Jack glanced back at the Charger, brushed dirt off his hands, and turned toward the narrow path the blacksmith had pointed out - the one that wound between the village edge and the treeline. The Charger stayed behind, safe under the blacksmith’s care, but the absence of its engine’s rumble made the world feel quieter than he liked.

  The path twisted between low shrubs and gnarly trees, branches brushing against his sleeves, leaves rustling softly in a wind that smelled faintly of wild herbs. Somewhere ahead, a faint jingling reached his ears - metal or glass, he wasn’t sure - like tiny bells strung on invisible threads.

  Then the hut appeared, half-hidden behind a leaning grove of trees. Smoke rose lazily from its crooked chimney, carrying the scent of something earthy, sharp, and faintly sweet. Jack wrinkled his nose, curious, and shrugged. “Not my usual Friday night,” he muttered.

  The structure itself looked… improbable. One wall leaned more than it should, the roof was stitched together from mismatched shingles, and odd shapes protruded from the eaves - bottles, feathers, what looked like tiny copper charms. Everything seemed slightly alive, though not in a threatening way, more like it had been left in a hurry and hadn’t settled yet.

  A small wind rattled one of the hanging charms above the door. Jack paused, tapping his chest pocket for another candy, then popped it in his mouth. “Alright, Jack,” he murmured through the peanut-sweet chew. “Let’s see what kind of taboo existence lives here.”

  He stepped forward, boots crunching softly on the path, and gave the door a cautious knock. A soft humming answered him from inside, followed by a sudden crash - something metal hitting wood, a muffled tinkle, then silence. Jack raised an eyebrow.

  “…Yeah,” he said quietly, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “This is gonna be interesting.”

  The door swung open before he could react. A young elf, her long ears poking out from beneath a frumpy, oversized hat, leaned forward so close he almost bumped into her. Her gray robes swirled as she moved, and a faint, sharp tang - oil, burnt herbs, and something distinctly metallic - hit his nose.

  "You’ve been working," she said, tilting her head and inhaling sharply. "On what? Some kind of… combustion device? It smells like fire and iron and something I’ve never met before."

  She stepped around him, eyes scanning the Charger, then back to his hands, nose twitching involuntarily.

  Jack stepped back slightly. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.”

  “Fascinating,” she murmured, peering at the black stains on his fingers. “Huh. Not quite like anything I’ve smelled before. Interesting.” Her eyes sparkled with genuine excitement. “…I need to examine it more closely. Stand still.” She circled him, touching the gloves lightly, sniffing the oil as if it were a rare tincture of herbs or essence she’d never encountered.

  Jack coughed politely. “You… don’t usually just sniff strangers?”

  She blinked, as if he’d asked a strange question. “It’s how I understand things. You can tell a lot from scent alone.” She paused, inhaling deeply, then nodded as though making a mental note. “Hmm. Yes… unlike anything I’ve encountered. This alloy, the scent… it’s unfamiliar. Quite stimulating.”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. Uh… cool. Glad you like it."

  Eirwen's eyes lit up like she'd just discovered a new element. "Like it? I need to study it. Bring yourself inside. Now."

  Jack blinked. "…Yeah. This is gonna be interesting." He gestured back over his shoulder, thumb hooking toward the village. “Actually, I came because I need something repaired. My windshield.”

  Eirwen froze, looking back at him. “Windshield?” she repeated.

  “Glass,” Jack clarified. “Front window. Cracked. Spiderwebbing outward. Still holding, but not for long.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Glass!” She straightened abruptly, nearly smacking him in the chest with the brim of her hat. “Why didn’t you say that first?”

  Jack blinked. “You didn’t exactly give me a turn to -”

  “I can fix glass,” she said briskly, already turning away. “Not replace it - reinforce it. Bind it. Heal the fractures so they don’t spread. I can't make it *pretty*, but it’ll hold.” She paused, then glanced back at him. “Is it under tension? Does it flex?”

  “…Yes?” Jack said cautiously. “I think.”

  “Perfect.” She vanished back into the hut before he could ask another question. The door slammed. Something clattered. A cupboard opened, shut. Glass chimed. Liquid sloshed.

  Jack stood there for a moment, then looked at the door. “…That was easy,” he murmured, not quite believing it.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The door burst open again. Eirwen emerged already shrugging into a worn leather satchel, its straps patched and repatched, bulging with bottles, charms, and folded bundles of herbs tied in twine. She cinched it tight with a practiced tug and bounced once on her heels, satisfied.

  “Alright,” she said. “Take me to it.”

  Jack pointed toward the village. “It’s back that way. Blacksmith’s yard.”

  Jack fell into step beside Eirwen as she led him back toward the village, close enough that he could feel the brush of her sleeve against his arm. She walked quickly, humming under her breath, eyes darting to anything new - stones, fence posts, the odd shape of his vehicle in the distance - as if cataloging the world in real time.

  “Your glass,” she said suddenly, adjusting her oversized glasses. “It fractured under stress, not impact. That means it was already resisting force. Clever design.”

  Jack blinked. “Uh. Thanks?” He found it oddly impressive that she could tell, from this distance, how the fracture had formed.

  They passed the first cottages at the edge of the village, and the air changed. Conversations faltered. A woman gathering laundry paused mid-motion. A man at a fence straightened, eyes flicking from Jack to Eirwen - then away.

  Jack noticed the looks immediately. Eirwen didn’t. She kept talking, oblivious. “If I bind the fractures correctly, the stress will redistribute instead of spreading. It won’t shatter unless something truly catastrophic happens.”

  “Define catastrophic,” Jack said.

  “Large beasts. Sudden magic surges. Explosions.” She waved a hand. “The usual.”

  Jack hummed noncommittally.

  By the time the blacksmith’s yard came into view, the stares had turned into whispers. Someone muttered a ward under their breath. Someone else quietly stepped inside and shut a door.

  The blacksmith’s yard came into view - open ground packed flat by years of boots and carts, the forge squatting at its center like a resting animal. Jack’s Charger sat off to one side, hood scarred, windshield veined with fractures that caught the light. The blacksmith looked up from his anvil - and visibly blanched.

  “No,” he said immediately, dropping his hammer. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

  Eirwen smiled, genuinely pleased. “Oh! Hello again.”

  “You nearly blew up my forge last spring!” the blacksmith sputtered, waving the hammer like a scolding finger. “I still can’t get the soot out of the rafters!”

  “I nearly perfected it,” Eirwen corrected brightly. “I was just trying to make it burn hotter. Efficiency is important.”

  Jack’s ears perked up at the fact she made something burn hotter. *Efficiency,* he thought. *If she can push combustion past what fuel alone can do…*

  He opened his mouth to ask -

  And Eirwen stopped dead.

  Not a stumble. Not hesitation. She froze like a hound catching a scent on the wind. Her head turned slowly. Not toward Jack. Not toward the forge.

  Toward the Charger.

  Her nose twitched once. Then again. Her expression shifted - curiosity sharpening into something far more focused. “…That’s strange,” she murmured.

  Jack frowned. “What is?”

  She inhaled again, deeper this time. The cheer drained from her face, replaced by intent.“You smell like oil,” she said. “And metal. And heat.” Her eyes flicked to him briefly. “But that -” She took a step toward the Charger. “- that smells like something that killed.”

  Jack exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I figured that might come up.” He glanced at the blacksmith. “I did say I wanted something identified.”

  The blacksmith stiffened. “*What* did you want identified?”

  Jack turned and walked back toward the car. He popped the trunk. The hinges creaked as the lid rose. Inside lay a heavy tarp, folded and bound with cord. Jack crouched, worked the knot loose, and peeled it back.

  The creature lay where he’d left it. Six-limbed. Fur matted dark with dried blood. Its foreclaws - long, hooked, wrong - were still half-embedded in the rubberized lining Jack hadn’t managed to pry them out of. Even dead, it looked coiled, tense, as though it might finish the motion it had started.

  “I brought down a big cat thing out in the field. Six legs. Horns. Claws long enough to punch through my hood and crack the windshield.” He shrugged. “I’ve hunted problem animals before. Mountain lions, wolves that get too bold. Figured this was the same deal.”

  He paused. “I was planning on finding a hunter to identify it. See what I was dealing with.”

  The blacksmith stared at him. Eirwen went very still. “You killed it?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Took some figuring out, but yeah. Why?”

  The blacksmith swallowed. “You didn’t just kill an animal,” he said.

  Jack frowned. “It bled.”

  “You don't understand,” interjected Eirwen. “It's a magic beast, far more intelligent and ferocious than a regular one.” She stepped closer to the Charger now, eyes unfocused, nose working. “This is an Echo Lion. It uses its illusory abilities to confuse its prey. And it's highly intelligent and sophisticated.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “Okay. And that’s bad because…?”

  “Because they don’t hunt alone,” said Eirwen. “Echo Lions travel in family units,” she said. “Pairs, sometimes trios. Cubs stay close to the parents for years.”

  The blacksmith’s jaw tightened.

  Jack felt the shift before the words landed. “So…”

  Eirwen met his eyes. “You killed one of them.”

  Silence.

  “…And that’s bad,” Jack finished.

  “It’s good,” the blacksmith said quickly. “If you hadn’t, it would’ve taken livestock. Maybe a child.”

  Eirwen didn’t contradict him. “But,” she added softly, “the others will know.”

  Jack crossed his arms. “Because of blood?”

  “Because of absence,” she said. “They hunt together. They sleep together. They map territory as a group.”

  She glanced toward the treeline. “When one doesn’t come back… they look.”

  Jack exhaled slowly. “And when they find the body?”

  The blacksmith didn’t answer. Eirwen did.

  “They won’t care why it died,” she said. “Only where.”

  There was a tense moment of silence before the blacksmith spoke. “The hunter you were looking for… He didn’t come back last night.”

  Jack went still.

  “The trail went cold east of the treeline,” the blacksmith continued. “Same direction you came from.” No accusation. Just fact, laid bare.

  No one spoke. The blacksmith slowly set his hammer down. Eirwen went very still.

  “You brought it *here*,” the blacksmith said at last.

  “It was already dead,” Jack replied. “And I wasn’t about to leave it on the road.”

  Eirwen swallowed. “I smelled it,” she said quietly. “The blood was unmistakable.” She looked at Jack. “Its kin will know.” Eirwen’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Their dead leave a distinctive scent.”

  She looked at the open trunk.

  “You should close it,” she said. “They can smell the blood more prominently out in the open.”

  Jack’s hand hovered over the lid.

  Somewhere in the distance, a low growl ominously rumbled through the underbrush.