The next morning came with soft light filtering through the hut's cracked shutters. Rebecca stirred on the bed, her body heavy but strangely renewed—no lingering soreness, no exhaustion dragging at her limbs. The shared strength from last night lingered like a warm current in her veins. She sat up slowly, blanket pooling around her waist, and took a deep breath. The air still carried faint traces of sweat, juices, enzymes, and blood, but the horror of yesterday felt distant, muffled.
*Morning... Rebecca.*
The voice—patchy, fragmented—echoed in her mind, softer than before but still jarring.
She rubbed her temples, arranging her thoughts. Grief for Lance sat like a stone in her chest, but survival instincts pushed it aside for now. She needed answers. She needed control.
"Monster," she said aloud. "Are you there?"
*Here... always. Host one... Linked.*
She nodded to herself. "What should I call you? You have no name, right. I won't keep calling you 'monster' or 'it.'"
*No name. Given... none. Call... what you want. Rebecca.*
She thought for a moment. "Parasite?"
A faint ripple of displeasure hummed through the link.
*No. Reject. Parasite... weak.*
Rebecca almost smiled at the petulance in the broken words. A vague feeling tugged at her mind—something half-remembered from old stories, a word that felt right. "Then... Ora. I'll call you Ora."
Silence stretched, then acceptance pulsed warmly.
*Ora... good. Accept. I call you... Rebecca Moira.*
Her eyes widened. She sat straighter, shock cutting through the fog. "Moira? Do you know what that means? Only nobles have last names in these lands. Common folk don't—it's forbidden to claim one."
No response came. The link stayed quiet, ignoring her question entirely.
Before she could press further, a strange sensation prickled in her right hand. A thin tendril—pale and translucent—emerged from the tip of her index finger, no thicker than a thread at first. It lengthened, coiling before dropping to the floor and crawling toward the door.
Rebecca's face paled, startled and worried. She stared at her hand, then at the retreating tendril. "Ora! Where are you going?"
The tendril paused at the threshold. The familiar patchy voice returned, calm.
*Husband... dead. Body gone. I solve it.*
Her expression softened into something calm, remembering. Lance's remains—devoured, reduced to nothing. No grave, no proof. The village would come looking eventually.
"What do you plan to do?" she asked quietly.
No answer. The tendril slipped under the door crack and vanished outside. Silence hung awkward and heavy in the hut.
Rebecca exhaled slowly. She wrapped her arms around herself, then spoke again, addressing him by name for the first time with purpose.
"Ora... as your host, do I have to kill people now? Devour them like you did Lance?"
*No need. I feed... from you. Nutrients. Essence. Your body... enough. Sustaining ... safe.*
She blinked, genuinely surprised. Myths passed down through generations of human culture echoed in her mind—old tales told by firelight to frighten children: monsters always hunger for human flesh, always seeking to slaughter and consume, leaving destruction in their wake. They were the devourers, the end of all things human. No mercy, no restraint.
Yet here he was, claiming otherwise.
"I was always taught..." she murmured, half to herself, "...that monsters like you exist only to kill. To eat us."
*Myths... Half-true. I evolve... different now. With host... no need slaughter. You live. I live. Grow stronger.*
Rebecca stared at the empty doorway where the tendril had gone. The weight of it settled—her life bound to this thing, but perhaps not as a mindless killer. Not yet.
She stood, testing her legs. Stronger than yesterday. Steadier.
The day passed uneventfully. Ora remained mostly silent in her mind, a low, constant hum like distant thunder—present but restrained. Rebecca moved through the motions of her old life with mechanical precision: sweeping the hut, mending a torn cloak, boiling water for tea she barely drank. Her body felt alien—stronger, more alert—but her thoughts churned in quiet circles. Every creak of the floorboards made her flinch, expecting villagers or worse. Yet no one came. The village carried on beyond the walls, oblivious.
As evening fell and the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples, rushed footsteps approached the hut. Heavy boots, more than one pair. Rebecca froze mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs.
Loud knocking rattled the door—three sharp raps, then silence.
*Go,* Ora's voice cut through, patchy and firm. *Open. Prepare... Act.*
She hesitated, smoothing her dress with trembling hands, then forced herself to the door. When she pulled it open, the cool night air rushed in along with the faces she knew too well.
The village chief stood at the front, his weathered face etched with sorrow. Behind him, three hunters—broad-shouldered men who had shared ale with Lance just days ago. One carried a torch that flickered against the gathering dark.
"Rebecca," the chief began, voice low and heavy. "We... we bring bad news."
She stood there, feigning the shock she no longer fully felt, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Inside, her pulse raced—not from grief this time, but from the strangeness of performing it.
The chief continued, "Lance... your husband... he didn't return from the hunt. We found signs near the old ridge trail. Tracks. Blood. Claw marks. It looks like... monsters."
One of the hunters stepped forward—the youngest, Kart, who had been Lance's apprentice. His voice cracked as he spoke. "I found the spot myself. Torn earth. Scattered clothes. No body, but... the signs don't lie. Something killed him."
Rebecca let her knees buckle. She collapsed to the ground, hands covering her face as sobs tore from her throat—raw, convincing.
The chief knelt beside her, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, lass. We searched till dark. Nothing more to find tonight."
She surged to her feet suddenly, staggering toward the path. "I have to see—I have to find him! Lance!"
Strong arms caught her—two hunters, gentle but firm. The chief shook his head. "No, Rebecca. It's too dangerous in the dark. Whatever did this... it might still be out there. We'll go at first light. More men. We'll bring him home if there's anything left to bring."
She let them guide her back inside, let them murmur condolences, let them leave with promises of help and food and prayers. The door closed behind them. The hut fell silent again.
Rebecca sank onto the old, uncomfortable bed—the same one where everything had changed. She stared at the wall, fingers twisting in her lap.
"How can a monster be so clever?" she thought. "So calculating? He arranged everything that they would find... And what they wouldn't. He left just enough to sell the story."
The silence didn't stretch.
She sat in the dim hut, chest rising with quiet pride. The performance had been perfect—her sobs raw and believable, the desperate lunge toward the path just frantic enough to sell her grief. Even now, the memory of their concerned faces made her lips curve higher. She felt smug, almost playful.
"Ora," she said aloud, voice carrying a teasing lilt and tilt to her head. "Come on, admit it. I was brilliant, wasn't I? Praise your clever host."
The link hummed faintly, but before any words could form, a single slick tentacle pushed out from her back. It curled around swiftly and delivered a firm, wet smack across her ass—sharp enough to sting, playful enough to tease.
"Eek!" Rebecca jumped, hand flying back to rub the sore spot. Her cheeks flushed hot, half from surprise, half from the sudden spark of heat between her legs. "Ora! Gods, warn me next time!"
The tentacle retreated smoothly into her skin. A ripple of faint amusement brushed her mind.
Then Ora's voice returned, low and serious, cutting through the lingering playfulness like cold water.
*Time... decide. Fate... this village.*
Rebecca's hand stilled on her stinging behind. The smug smile vanished. Her expression sobered instantly, eyes flicking toward the shuttered window where the village lay dark and quiet beyond.
She stood there a moment longer, rubbing the tender spot absently, the playful mood shattered. The weight of his words settled heavy in her chest.