When Arl pushed open the door to her home, the house felt quieter than before.

  The slanted light of sunset spilled through the window, dust drifting slowly in the air.

  She had just set down her pack when a small shape darted out from the corner.

  The cub made no sound.

  Its steps were light—but steady.

  The hind leg that had once dragged behind it now moved freely, its gait almost agile.

  Arl stopped without thinking.

  It padded up to her, looked up briefly, its tail swaying once or twice—as if checking whether she had returned safely.

  Then it turned, walked back to its mat, glanced at her again, and then at the cushion it had torn apart.

  Waiting.

  Arl approached slowly and crouched down.

  She reached out, fingers pressing gently along the joints and muscle of its hind leg.

  No stiffness. No flinching.

  The cub remained perfectly still, breathing even, eyes fixed on her.

  Too calm.

  The thought surfaced, but she said nothing.

  She withdrew her hand and brushed her fingers lightly over its head.

  “…As long as you’re fine.”

  The cub blinked, leaned into her palm, tail swaying once more before settling back onto the mat.

  As if it already knew she would do exactly that.

  The cushion beneath it was nearly destroyed.

  And yet—it slept anyway.

  Arl sighed quietly and retrieved thin wooden rods and twine from the shelf.

  Weaving a new cushion was simple work.

  In the past, she had helped textile workers rush hundreds of festival garments in a matter of days. Compared to that, this was easy.

  She salvaged what stuffing she could, wrapped it in a sturdier weave, and added fresh padding.

  Only then did she realize—the cub wasn’t actually small.

  Last night, it had curled in on itself, fitting neatly onto the old mat.

  This time, she made the cushion larger. Stronger.

  Hopefully, it would last.

  “All right. This one’s yours.”

  She glanced at it, faint resignation in her voice.

  “Please don’t tear this one apart.”

  The cub sniffed it, pawed at it twice, then lay down without hesitation.

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  Its tail swayed gently. Its gaze remained on her.

  “…Looks like you like it.”

  She stood there for a moment, exhaled softly, and turned to prepare for the evening.

  Night settled in.

  Arl did not sleep deeply.

  A faint sound reached her ears.

  She opened her eyes slowly, lifting a hand to block the moonlight spilling through the window.

  The cub was no longer on its mat.

  It stood at the door, scratching at the wood with steady, deliberate motions.

  “You want to go out?”

  Arl rose without speaking and opened the door.

  The cub lunged forward, caught off guard, and stumbled slightly.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you’d rush out like that.”

  It circled anxiously.

  A thought crossed her mind.

  “…Do you need to take care of something?”

  Before she finished speaking, the cub lifted its head and howled at the moon.

  “Awo—”

  The sound was long. Clear. Unmistakable in the night.

  Arl froze.

  Why would it howl now—at this hour?

  “What’s wrong?”

  She knelt, reaching out to check its leg.

  “Does something hurt?”

  This time, the cub avoided her hand.

  The movement was precise. Controlled. No aggression—just refusal.

  It howled again. Low. Then a third time.

  After that, it lowered its head, gently caught the cloth tied around Arl’s ankle between its teeth, and tugged toward the door.

  An invitation.

  “…Outside?” Arl frowned. “You want me to come with you?”

  She hesitated only briefly before turning to grab her pack and outerwear.

  “Wait. Let me change.”

  When she was ready, the cub stood by the fence gate—already waiting.

  As if it knew she would follow.

  “…All right.”

  The moment she spoke, it bolted.

  “—Damn it.”

  She swore under her breath and ran after it.

  The forest at night was dangerous.

  Uneven ground. Heavy shadows. One wrong step could mean a fall—or worse.

  But the cub was fast.

  Its form flickered beneath the moonlight, its fur reflecting an inverted sheen— not bright, but impossible to ignore.

  Arl clenched her teeth and kept pace.

  Years of traveling alone had trained her eyes to the dark, her breath to steady rhythm.

  Even so, this speed pushed the limits of what a normal person could manage.

  “Where are you taking me…?”

  She whispered, receiving no answer.

  The trees thinned. The terrain grew familiar.

  Arl slowed.

  —No.

  Her heart tightened.

  This direction…

  She looked ahead.

  This wasn’t the way to the Star-Dew field.

  She was certain of that.

  She hadn’t crossed the bridge.

  She turned sharply, checking the path behind her.

  Clear. Unbroken.

  Then how—

  She looked back at the cub.

  It stood ahead, watching her. Its eyes glowed unnaturally bright in the darkness.

  Several explanations surfaced—then were dismissed.

  Another exit from the village? Pure instinct? Scent?

  No.

  Even the guards wouldn’t walk this path so precisely.

  Arl inhaled, forcing the questions down, and stepped forward.

  Whatever this was—

  She was already here.

  She no longer knew how long she had followed the cub when it finally slowed.

  She stopped with it.

  Before them lay the Star-Dew flower field.

  Moonlight poured down.

  The flowers, already faintly luminous, now shimmered as if reflecting the entire night sky— countless points of light interwoven, dazzling enough to hurt the eyes.

  Arl raised a hand instinctively.

  The cub stood at the center of the field, tail swaying, looking back at her.

  Waiting.

  She hesitated—then stepped between the flowers.

  They shifted aside without breaking.

  As if making room.

  A chill crept up her spine.

  Beyond the field, Arl froze.

  This place— she had never seen it before.

  Where there should have been tall, tangled grass, there was only bare ground.

  Cleared.

  The soil disturbed. Damp.

  As if something had prepared this space in advance.

  “…What is this?”

  The cub offered no answer.

  It walked to the center and began to dig.

  The motion was practiced. Purposeful.

  Soil flew aside.

  Then—a glimmer.

  Something round surfaced from the earth.

  A fruit.

  Smooth-skinned. Gently luminous. As if the night itself had fed it.

  Arl’s chest tightened.

  The cub seized it and bit down without hesitation.

  It ate quickly. Happily. One after another— as if it had always known these fruits were here.

  “Wait—!”

  Arl stepped forward.

  “Can you even eat that?” Her voice shook.

  “Stop—what if it makes you sick?”

  The cub did not stop.

  It only looked at her.

  Then it picked up one fruit, carried it over, and placed it carefully at her feet.

  The fruit glowed softly under the moon.

  Quiet. Inviting.

  Arl stared at it, unmoving.

  Her fingers curled slowly. This wasn’t curiosity she felt—

  It was caution.

  This is not something I’m meant to understand yet. Nor something I’ve ever seen before.

  She did not eat it. Instead, she placed the fruit into her pack.

  This was no longer something she could judge alone.

  Perhaps she should see the Godmother.

  Or—at the very least— search the temple records.

  stay only as long as they choose,

  and leave questions behind.