The morning dawned clear and cold—the world scrubbed raw, the violence of the storm swept away as if it had never been. For the first time since the wreck, sunlight slanted through the trees, painting long golden bars across the cave floor, igniting the green in the moss and the faded brown of driftwood. The air itself seemed reborn, washed clean by days of relentless rain; every scent was sharper now—the earth rich beneath her feet, the distant salt of the sea, and the sweet, fleeting fragrance of wild violets clinging to the forest’s edge.
Suraia woke to the hush, bundled in the heavy cloak, blinking at the unfamiliar light. Her dreams clung to her—a memory of water, of hands dragging her down, of thunder splitting the sky. For a moment, she lay still, heart pounding as her mind tried to reconcile the quiet dawn with the chaos of the past days. She listened to the soft crackle of the fire, the distant cries of gulls riding the wind above the cliffs. The light filtering into the cave was gentle, almost golden, limning her tangled red curls and the battered remains of her dress.
Thorn was already awake. He moved about the cave with quiet efficiency, his manner brisk, as if a weight had settled on him with the new day. His hair was damp and wild, and the morning light revealed a freshly healed wound on his upper arm, some old scars and the unmistakable tattoo of an owl reaching from shoulder to shoulder across his back, stories written in flesh. Suraia her cheeks flushed at the bare-chested sight of him, and she quickly looked away. Thorn glanced at her only briefly as he put on a loose tunic, then set to checking the bundle of supplies, lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line.
“Eat,” he commanded, setting a bowl of wild berries in her lap. “We leave soon.”
Suraia obeyed, her hands shaking a little as she forced down the food. The chill in her bones had not entirely faded, but the sun warmed her cheeks, and the thought of leaving the cave—of anything new—made her heart flutter between dread and hope. She swallowed the last berry, licking purple juice from her fingers, and tried not to let her nerves show.
When breakfast was finished, Thorn packed what little remained of their supplies with methodical care. He folded the rough fur pelts, tucked the battered healer’s pouch into Suraia’s salvaged pack, and swung an old fur pelt over his shoulders as though it was a cloak. She watched him, still marvelling at the fluid strength of his movements, so at home in the wild. He shouldered his own bundle, slung Suraia’s salvaged pack over his shoulder, and beckoned her silently to follow.
They left the cave and stepped into a world transformed. The forest, so menacing beneath the storm, now glistened in the fresh light, every branch dripping with rain. The ground was soft beneath her boots, the air fresh and tinged with the scent of pine and salt. Birdsong stuttered from the tangled branches overhead—a hopeful sound after days of howling wind and rain. Suraia found herself breathing deeper, her steps growing steadier as she matched Thorn’s stride through the dew-wet undergrowth.
They emerged onto the stony shore, where the battered lifeboat waited, its hull half-buried in seaweed and pale sand. The beach was quiet save for the murmur of small waves, the sea now calm and glassy beneath the brightening sky. It was a meagre vessel—patched, battered, but seaworthy enough for one last journey.
“Everything useful I found is in the boat,” Thorn said as he put Suraia’s salvaged bag into the boat, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Get in.”
Suraia hesitated, her heart thumping. The sight of the open water filled her with a dull terror, memories of the shipwreck pressing close. “I… I can’t swim. If the boat—”
Thorn cut her off with a flat, implacable tone. “That does not matter. I will pull the boat. We will find a Seafarer’s ship—they will pick you up. Just do as I say.”
She nodded, throat tight, and approached the boat on trembling legs. The wood was cold and damp beneath her fingers as she clambered inside, tucking her skirts under her knees and clutching the edge of the hull as though it might steady her spinning thoughts.
Thorn handed her a heavy bag, which clinked with bundled coin. “Hold onto that. No matter what. My clothes, too—you will hand them back to me when I signal.”
Suraia nodded, watching Thorn with wide eyes as he began to strip off his tunic, each motion efficient, unselfconscious. She tried not to stare, cheeks burning as she caught glimpses of the broad muscles of his back, the great owl tattoo and big arms—evidence of a life spent fighting and surviving.
She ducked her head, tucking the clothing into the bag, determinedly fixing her gaze on the rolling surf. It was strange how the world could shift so quickly—from shelter and warmth to this vast, uncertain crossing.
Thorn strode into the shallows, the water rising to his waist. “Hand me the rope at the front.”
She scrambled to comply, tossing him the coiled line with shaking hands. Without ceremony he peeled off his trousers and tossed them back to her. Suraia fumbled, cheeks burning, her heart doing something wild in her chest. She barely managed to tuck the trousers into the bag, fingers clumsy with nerves.
In the shifting light, Thorn’s form shimmered bones stretching, limbs twisting. Before her eyes, he melted into a different shape: dark green hide mottled with lighter patches of soft green, the broad head and powerful body of an orca. Leaf-green eyes gleamed, just as they had in the wolf.
Suraia stared, awestruck, as Thorn the orca gripped the rope in his jaws, muscles bunching as he began to pull the boat away from shore. His movement was effortless, cutting through the water with strength that no human could match. The sea, which had seemed so menacing, parted before him; she could feel the steady pull of the rope, the sure momentum carrying them out past the surf.
The sea stretched before them, vast and empty, sunlight flickering on the waves. Suraia shivered, wrapping the cloak tighter around her shoulders, trying to keep her fear at bay. She watched Thorn’s fin, rising and falling with each stroke, and wondered what it was like to feel that kind of power—to move so easily between shapes, to belong so wholly to the wild.
For hours they drifted, Thorn’s powerful form gliding ahead, the rope taut between his jaws and the prow. Suraia clung to the bag and scanned the horizon for any sign of a ship—a wisp of sail, the dark line of a hull. Nothing. Only endless water and the distant promise of land. Her mind wandered, flicking between old worries and new. She found herself whispering little prayers—fragments of rhyme from her childhood, half-forgotten hymns to a god who seemed to have abandoned her.
Clouds gathered again as the day wore on, the wind picking up, the water darkening to slate. Suraia’s nerves frayed with every passing hour. The memory of the storm, the shipwreck, and all she had lost pressed close. She hugged the bag tighter, knuckles white, as if it were a talisman against everything that waited beneath the surface.
Then, from beneath the boat, the water began to stir—at first a shadow, then a shifting mass, like some vast thing coiling beneath the surface. The hairs on Suraia’s arms prickled; her breath hitched as she peered over the edge, heart pounding.
The surface rippled, and the first tentacle erupted from the deep—thick as a tree trunk, mottled black and purple, dripping seawater. It slapped against the boat, sending a shudder through the planks.
The tentacle lashed out, and Thorn twisted the boat aside, just in time. But more rose around them, churning the sea into a frenzy. One struck the boat broadside with a terrible force. Suraia was flung into the water, the world spinning, the only thing keeping her anchored the bag Thorn had told her to never let go. She plunged beneath the surface, salt stinging her eyes, lungs burning. Instinct made her kick upwards, while another tentacle curled around the boat and pulled it to the depths within seconds.
The redhead surfaced, sputtering, and saw a massive tentacle arcing toward her. Thorn the orca darted between her and the beast, jaws clamping down hard. The tentacle recoiled with a screech, dark blood staining the waves. Suraia gasped for breath just before she sank beneath the surface again, clinging to the bag as another limb writhed past her, brushing her leg with cold, rubbery strength.
Thorn circled, putting himself between Suraia and the monster, biting at each limb that threatened her. A tentacle brushed her leg, icy and powerful. She flinched, kicking away, just as Thorn butted her upward, letting her try to grab his dorsal fin but she failed too.
The battle in the water was chaos—Thorn bit and twisted, luring the beast away, then doubled back to scoop Suraia toward the surface each time she started to slip under. The sea frothed with struggle, and finally, with a battered tentacle trailing blood, the beast withdrew into the deep.
Suraia finally managed to cling to Thorn’s fin as he powered for the nearest shore, lungs burning, salt water stinging her eyes. Her fingers were numb, but she refused to let go of the bag or the fin, even as exhaustion clawed at her limbs.
It was dark by the time they reached land. The sky was streaked with indigo, the last of the daylight slipping away as Thorn guided them into a rocky cove, half-shrouded in mist. He transformed back to his own shape and carried Suraia to a small cave, half in the water, half on land, where he quickly donned his trousers before setting about lighting a fire. Suraia collapsed onto the sand, still clutching the bag, shivering uncontrollably, her skin raw with cold and fear.
“Come here,” Thorn said, his voice rough but surprisingly gentle. “Rest against me. You will warm up faster.”
Suraia dragged herself close, feeling his warmth soak into her frozen limbs. She looked up at him, worry flickering in her tired eyes. She could clearly sense that he was injured—fresh bites on his shoulder, old wounds reopening from the strain of the battle.
“You— You’re hurt,” she whispered. “Let me heal you. Please. I—I owe you my life.”
Thorn shook his head, his jaw tight: “No. I need you to walk tomorrow. You need your strength more than I do. Just rest.”
Suraia studied his face, seeing the shadows under his eyes, the pain he would not voice. She wanted to protest, but the words faltered, lost in exhaustion. The weight of the day pressed down on her, heavy and insistent.
He looked away, the firelight drawing strange shapes across the old scars on his chest. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The cave filled with the sound of crackling flames and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sea outside.
“Once I have gotten you back to your people, I will return to Eedrasil’s Rest. That is where I belong.”
There was a finality to his tone—a wall she could not breach. Suraia felt her throat tighten, grief and gratitude tangling inside her. She pressed herself closer, needing the comfort of another’s warmth, if only for tonight.
She tucked herself against him, the fire’s warmth mingling with his, letting her fear and weariness drift away. In the hush between them, as night fell and the last echoes of the sea faded, she found the first fragile thread of safety since crossing the water. Her eyes closed, and slowly, her breathing settled into the easy rhythm of sleep.
As Suraia’s breathing slowed and her small form grew still against his side, Thorn stared into the flickering fire, letting the warmth soak into tired bones. For a long while, he simply listened—to the hush of wind outside, the gentle lap of waves against the rocks, the quiet rhythm of another heartbeat beside his own.
He had not meant for things to go this way. For decades—fifty years, or more, he’d long since stopped counting—he had walked these wilds alone, his only company the song of the forest and the distant crash of the sea. He had shaped his life around solitude, finding comfort in silence, his old oaths and the memory of loss his only companions.
Having this fragile little human, shivering and stubborn, pressed close to him was not what he wanted. At first, it had felt like an intrusion—an obligation forced upon him by ancient promises and a sense of duty he could not quite kill. Yet, as the days had passed, he’d found himself growing accustomed to her presence: to the soft, hesitant questions she sometimes asked, to the way she shrank from the cold but pressed closer in her sleep, to the quiet courage that shone through her fear.
Now, with the firelight playing over her red curls and freckled face, Thorn wondered—just for a moment—if perhaps he had been alone too long. He let the thought flicker through him, warm and unfamiliar: the idea of lingering, of letting himself remain in her orbit a little longer, of watching her smile, even once, without fear.
He closed his eyes, dismissing the notion with a huff and a shake of his head. He was Ee’dornil and he belonged to the wild. To hope for more was foolishness. When morning came, he would see her safe and return to the only life he knew. After all, he was nothing more than an Outcast, he didn’t belong in her world anymore.
But as the fire burned low and Suraia slept on, Thorn allowed himself, just this once, to imagine a different path—one not quite so lonely.
He would forget it by dawn, he told himself. He always did.