CHAPTER 4

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The midday sun filters through the dense canopy of the herb grove, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Aiden moves with practiced ease, his fingers deftly plucking the sprigs of silver-leaf moss his mother needs for the poultice. The air here is thick, humid, smelling of damp earth and rotting vegetation, a scent that usually clings to his skin long after he returns home. He works quickly, stripping the bark and gathering the green bundles, his mind focused only on the task at hand to avoid the pricking thorns of the briar patches.

He turns to leave, but a flash of something unnatural catches his eye—a break in the treeline where the light seems to bounce off a surface that isn’t leaf or stone. Curiosity pulls him forward, his boots crunching softly on the gravel as he steps past a curtain of weeping willows. The sight stops him cold. A small lake, hidden deep within the grove, shimmers like a dropped gem. The water is crystal clear, revealing a bed of smooth white stones, and the surrounding banks are carpeted in moss so thick and green it looks like velvet. Aiden is certain no one in the village has ever seen this place; it feels too private, too secret to exist on their maps.

The heat of the afternoon presses against his skin, sticky and oppressive. He looks around, listening to the silence of the woods. No birds sing here, and the wind doesn't rustle the leaves. He is alone. The temptation of the water is a physical itch he can’t ignore. Without hesitation, Aiden reaches for the hem of his roughspun tunic and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto a dry rock. He unties the laces of his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them. Naked, the air feels cooler against his bare flesh, raising goosebumps along his arms.

He stands at the water’s edge, looking down at his reflection. His body is lean and pale, the muscles of his thighs taut as he shifts his weight. His cock hangs soft and heavy between his legs, resting against his balls, and he feels a sudden, sharp appreciation for his own form, the way the light catches the curve of his ass. He steps into the lake. The water is a shock—cold enough to make him gasp, then rapidly warming as he wades deeper. It wraps around his ankles, then his knees, sucking at his skin with a gentle pull. He dives forward, submerging himself completely.

Underwater, the world is muffled and blue. He kicks his legs, gliding through the liquid embrace, feeling the water slide over his naked back and between his thighs, teasing his asshole with its silky touch. It feels illicit, swimming here like this, his bare skin exposed to the unseen depths. He surfaces, wet hair plastering to his forehead, water droplets running down his chest and catching in the dark hair of his armpits. He floats on his back, looking up at the patches of sky visible through the trees, his dick floating lazily in the current, completely at peace. The beauty of the spot is undeniable, a perfect, hidden sanctuary that makes him want to stay forever.

But the light begins to shift, the golden angles of the sun tilting toward the west. The afternoon is wearing on. Aiden knows his mother will worry if he is late. He reluctantly swims to the shore and pulls himself up onto the moss, water streaming off his body in rivulets. He grabs his clothes, rubbing the rough fabric over his skin to dry off before dressing. The tunic scratches against his still-damp skin, a stark contrast to the smoothness of the water. He ties his laces, takes one last look at the shimmering lake, and turns back toward the village path.

He has only taken a few steps when a tiny, melodic voice halts him.

"You have a gentle spirit for one so wild."

Aiden freezes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He spins around, terrified he has been caught trespassing. He scans the water’s edge, expecting a constable or a angry landowner. Instead, he sees her. Sitting on a flat rock near the water’s edge is a woman. She is dressed entirely in pure white, the fabric flowing around her like liquid milk. She faces the river, her back to him, her posture relaxed and regal.

"I... I didn't know," Aiden stammers, his voice cracking. He takes a hesitant step back. "I didn't know anyone owned this river. Please, don't tell my mother. I was just... it was so hot, and I didn't think..."

The woman doesn't turn. Her laughter is soft, like the sound of wind chimes. "No, my child," she says, her voice smooth and calming. "You are welcome to do whatever you wish here. This place is for those who seek beauty."

Slowly, she turns to face him.

Aiden’s breath catches in his throat. She is breathtakingly beautiful, not in the way the village girls are, but with a terrifying, perfect symmetry. Her cheekbones are high enough to cut, her lips painted a deep crimson, and her eyes hold a depth that seems to swallow the light. She looks like a queen sitting on a throne of moss, smiling at him with an intimacy that makes his skin prickle.

"Who are you?" Aiden asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

"I am no one," she replies, her eyes raking over him, stripping him bare despite his clothes. "Just a traveler. But I know you, Aiden."

Aiden takes a sharp step back. "How do you know my name?"

"I know many things," she says, tilting her head. "I know you are an omega. I can smell the sweet, slick heat of you from here. And I know your mother’s name is Elara."

The blood drains from Aiden’s face. He opens his mouth to speak, to demand an explanation, but she raises a slender hand, silencing him.

"You are precious," she continues, her voice dropping an octave, becoming huskier. "More precious than you know. Your scent is... intoxicating. A rare bloom in a field of weeds."

Aiden feels a strange heat rising in his gut, a mixture of fear and an unwelcome arousal at her words. He shifts his weight, his cock twitching in his trousers at the intensity of her gaze.

"Go home now, Aiden," she commands gently, waving a hand dismissively. "Your destiny is waiting for you."

He doesn't want to stay. He doesn't want to ask anything else. Aiden turns and breaks into a run, his feet pounding against the dirt path. He doesn't look back, but he can feel her eyes on his retreating back, burning into his skin. He runs until his lungs burn, bursting through the edge of the forest and into the village.

He skids to a halt.

The village is quiet. Eerily quiet. Usually, at this hour, the market is bustling, children are shouting in the streets, and the smith’s hammer rings out against the anvil. Now, there is nothing. The silence is heavy, oppressive, like a thick blanket of snow. Aiden’s heart races, his instincts screaming that something is wrong. He ignores the empty houses, his focus narrowing on the small cottage at the end of the lane.

He sprints toward the door, his boots thudding dully on the packed earth. "Mother!" he shouts, but the sound dies in the thick air.

He rounds the corner of the house and stops dead, his eyes widening in horror.

His mother lies crumpled at the entrance of the gate. Her body is twisted, her dress stained dark with a spreading pool of crimson. A deep, jagged gash cuts across her stomach, the blood pulsing out with a sickening rhythm. Her eyes are open, staring glassily at nothing.

The scream tears from Aiden’s throat, raw and ragged, shattering the silence of the dead village.