The Place Between Worlds

The village was behind him. The silence ahead.

Vince stood alone now, cane forgotten in the snow, breath shallow in his chest. The air was not still—it was held, like the world itself was waiting.

Then he saw it.

Pale as ice, broad-shouldered, tall as a man, maybe taller. Fur like packed snow under moonlight. Eyes like frostbitten glass—watching.

A wolf, and not a wolf.

Its breath curled into the air, slower than a beast's. Measured. A rhythm older than language.

Vince did not run.

He couldn't.

Not from this. Not from the thing that stared not at his body, but through it.

They stood like that, two statues carved from winter. One by nature. One by loss.

Then it spoke.

Not in the villagers' tongue. Not in anything Vince knew. But the words—harsh, lilted, like stone scraping ice—landed with the weight of purpose.

"Sa'riin vathor... en draekh."

Vince's body did not understand. But something deeper flinched. Some old part of him, half-ruined by fire and prison and regret.

He opened his mouth. But no sound came.

The beast tilted its head.

Not aggressive. Not gentle. Just knowing.

Then Vince staggered.

A sudden pull in his chest, sharp and low. The snow swam sideways. His knees gave out. He saw sky, then ice, then nothing at all.

No teeth. No claws. No violence.

The creature did not move to catch him. It only watched.

And when his body collapsed into the snow, it turned once—silent, regal—and walked into the misted dark.

Gone.

Vince woke to the scent of ash and boiled root. His body, heavy beneath furs. The ache in his ribs had dulled, but not vanished.

He blinked at the low ceiling of the shared shelter—woven reeds, blackened at the corners. Smoke curled gently from a small stone hearth.

Anelka sat across from him, legs folded, hands clasped. Watching.

When she saw his eyes open, she didn't speak. She just rose and slipped through the flap, swift and quiet.

Outside: a voice. Then another.

Moments later, Eldan entered. His boots left small prints across the floor, still wet from snow. He crouched low beside Vince and touched a hand to his shoulder—brief, grounding.

"You sleep… long," he said, fingers tracing the word on his palm.

Vince managed a nod. "How… long?"

Eldan held up three fingers. "Three suns. No wake. No words."

Vince closed his eyes a moment. Then opened them again. "Where… find me?"

Eldan pointed back over his shoulder. "Same place. Where I run."

He mimed the memory—Vince had sent him ahead, slow hand pushing him toward the center. Eldan had gone. Vince stayed.

"You fall," Eldan said simply. "No wound. No blood."

Then, quieter, "Why?"

Vince's mouth felt dry. His tongue searched for an answer that wouldn't open the door to fear. He saw the faces in his mind—Anelka, Eldan, the children by the fire. They didn't need panic. Not now. Not when the cold already gnawed at every edge of survival.

"Cold," he said. "Tired."

He made a motion—two fingers walking, then stumbling.

Eldan studied him a moment. Eyes narrow, unreadable.

"No beast," he said. "No mark."

Vince just nodded. "No beast."

It was true. In the end, there was no sign left behind.

Eldan didn't press. He sat back on his heels, hands on his knees.

"You scared," he said after a pause. "Not weak."

Vince huffed a faint breath—maybe a laugh.

Then: "Fire?"

"Still strong," Eldan answered. "Food… low. But we stand."

His fingers tapped gently at the mat. Still here.

Vince's hand moved slowly across his chest—remembering the weight of the charm that was no longer there. He looked at Eldan.

"Charm?"

Eldan nodded. Reached into a pouch and set it gently beside Vince's head.

"Kept it warm."

Vince looked at it—simple stone, smooth twine, old warmth.

He closed his hand around it, then lay still again.

He had not told the truth.

But the village had not asked for it.

And for now, that was enough.

That night, long after the murmurs died and the fire gave way to slow-burning coals, Vince stayed awake.

The others breathed softly, curled in sleep. But for him, the quiet was too sharp. The stillness too loud.

His mind was back in the snow.

Not in the center of the village—no. Not near food or fire or shelter.

It had happened in the clearing beyond the slope. The place Eldan had run ahead, where Vince had promised to follow.

But he hadn't moved.

Because the world had shifted.

It had emerged from the white—not fast, not loud. Just… present. A great, pale thing, its fur like frostbitten silk. Eyes darker than ash, old and steady.

Not a monster.

Not a wolf.

Something between.

And then, it had spoken.

Not in the villagers' tongue. Not in anything Vince could place. The words came like groaning wood beneath snow, like ice cracking over deep water—ancient, foreign, full of weight.

He didn't understand the meaning.

But he felt it.

A message. A judgment. A warning.

It hadn't moved to strike. Hadn't shown its teeth. Just stood there, towering, watching.

It could have torn him in half.

Instead, it had vanished into the dark.

And Vince had collapsed.

Not from fear. Not entirely.

From something else. Something deeper. Like part of him had been seen—and found lacking.

Now, days later, he sat wrapped in furs among sleeping bodies, remembering every detail: the breath of the beast, the sound of its voice, the pull behind its eyes.

He hadn't told them.

Not Eldan. Not Anelka. No one.

He'd said he'd slipped. Fainted.

And they believed him.

Because the truth was worse. Too strange. Too heavy for language.

They had found him in that same clearing. Where his prints had stopped, where the snow had gone still.

Where the silence had deepened.

He glanced toward the ceiling of the hut, firelight flickering across the slats. The weight in his chest hadn't left. The echo of the creature's voice still hummed like a splinter beneath skin.

Was it an omen?

A warning?

A reckoning?

He thought of Naples again. Of the alley where his uncle had died. The church bell that rang after—slow and clear. No one had seen the shooter. No one had ever spoken of it.

But Vince had always believed it wasn't meant to be solved.

Only understood.

He touched his ribs, where the pain still lingered. Not from the fall. From something else.

The creature hadn't just come to him.

It had chosen him.

Why?

Because he was broken? Because he didn't belong?

Or because—despite everything—he still carried something worth watching?

He didn't know.

But it hadn't killed him.

That, he couldn't forget.

Outside, the wind shifted. Not sharp, not wild.

Just there.

Waiting.