the cold.

Yorick tilted his head, his smile turning playful. “What?” he asked.