The sea was slate grey beneath the rising sun, waves restless and flecked with cold light as the ship cut its way through churning water. At the prow, a human woman braced herself against the rail, her hands clenched tight, knuckles pale beneath the raw wind. Her cloak snapped wildly around her legs, the early morning air threading itself into her long, bright red curls, tugging loose strands across her freckled cheeks. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on the thin, dark line of land receding behind them—safe ground, lawful ground—now shrinking into the grey.

Suraia did not want to come on this journey. Even now, doubt fluttered sharp in her chest. She remembered the sly-smiling man in the market shadows; his gold had looked very real. They needed a healer, he’d said, no questions asked. It was only meant to be a short voyage—just enough to fill her purse if just for a couple of weeks. Maybe by then she could find a nice place to stay a bit longer. But that felt impossibly distant, even as she clung to hope with cold, silent hands.

Every few breaths, she glanced over her shoulder at the crew. Rough, weather-worn faces, some human, a few dwarven, even one quiet half-elf with mismatched eyes. They were strangers and she felt it keenly—like a thread drawn too tight, ready to snap at any moment.

The next morning Suraia took the same place on the rail again, watching the sea around her with an uneasy glance. The deck underfoot rolled gently at first, but she saw the wary way the captain eyed the horizon, a shadow crossing his features as the wind shifted.

The morning began beneath a thin veil of cloud, but as hours passed, the sky grew darker, thick with warning. The wind sharpened, pulling at the rigging, rattling loose canvas. The red headed woman flinched with every shiver of the deck, every nervous glance traded among the crew. Distant thunder echoed, and then the first fat drops of rain spattered the boards—cold, deliberate, like a promise.

“You better head inside, Miss.” The friendly voice of a young deckhand sounded behind her.

Within moments, the sea reared and grew monstrous, waves climbing higher, white foam crashing over the rails. The wind was a beast now, howling above shouted orders, drowning out all but its own voice. Lightning tore the sky, thunder chasing so close behind that Suraia pressed her hands to her ears, gasping.

Rain hammered down in thick sheets, blinding and relentless. The ship lurched and bucked; wood groaned in protest. A sudden pitch sent the red headed woman sprawling into a barrel, her vision spinning. Around her chaos: crates tumbled, ropes snapped, voices dissolved into raw screams.

A wave rose—mountainous, impossible, swallowing the sky—and crashed down, erasing everything in annihilating force.

The world became water. Cold, tumbling, absolute. Suraia didn’t remember striking the surface—only the panic of sinking, darkness closing over her. Her sodden dress pulled her down, heavy as chains, lungs screaming for air. I can’t swim, I can’t— Her cloak tangled, dragging at her arms, trapping her in its weight. Terror surged; with a frantic, gasping motion she fought to free herself, shoving the waterlogged cloak off. It slipped from her arms, lost to the churning black below.

It felt like hours in that endless, bone-chilling dark. All sense of direction vanished. Somewhere in the blur of storm and salt, a hand seized hers—fingers biting hard, yanking her upward. Suraia broke the surface, choking on cold air and rain. Her dress snagged on something sharp—rigging, or a broken plank—ripping a ragged gash along one sleeve, the hem tearing loose. Through burning eyes, she caught a glimpse of her rescuer’s face: pale, desperate, fear etched deep. His grip was the only thing keeping her tethered to life as they crashed through the surf.

Together, battered and breathless, they tumbled onto the jagged rocks of a shore. But even here, the storm raged on—trees bent nearly double, rain slashing sideways. Suraia’s hair, bright red and wild, plastered itself to her skin, her dress sodden and torn, clinging close. Her woollen stockings were in tatters, and one boot sagged heavy with seawater; the other felt ready to slip free.

Every muscle ached. The brine stung in every scrape. She lay for a moment, chest heaving, gasping in the taste of living air. The man who had saved her collapsed beside her, coughing, one arm still half-curled as though shielding her even now.

Only one other had made it.

The third survivor hauled himself from the surf a dozen paces away, eyes wild, chest heaving. Water streamed from his sodden clothes as he staggered upright. He stared at the empty beach—no other voices, no other movement—then fixed his gaze on Suraia.

She saw the shift in his face the instant it happened: something cold and deliberate sliding behind his eyes. The storm, the wreck, the sudden solitude—it had stripped away whatever thin veneer of civilisation he’d worn aboard the ship. Now there was only hunger and opportunity.

He started toward her.

Suraia’s rescuer pushed himself up on shaking arms, instinctively moving between them. “Leave her be,” he rasped, voice raw from swallowed seawater. “We’re all that’s left. We help each other or we die.”

The other man didn’t answer with words. He drew the knife at his belt—short, practical, meant for rope or fish—and lunged.

The fight was brief and ugly. Suraia’s rescuer was already spent; he managed to catch the man’s wrist, twist, shove him back once, but exhaustion betrayed him. The blade found his ribs. He gasped, staggered, tried to shield Suraia even as he fell. A second thrust finished it. He crumpled to the wet sand, eyes wide and unseeing, blood pooling dark beneath him.

The attacker turned to Suraia, steel flashing. “No one to protect you now, girl,” he snarled, stepping closer. “You’ll be mine before the storm clears.”

Panic overwhelmed the red headed woman. She stumbled back, boots slipping, and fled for the trees—her ruined dress dragging, heart pounding, bright curls vivid against her pale skin.

From deeper in the rain-shrouded wood, another watcher waited—tall, broad-shouldered, his light green eyes glowing, the irises lit from within.

He had watched the ship’s struggle, the desperate fight for survival as nature’s wrath was unleashed. Foolish, he thought, for mortals to tempt fate on forbidden shores. He saw the wave swallow the vessel, saw figures flung into the churning sea, most to vanish, a few to crawl ashore, battered but alive.

The Ee’dornil’s senses picked out every detail: the limp bodies scattered on the rocks. And then, two men struggled. Greed and savagery breaking them as surely as the storm had shattered their ship. A blade was drawn; words were exchanged, another life snuffed out in an instant.

He had seen such endings before. Eedrasil’s Rest was a graveyard for those who trespassed. The memory of bones half-buried in mud flickered across his mind—reminders of old warnings ignored. Once, these woods had been sacred. Now, they were a crucible. Most who came ashore did not last the night.

Thorn’s gaze lingered on the red-haired woman; her slender form hunched in shock and terror as she staggered toward the tree line. The killer, stinking of blood and intent, followed her. His long pointed but ever so sensitive ears easily picking up the sound as the man shouted at her that echoed through the storm-lashed woods: “You can’t run forever, girl! I’ll have you—make you scream before I’m done!”

He exhaled, a long breath of resignation.

He should let Eedrasil claim her, as it claimed all outsiders. But even now, centuries old and heavy with sorrow, Thorn felt the old oath stir. To defend the weak, to ward life against senseless cruelty, especially here, where so little kindness remained. He scowled, for a moment revealing elongated canines. A memory flashed—another girl, long ago, whose bones he had buried beneath the willow roots. Not this time, he decided.

With practiced motion, he shed his battered cloak and began to undress, untying his tunic and trousers, letting them fall to the wet earth. The familiar ache of magic hummed in his bones as his form began to shift. Bones flowed, fur erupted along his limbs and in moments where a man had stood, a dire wolf now watched with glowing green eyes.

He tracked the human’s scent of mud, salt and panic through the tangled undergrowth, gliding silent as a shadow through the rain. Soon, he heard the man’s shouts, harsh and slurred—“Come here, you little bitch! I’ll make you beg for it!”—and the desperate rustling of a woman too tired to run further.

Suraia’s flight had been fruitless. She could hear the other survivor crashing after her, his footsteps pounding behind her, voice snarling threats. Branches tore at her already ruined dress, scratching her arms and catching in her hair. The loose boot slipped with every step. Suddenly, a rough hand seized her ankle. His grip was vicelike around the wet leather. With a surge of terrified strength Suraia twisted and kicked, the boot tearing off and flying into the ferns as she scrambled free, bare foot stinging on root and stone.

The man grabbed her ankle again and she fell; a scream escaped her lips. Suddenly a savage snarl shattered the night. From the darkness between the trees, a hulking shape erupted—a dire wolf, fur green as moss and eyes burning with cold light. The man’s grip on her ankle vanished as he spun to face the beast and Suraia, heart pounding, pressed herself low against the nearest tree, breath catching as the fight began.

The hunt was brief. Thorn leaped forward, a predator’s snarl on his lips. The fight ended as quickly as it began with fangs and fury against a desperate blade. Pain lanced through Thorn’s shoulder as the man desperately stabbed him with his blade, but the dire wolf sank his teeth into the man’s throat, and the man fell silent, leaving only the echo of violence and the sharp copper tang of blood.

For a long moment, only rain and thunder filled the wood. Suraia pressed herself to the tree, trembling. The wolf—huge, a living force—turned to her, snout low, ears flat. She dared not look up, breath coming in small, frightened gasps. The wolf studied her as it came closer it’s muzzle nearly touching her hear. She could feel his breath on her face, his nose quivering. She slightly looked up and saw that blood matted its fur along one broad shoulder from a deep wound, still fresh.

As the wolf turned away, ready to vanish into the green, Suraia found her voice, fragile, barely more than a whisper: “Wait… Y-You’re hurt… I… I can help.”

She reached out a trembling hand, inching closer to the beast. The wolf hesitated, muscles taut—then, with a heavy, exhausted sigh, he lowered himself beside her.

Suraia gently pressed her palm to his wound, calling up the last of her magic. White light with a faint blue hue bloomed beneath her fingers. Pain blurred her senses, darkness pressing in at the edges. She gave all she had—every scrap of strength—until her knees gave out and she collapsed, shivering, on the mossy ground.

The dire wolf watched her, unmoving. For a moment, Thorn stood utterly still, caught between the old rules and something strange and new. He felt the wound ease, the warmth of a healer’s touch—something almost forgotten. She should have run, let the wilds take her. But she had not. Instead, this small, fragile human had poured out her life for a stranger, a monster in the eyes of most.

He shifted form, the wolf melting away to reveal the towering, bark-brown and muscular figure, wild green hair tangled with rain. He knelt beside the unconscious woman, studying the soft rise and fall of her breath, the stains of blood and mud on her pale hands.

“You foolish girl,” the large elf murmured, voice deep and rough as roots. “What am I to do with you now?”

He gathered her gently, careful despite his size. With long, steady strides, the Ee’dornil carried her through the storm-ravaged forest, rain thrumming against the leaves. The scent of moss and wet earth mingled with the distant salt of the sea. Every shadow in the undergrowth seemed to whisper warning, but Thorn pressed on, his charge cradled close.

By the time they reached his hidden cave, night had fallen, thick and absolute. Suraia Silverbell—healer, trespasser—now lay safe, if only for a time, in the care of the last Ee’dornil, guardian of Eedrasil’s Rest.

So, beneath the hush of storm and stone, their story began.