Restless
“When the hearth grows restless, embers leap before words can mend. What one refuses to face, the flames will unveil.” – Onyx Iskra
The sound of the heavy wooden door scraping open cut through the hush of Moosewood. Cold air rushed in, scattering the pine-scent and ash. The wind carried the scent of distance, as if the night itself had followed Lynx through the door.
Bear flinched, the warmth recoiling from the sudden intrusion. For an instant, the fire seemed to shrink—ash whispering inward in a silent gasp, as though the room itself forgot how to breathe. Bear felt it in her own chest, that half-drawn stillness that never quite released.
Lynx stepped across the threshold carrying her canvas satchel, shaking snow from her boots to the wooden floor below. The fringe of her coat, dusted in white, dropped icy droplets to the floor as it thawed. A faint shimmer of the aurora’s ribbon still clung to the windowpane before fading into the cold.
“Hey,” she said through a low breath, voice half-swallowed by the fur and feather scarf at her neck.
Bear looked up from her brown cushioned rocking chair beside the hearth, surprise brightening her tired face. “Hey – so good to see you!” The smile lingered a heartbeat too long before fading as Lynx’s gaze slid past her, fixed on the shadowed corner. Something in Bear’s chest lifted, then folded inward — love braced against the thin ice of Lynx’s distance. She masked the tremor with a practiced smile, the kind learned from winters that demanded composure over truth.
“Just passing through.” Lynx’s words were clipped as she shrugged off a thick, mud-stained glove and tossed it carelessly toward a chair. Her eyes darted toward the fire, then toward the old crates in the cluttered corner. “Needed to grab a few things.”
Her fingers drummed once against the canvas strap before she let it fall. Trinkets spilled across the rug — bone beads, scraps of parchment, a feather half-burned at the tip. Each tiny thing caught the firelight for an instant, a brief flare before sinking back to shadow. Little remnants of journeys and half-spoken dreams scattered at her feet.
Bear bent to gather the spill, her paws steady, a lifetime of keeping order amid other people’s storms.
But Lynx only laughed, the fur and feather scarf clutched and adjusted at her neck as she sprawled near the fire. “Leave it, Bear. Not everything needs tidying.” The words carried an edge, half-mocking, half-defensive — as if daring Bear to make it mean something more.
Bear backed away without hesitation, though a faint tremor ran through her paw, an ache of vulnerability pulsing beneath her calm.
Auriel rose and padded toward Lynx, tail wagging lightly. Lynx bent halfway, scratched behind her ears, a quick, unguarded warmth flickering and vanishing before it could settle. For that heartbeat, the room almost remembered itself — then didn’t.
Her face brightened for a heartbeat at something she saw by the corner crates — a glint of glass, pale blue beneath the dust — then shuttered again as Stag emerged with an armful of split wood.
Stag glanced over at Lynx, brow furrowed but silent. That was his way — solid, enduring, steady as the stones, quiet until he reached his breaking point. Lynx, by contrast, filled the cabin with restless sparks.
He nodded toward Lynx. “Evening.”
“Hey,” Lynx replied without looking, crouching by the crates.
Her movements were efficient, almost impatient — pulling open lids, sorting hastily through feathers, cracked vials of oils, and old papers. Her paws hesitated briefly on an old shawl scented faintly of cedar. She felt the echo of the frigid night air. Then she remembered Bear wrapping it around her shoulders, singing low while the fire warmed the room. For a breath, she almost let the memory touch her — but warmth hardened into coldness too quickly. With a catch in her throat, she shoved the shawl back into the crate. The cedar lingered — comforting, yes, but edged with something she couldn’t quite name, as if memory itself went still, listening.
Stag set the wood by the fire without a word and clambered up the stairs. The silence thudded heavier than any argument. His footfall on the final step lingered like something unsaid.
Lynx’s jaw tightened; she avoided his gaze entirely.
Auriel followed him to the loft. She moved easily between Bear and Stag — unlike the others, she carried no grudges, kept no scores, a bridge without judgment. She simply loved, and in loving, softened the edges of everyone around her.
Bear’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach out, to ask where Lynx had been, where she was going, what she was doing, what she was running from — but every question lately seemed to push her farther away.
Sensing the unease, Auriel padded softly from the loft to settle at Bear’s feet. Bear stroked her absently, seeking warmth in silence. The rhythm steadied her hands, but the quiet beneath her calm ached like something half-remembered.
Bear studied Lynx quietly. Lynx had always been striking — wild hair, eyes like storm light — but lately she carried a hardness Bear didn’t recognize. The girl who once curled up beside the hearth to sing ballads was now all edges and velocity, her laughter louder, her silences heavier. Sometimes, when the wind was right, Bear swore she still heard those songs, ghosts of warmth that lingered in the rafters. The same wind that once carried lullabies now moved like distance itself.
“You could stay for supper,” Bear offered softly, just as she always did, her voice fragile as thin ice.
“Can’t. Friends waiting.” Lynx’s tone was casual and curt, but the word friends carried weight — Magpies, Minks, Crows, sometimes Foxes. The ones Bear barely knew but instinctively distrusted.
Bear nodded, expecting the response but hoping for something different. Lynx closed the crate, hastily scraped up the scattered booty, slung the bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door. “I’ll grab the rest some other time.” She did not look back, already halfway to the door.
“Stay safe,” Bear spoke softly. The words meant don’t leave, but she swallowed them with the smoke. Smoke always blurred what she couldn’t say.
Lynx paused for a fraction of a second, then opened the door to leave. “Always,” she replied bluntly, already gone. A strand of her hair caught the firelight before vanishing into the cold.
The door shut. Cold air lingered, carrying a silence heavier than snow. Bear reached for the shawl in the crate after Lynx had gone, but her paws froze in the air. From the hearth came a hiss — the sharp leap of a coal where no coal should be. Auriel lifted her head, uneasy. Outside, the aurora rippled once, then dimmed as clouds swallowed the sky. The color faded like hope retreating beyond the horizon.
From the shadows by the stair came a low, steady purr — not sound so much as vibration, stirring the air. The warmth thickened. Then two embered eyes opened, patient and knowing.
“You may scatter your treasures as you will,
yet the thread of their making still binds to your hand.
Fires reveal what silence hides.
Be ready to see what you would rather not.”
Bear shivered, though the fire burned hot. By the time she looked again, Onyx was gone. Only the restless crackle of the hearth remained, the silence pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath it, and the weight of Avestra’s gaze watching from above.
The rocking chair creaked once, empty, as if remembering its rhythm — its sway marking the space between heartbeats, the measure of what was left unsaid.
Beneath it all, the hearth stirred again — its dream no longer gentle, its breath quickened by what the door had taken.
Missed Chapter 1? Read it HERE
Don’t miss the next chapter! The Maven Mirror is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts, comment, and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.