THE WIND KNOWS

THE WIND KNOWS

The breeze touched my skin like a whisper-cool, deliberate, almost curious. It carried the scent of pine and wet stone, the kind of scent that clings to the skin long after you’ve left the forest. I paused, one boot half-sunk in moss, my crossbow slung low against my hip. The wind ways shifting. That meant he was close.

I’d tracked him for three nights. Through the ravine where the moonlight pooled like sliver blood, across the ridge where the trees bent like old men and now here in the hollow where the wind spoke in riddles. The others called him Fen. Said he was clever, cruel, impossible to corner. Said he’d torn through three villages and vanished like mist. Said he laughed when he ran.

I didn’t believe in laughter anymore.

I crouched behind a fallen birch, watching the clearing. No movement. No sound but the wind. I should’ve felt the usual thrum of anticipation-the pulse in my throat, the tightness of my grip. But instead, I felt… watched. Not hunted. Not threatened. Just observed, like a question waiting to be asked.

And then he stepped into the clearing.

Not the beast I’d imagine. No snarling maw, no bloodied claws. Just a man, tall and quiet, with eyes like storm-light and hair that caught the breeze like it belonged to it. He didn’t flinch when he saw me. Just tilted his head, curious.

“You’re late,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I raised the crossbow.

He didn’t move.

“I thought you be louder,” he said. “Angrier.”

“I’m not here to talk.”

“No,” he said. “You’re here to kill me.”

The breeze shifted again, brushing against my neck like a breath. I hesitated.

“I didn’t kill those villagers,” he said. “But I know who did.”

“You expect me to believe that.”

“I expect you to listen.”

I lowered the crossbow an inch. Just an inch. Enough to let the wind speak again.

He told me about the others. The ones who lost control. The ones who’d forgotten what it meant to be more than teeth and hunger. He told me about the pact he’d broken to protect a child. About the exile. About the way the forest had become his only home and the wind his only companion.

I should’ve shot him. I knew that. I’d trained for this. I’d memorized the anatomy of a Lycan, the weak points, the silver ratios. But the breeze kept brushing against my skin, gentle and insistent, like it was trying to remind me of something I’d forgotten. Something older than vengeance.

“I could run”, he said. “You wouldn’t catch me.”

“I know.”

“But I won’t.”

“Why.”

“Because you’re not here to kill me.”

I looked at him then. Really looked. And I saw the weariness in his stance, the quiet in his eyes. Not submission. Not fear. Just…truth.

The breeze circled us, lifting a strand of my hair, tugging at the hem of his coat. It felt like a promise.

“I don’t know what I’m here for anymore,” I said.

He smiled. Not wide. Not triumphant. Just enough to make the wind pause.

“Then stay,” he said. “Let the forest decide.”

And I did.

The Wind Knows Part 2

We stayed in the clearing until the moon rose, pale and indifferent. I didn’t ask him to explain again. I didn’t lower my weapon fully either. But I let the wind settle between us like a third presence-watchful, ancient, and oddly patient.

He built a fire with practice ease, no flint, no fuss. Just a curl of breath, and a flick of his fingers. I watch the flames catch not with hunger, but with something gentler. Like they knew they weren’t meant to consume tonight.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “Neither are you.”

I sat across from him, knees drawn up, crossbow still within reach. The breeze tugged at my collar, then his, then vanished into the trees like it had somewhere else to be.

“I was raised to believe Lycans were monsters,” I said. “That they couldn’t choose.”

He met my eyes. “Some can’t. Some won’t. Some forget how.”

“And you?”

“I remember.”

The fire crackled. A pinecone split with a soft pop. I thought of the stories I’d been told-fangs, fury, the thrill of the hunt. None of them had prepared me for this quiet. For the way his voice held sorrow like a stone worn smooth. For the way the wind seemed to favor him.

“Why didn’t you run?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t want me to.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Instead, I listened to the wind. To the fire. To the way the forest didn’t recoil from him. He told me about the child he’d saved-a girl with a broken leg and a stubborn heart. How she’d called him “wolf man” and braided flowers into his hair. How she’d vanished when the villagers came with torches.

“She screamed at them,” he said. “Told them I was kind.”

“Did they listen?”

“No.”

I looked at him then, really looked. And I saw the grief braided into his posture. Not loud. Not performative. Just… enduring.

“I’ve killed Lycans,” I said. “I’ve never felt sorry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do.”

The wind stirred again, brushing my wrist like a question. I let it linger.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said. “You. Me. This moment.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything.”

“But it is.”

He smiled and this time it reached his eyes. “Then let it be a beginning.”

I didn’t sleep that night. Not fully. I watched the fire die down, watched him shift in his sleep-not into a beast but into something liminal. Something that belonged to the wind and the woods and the ache of being misunderstood.

And when the dawn came, I didn’t raise my crossbow.

I raised my hand.

He took it.

The Wind Knows Part 3

We walked at dawn. Not toward a village. Not toward a camp. Just… into the woods. The wind moved ahead of us like a guide, brushing against bark, stirring leaves, tugging at my sleeve when I hesitated.

He didn’t ask where I was going. He didn’t offer a destination. He simply walked beside me, silent expect for the occasional glance as if checking to see if I was still real.

I was.

But I wasn’t the same.

The forest changed when you stopped hunting. It stopped being a map of threats and started being a place. A place with rhythms and moods. A place that watched you back. I saw things I’d never noticed before-lichen shaped like spirals, a tree that grew in a perfect arc, a patch of moss that pulsed slightly when touched.

He knelt beside it. “It breathes,” he said.

I knelt too. “I never noticed.

“You weren’t meant to.”

We camped near a stream that sang to itself. He caught fish with his hands, quick and quiet. I gathered herbs I’d once used for poultices, now unsure what I’d need them for. He cooked without fire. Just warmth drawn from the stones. I didn’t ask how. I didn’t want to break the spell.

That night I dreamed of wind. Not chasing. Not fleeing. Just circling. Watching. Waiting.

When I woke, he was gone.

I didn’t panic. I listened.

The breeze brushing my cheek, then my wrist, then tugged gently at my braid. I followed it. Not like a hunter. Like someone being invited.

I found him in a grove of birch trees, standing barefoot in the dew. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of something older than breath.

“They’re coming,” he said.

I didn’t ask who. I knew.

The other hunters. My former kin. The ones who didn’t pause for wind or listen to moss. The ones who would see him and shoot before he could speak.

“I can run,” he said. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“But I won’t.”

I stepped closer. “Then I’ll stay.”

He opened his eyes. They’ll call you. Traitor.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

The wind stirred between us, lifting a curl of his hair, brushing against my collarbone. It felt like a vow.

“I don’t know how to be anything but a hunter,” I said.

“Then hunt something else.”

“What?”

“Truth. Mercy. Me.”

I reached for his hand. It was warm. Steady. Real.

The wind wrapped around our fingers like a ribbon.

And somewhere in the distance, the forest began to hum.

The Wind knows Part 4

They arrived at dusk.

I felt them before I saw them-boots heavy on the forest floor breath held too tightly, blades too clean. The wind recoiled, slipping behind my ear like a warning. I touched the hilt of my dagger, not to drawn it, but to remember who I used to be.

He stood beside me, calm. Not defiant. Not afraid. Just…ready.

“They will ask questions,” I said.

“They won’t wait for answers.”

The first to step into the clearing was Mara. Her braid was tighter than mine, her eyes shaper. She’d taught me how to track in the snow, how to listen for lies in the way someone breathed. She looked at me like I was a puzzle she’d already solved.

“You found him,” she said.

“I did.”

“Why is he still breathing?”

I didn’t answer.

Behind her the others fanned out-bows raised, silver glinting. The wind tried to speak, but they didn’t hear it. They never had.

“He’s not what we thought,” I said.

Mara’s jaw tightened. “They never are. That’s the danger.”

“He saved a child.”

“They always save someone. That’s the trick.”

“He didn’t run.”

“Neither did the last one. We buried three because of it.”

I stepped forward. The wind curled around my ankles, hesitant.

“I’m not asking you to trust him,” I said. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

She looked at me then-not as a hunter, not as a traitor, but as something in between. Something the wind hadn’t named yet.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“I’ve listened.”

“To him.”

“To the forest. To the wind. To myself.”

She lowered her bow and inch. Just an inch. Enough to let the wind breathe again.

“I should report you,” she said.

“I know.”

“I should kill him.”

“I know.”

“But I won’t.”

The wind surged, brushing against all of us like a sigh of relief.

“Not yet,” she said. “But if he’s lying-if you’re wrong.”

“I’ll be the one to answer for it.”

She nodded once, sharp and final. Then turned and vanished into the trees, the others following like shadows.

He exhaled beside me. “You could’ve let them kill me.”

“I could’ve.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because the wind didn’t want me to.”

He smiled, and this time it was sad. “Then we owe it a debt.”

“No,” I said. “We owe it a story.”

The wind circled us slow and deliberate like it was listening.

The Wind Knows Part 5

The villagers began to whisper about a girl who saved a Lycan.

I passed through the village once, to trade herbs and salt. No one met my eyes. No one asked questions. But the children stared. One of them-barefoot, wild-haired offered me a pinecone like it was currency.

“She said you saved the wolf-man,” the child whispered.

“I didn’t save him,” I said. “He saved himself.”

The child nodded, solemn. “She said you talk to the wind.”

I didn’t answer. I just let the breeze curl around my wrist, soft and deliberate.

Back in the forest, he was waiting. Not like prey. Like a place.

“They’re building stories,” he said.

“They always do.”

“Do they know the truth?”

“They know what they need.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just watched me like I was becoming something he recognized.

“I used to think myths were weapons,” I said. “Tools to keep people afraid.”

“They can be.”

“But they can also be shelter.”

He stepped closer. The wind stirred between us, lifting a leaf, spinning it once, then letting it fall.

“What are we becoming?” I asked.

He touched my hand, not like a lover, not like a beast. Like a witness.

“Something the wind remembers.”

That night, I carved a mark into the back of a birch tree. Not a warning. Not a claim. Just a spiral, like the moss. Like the wind. Like the story that was beginning to circle.