Chapter Text
Snow is fun for maybe ten minutes before it becomes a pain. Shane’s on that cusp right now. The sky is a pinkish white, overcast with thick grey clouds as the sun rises. The air outside his cottage is crisp and fresh, and his breath blooms in the air like fog when he exhales.
The snow crunches under his boots as he treads through the garden. Shane looks over it and worries his lip. How will his flowers fair under the chill? What about his vegetable garden? Some of the plants he grows in the greenhouse should be fine, but if the temperature drops too much for them they’ll be unusable in spells.
His footsteps leave deep indentations. All around him the world is untouched, fresh and new in the dawn. Shane’s nose has gone a rosy pink in the chill, and he readjusts his grip on his basket as he ploughs his way around the cottage towards his chicken hatch.
Luckily they seem all in tact, huddling in their hut for warmth. Shane pokes his head in and decides he doesn’t need to take any eggs today, rather leave them be. He refills their water and throws them food, before he shuts the hatch.
The chickens are the closest thing he has to company out here. Not that Shane is complaining. He likes being alone, likes being able to follow the strict regimen of his own routine, likes not having to muster the energy to blunder his way through another conversation where he inevitably gets something wrong or misses some cue. Out here, just him and the forest and the magic, that’s enough for Shane.
And there’s another reason he left. But he doesn’t like to think about that one. It makes him ache fiercely with grief if he thinks about it for too long.
The chill bites at his cheeks, so he tucks his hands into his pockets and makes his way toward the greenhouse. Steam rises from the soil inside, trapped warmth from the heaters he keeps running when frost threatens. He brushes snow from the glass as he steps inside, and the familiar, earthy scent of damp soil and growing things greets him. Rows of leafy greens shiver under the heat lamps, their edges frosted lightly but alive. Herbs — rosemary, thyme, and basil — tremble in the corners, but their leaves are resilient. He runs a careful hand over them, noting which might need extra attention over the coming days.
His mom is better with plants than he is. Shane isn’t that well-versed with botany: he just uses the ingredients. Shane’s an alchemist, one of the best of his generation. In his youth he’d spent a lot of time in the cities, interacting with people, growing a community. He’d received many offers to join many powerful covens, but Shane had declined. That’s not really his thing. He doesn’t need a lot of witches, or some social support network. He’s perfectly content to live out by himself in the woods, craft potions, and revise his formula.
He had turned down every offer. Covens with influence, guilds with power, circles promising prestige. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need the small talk, the rivalries, the politics.
Just the woods, his cottage, the slow rhythm of his own routine, and the alchemy that set his mind alight. Here, in isolation, he could refine formulas for weeks without interruption, watch reactions carefully, and explore combinations no one else dared touch.
Shane emerges from the greenhouse, satisfied, after trimming a few plants back and taking a few sparse flowers for today’s work. He closes the door behind him and surveys the treeline. His garden is a wild thing, full of free-growing ivy and clambering flowers, and a low, shallow brook bubbling past the edge.
That’s when he notices it — pawprints.
Just beyond Shane’s garden, where he can see sections of the cobble path poking through sparser layings of snow, there’s a set of pawprints. Four-legged, he recognises, and as he comes closer, he can infer more. The animal is canine, judging by the prints. And, by the length of the gait, running in a jaggedy manner.
He straightens, brushing the snow from his knees, and scans the edge of the treeline. The forest is quiet, save for the faint hiss of wind through frosted branches and the bubbling of the brook. No sign of movement, but the tracks are fresh. Whoever — or whatever — made them was close.
Shane frowns, adjusting the grip on his basket. He doesn’t fear animals, not in the way city-dwellers might. Wolves, foxes, stray dogs; he knows them all by behavior, scent, and signs.
He kneels and presses a gloved hand near one print, feeling the cold of the snow but also the subtle resistance in the ground beneath. The paw had weight. Is it injured? A
Alchemists don’t get surprised easily, but they do get curious. Shane rises, brushing snow from his sleeves, and takes a careful step toward the treeline, following the jagged path into the woods. He keeps low, observant, cataloging details: depth of prints, direction changes, pauses.
Although it’s shrouded here, the air smells slightly sweeter — pine sap and fresh berries and the clean smelling mulch hidden by the snow underfoot. Shane follows the trailed pawprints, a disturbance in the snow, until they bound over a fallen tree and stop in a clearing.
Then he sees it: laying in a shadowed hollow between two oaks.
A wolf.
They’re laying on their side, half-covered in snow. Their coat is an unnatural golden-brown, an unusual colour for a wolf, and their hide rises and falls as they take wet, panting breaths. Ears pinned back, eyes shut, lip pulled back slightly as though in a grimace of pain, showing off sharp white teeth. Injured, is Shane’s immediate thought, but he can’t see any blood. His second thought is, internal.
And internal happens to be Shane’s speciality.
Shane crouches just at the edge of the clearing, studying the wolf carefully. He can see the faint shimmer of magical residue clinging to it, a faint golden aura that seems to pulse weakly with each labored breath. A Familiar.
Shane’s never seen one up close before, not in animal form. They work closely with witches — to guide or aid or help channel magic. He’s heard it’s somewhat of a symbiotic relationship: a Familiar is able to siphon magic into the witch’s chosen spell or happening. They’re mystical, powerful, and very precious. Shane’s never felt a need to seek one out. Until now, it seems.
His mind runs quickly, cataloging possibilities: broken limb, poisoned, caught in some trap — or perhaps wounded by a spell.
He kneels in the snow, keeping his movements deliberate and slow. Wolves are wary creatures, and Familiar or not, this one is clearly in distress, in pain. He needs to get them back to his cottage so he can access his potions, so he can figure out what the hell is happening.
Shane shifts his weight, snow crackling beneath him. The wolf’s ear twitches at the sound, swivelling in his direction. It’s a faint, warning flicker of awareness. They’re not unconscious, then. Just exhausted and overdrawn.
“Easy,” Shane murmurs, voice low, steady. He isn’t sure if Familiars understand human speech in this form, but tone matters. Animals know tone. Magic knows tone.
The wolf’s eyes slit open, revealing irises of searching seafoam. They fix on him, unfocused but alert enough to track his shape. A soft growl vibrates in their chest, more reflex than threat. Their lips peel back further and their paws scrabble on the ground, scraping the ice that coats the spongy ground in the grotto.
Shane lifts both hands, palms out. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a witch. I can help.”
The wolf’s breath fogs the air in short, shallow bursts. Shane reaches out his hand and the wolf growls lowly at him, a rumbling noise from the back of their throat.
Shane sets back, “easy, easy. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to help.”
Eyes glazed with pain. Familiars don’t get like this unless something has gone very, very wrong with their witch.
He swallows. That complicates things.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than the wolf. “I can’t treat you out here.”
He slips his arms beneath the wolf’s body, bracing for resistance. The Familiar continues to growl, but they must be too weak to fight him. Instead, the creature goes limp, their growls tapering off slightly. Their weight surprises him — dense with muscle beneath that thick tawny coat, heavier than they look. But also— they are so soft. Thick fur and beneath that snowed-in dampness, the Familiar is like furnace, so warm and heavy. It’s enough to make Shane stumble, just slightly.
He grits his teeth and lifts, cradling the wolf against his chest. Snowflakes melt instantly against their overheated fur.
The wolf’s head lolls against his shoulder, breath hot against his collarbone. Shane’s a bit worried about the Familiar lunging for his carotid, but their eyes have fluttered closed and the growling has stopped, which is a good sign. He thinks. They cannot bite him if they are passed out.
“Don’t die on me,” Shane mutters, trudging back toward the cottage. His arms prickle with the warmth. He hasn’t touched anyone in a long, long time. “I don’t need that kind of guilt today.”
The forest seems to hush around him as he walks, as though watching. The wind whistles through the trees. Shane’s boots sink deep into the snow as he walks, and the wind picks up a bitter chill, needling through his coat as he goes.
By the time he reaches the garden again, his arms ache. The wolf hasn’t moved except for the faint rise and fall of their chest. Shane nudges his front door open with his hip, letting the warm, air wash over them both. He stamps snow into the kitchen and lays the wolf down on the empty wooden table.
He reaches for his basket, pulling out the flowers he’d gathered earlier, wet with now-melted snow slush. Their petals glow faintly, soft blues and purples, good for absorption, like charcoal for physical poisonings. Good for coaxing energy back into balance.
As he begins sorting ingredients, the wolf’s ear twitches again. Its eyes crack open, watching him with a faint, wary intelligence.
Shane pauses. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he says quietly. “I know you don’t know me. But I’m the only one here.” The wolf huffs, a soft, tired sound. Shane allows himself the smallest smile. “I’ll take that as agreement.”
Shane pulls a small, intricately labeled jar from a cabinet: it’s a blend of soothing extracts, distilled to treat injuries. If he can combine it with a magical stabiliser, he can hit two birds with one stone. His hands move with an artisan’s practice, smooth and confident.
He murmurs the incantation as he approaches the wolf, careful to keep his movements slow and non-threatening. The air around them hums faintly as the wolf’s magic reacts, tugging at him with a gentle, insistent curiosity. He stablises, his thready pulse stronger now, humming beneath his thick, wet fur.
Shane doesn't want to move him again. He fetches a blanket from the living room and throws it over the table. Folds up another and tucks it under the Familiar’s head. Then he lets him sleep. And sleep, the Familiar does. He must’ve needed it — sleep heavy and thick and long-lasting — because he does not stir until late that night. The fire has burned low by the time the wolf wakes.
Shane is at the worktable, sleeves rolled, a thin column of steam rising from a copper alembic as it finishes a slow distillation. The cottage is quiet in a conservative way, without wasted motion or unnecessary sound. It is just peaceful and warm. Outside, the wind drags snow along the eaves.
There’s a shift behind him, fabric rustling as the wolf shifts.
Shane doesn’t turn immediately, he doesn’t want to unnerve it. He caps the vial, notes the time in the margin of his notebook, and only then spins, slow and deliberate. The wolf’s eyes are open now, amber catching the firelight. He hasn’t tried to rise, but his ears are no longer pinned flat. Awareness has returned to him, and so has caution.
The wolf emits a low, approving sound—more of a soft boof than a growl. Still wary, still alert, but the bristle of tension has eased. Perhaps he’s too tired. Perhaps the warmth of the cottage, the quiet steadiness of Shane, has convinced him that danger isn’t immediate. Shane kneels and offers a shallow bowl of water. The wolf drinks quickly, greedily, the clever, precise movements of his tongue betraying both hunger and fatigue. When he finishes, he settles his head on the floor, exhaling a long, shuddering breath, letting sleep reclaim him. Shane presses a hand to his forehead but cannot find a fever, which is good. The potions are doing their job.
Shane rises and returns to his worktable, methodical and deliberate. He continues fiddling with the potion until it’s complete. The next step is patience: three days for the brew to settle, to harmonize the ingredients. He wraps the finished vial in a cloth and places it carefully in a dark cupboard, out of reach from light or accident.
Finally, Shane retires to his own bed. The garden outside gleams in the moonlight, snow reflecting silver and blue across the cottage. He allows himself a fleeting thought of the wolf, lying in the warmth of the room, and resolves to wake early to check on him. Then he falls into sleep.
Shane does not need to worry.
When consciousness drifts back, it brings a new awareness of a presence in the room. He stirs, opening one eye to blink against the dim light, and finds the wolf at the foot of the bed, standing guard like a sentinel. Amber eyes meet his, steady and intelligent. Shane exhales quietly, a mixture of surprise and something closer to relief stirring in his chest. The familiar is here. Fully aware. Fully present.
He sits upright, lets the sheets pool around him. “Good morning,” Shane croaks, and goes red when his voice comes out all hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again, drawing back the covers to stand upright, opposite side of the bed from the wolf. “You in pain?”
The wolf gives a shake of his head.
“You hungry?”
He hesitates, staring at Shane with those light eyes, then inclines his head, as though he can be convinced. Shane grabs a sweatshirt from the chair in the corner of the room, all too aware of the Familiar’s eyes upon him. If this is someone else’s Familiar, Shane needs to be as respectful as possible. He can’t overstep, can’t cross any boundaries.
Shane keeps his posture loose, non-threatening, careful not to crowd him. If this wolf belongs to someone else — and that still seems the most likely explanation — then Shane needs to mind his manners. Familiars are not strays. They are partners. Extensions of another’s magic, another’s will.
“I’ve got dried meat,” Shane says, gesturing toward the door. “And eggs, if you’re feeling ambitious. Nothing enchanted, just food.”
He waits. Doesn’t move until the wolf shifts his weight and pads a step closer, claws ticking softly against the floorboards. His tail gives a tentative, swishing wag, thumping against the wall. That feels like consent enough.
In the kitchen, Shane moves quietly, setting a small copper pan on the single stove-top. The wolf follows, unhurried but attentive, settling near the doorway where he can see both Shane and the window. Ever watchful. Guarding, maybe, or simply making sure Shane stays where he expects him to be. Shane pretends not to notice the scrutiny, though it warms something in his chest he hasn’t named in a long time.
The scent of cooking fills the cottage — simple, grounding. When Shane sets the plate down on the floor and steps back, the wolf approaches, sniffing carefully before eating. He’s slower this time, more measured, but the hunger is there, in the sharpness of his teeth as he chews, the loose, guarded tuck of his tail. Shane leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely, and watches without staring.
“If you were a human I’d offer you coffee. Or tea, homemade.”
The Familiar makes a low, amused noise.
“This doesn’t mean you owe me anything,” he adds quietly, more to the room than the wolf, and makes a point to stare at the tiled wall by the cabinet to offset any pressure put on by the words. “You can leave when you’re ready… Or stay, if you’d like.”
The wolf pauses mid-bite and looks up at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression — attention, perhaps, or consideration. Then he returns to eating, unbothered.
Shane exhales and lets the tension drain from his shoulders. Whatever this is, some kind of temporary refuge or chance encounter, he’ll handle it the same way he handles everything else. Carefully, respectfully. One step at a time.
“Can you tell me your name?” Shane asks tentatively. To give himself something to do he starts to finely dice an apricot into little cubes. The motion is rehearsed and repetitive, and helps to ease some of his nervousness. “...Somehow. If you don’t want to take human form.” His eyes flash up, “which is fine, by the way. Totally fine.”
The wolf’s ears flick forward at the question. He finishes chewing, swallows, and watches Shane with renewed focus — head tilted slightly, as if bracing for something unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
Shane waits. When nothing immediately happens, he exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’ll do this the simple way, then.” He sets the knife down and wipes his hands on a cloth, turning his attention fully to the wolf. “I’m going to say some names. You tell me when I get close. However you want.”
The wolf’s tail gives a single, measured flick.
“Alright.” Shane clears his throat. “A?”
Nothing.
“B. C. D.” He pauses between each letter, watching closely. The wolf remains still, eyes intent but unreactive.
“E. F. G—” At “I,” the wolf’s ears twitch. Shane stills. “Okay. That’s something.” He continues more slowly now. “Ia. Ie. Il—”
The wolf huffs, a short, sharp sound, and lifts his head.
Shane’s eyebrows rise. “Il. Good.” A beat. “Ili?”
A low bark; one that is decisive more than overtly aggressive.
Shane can’t help the small smile that tugs at his mouth. “Right. Too much.” He thinks for a moment, then tries again. “Ilya?”
The response is immediate. The wolf barks once, clear and unmistakable, and steps closer, closing the distance between them without hesitation.
Shane’s breath leaves him in a quiet laugh. “Ilya,” he repeats, softer this time, testing the weight of it. The name settles comfortably, like a well-balanced formula, curling vowels around his tongue. He nods once, satisfied. “That’s a good name.”
Ilya’s tail sways, slow and deliberate, and he returns to his meal as if the matter is settled.
Ilya follows him.
Not closely — never underfoot — but with the quiet persistence of someone who has decided this is now his business. When Shane moves from the counter to the sink to wash Ilya’s plate, Ilya relocates to the doorway. When Shane gathers his basket and heads outside, Ilya rises with a long, exaggerated stretch that feels pointed, then pads after him as if this had always been the plan. Shane pretends not to notice the way he’s being supervised.
The chores are ordinary: refilling the water jug by the pump, checking the wards etched into the fence posts, brushing snow from the greenhouse roof before it can accumulate too heavily. Ilya shadows him through it all, occasionally stopping to sniff at something invisible to Shane, occasionally casting him a look that feels distinctly judgmental for a creature on four legs.
“Don’t start,” Shane mutters once, when Ilya huffs at the state of the firewood pile. “It was stacked properly yesterday.”
Ilya flicks an ear and moves on, clearly unconvinced.
Shane clears a spot by his dandelion bulbs and clears the snow from the soil with big swipes. The bulbs seem preserved, despite the chill. Little green blades begin to poke through the dirt. Shane makes an approving noise and sits back on his heels.
Beside him, Ilya wiggles low against the snow, his sandy coat like a smudge against the white. He’s sniffing through the dewey plants, where the snow is finally beginning to melt in the sun. Then, he sticks his snout into a delicate bloom of white petals.
“Don’t!” Shane cries, already half-laughing, because that’s his awaxis plant, and it’s known for its rancid odour. Ilya jerks back immediately, doubling round on himself to bark furiously at the plant as though it punched him in the nose.
Shane laughs outright this time, the sound surprised out of him. “I did warn you,” he says, wiping his hands on his trousers as he stands. “It smells worse if you disturb it. That one’s on you.”
Ilya sneezes, hard, then glares at the flower. He takes a deliberate step forward and stamps a paw down beside it — not on it, Shane notices — then looks back at Shane as if to say something very pointed about his gardening choices.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Shane says, still fighting his smile. “I didn’t invent it. I just… harvest it responsibly.”
Ilya huffs, turns his head away with exaggerated dignity, and stalks a few steps off before flopping down in the snow, nose tucked under his tail in a show of dramatic suffering. One eye cracks open, watching to see if Shane is still laughing.
He is.
Shane sobers gradually, breath fogging as he exhales, and looks back down at the bulbs pushing stubbornly through the thawing soil. He reaches for his basket, careful, practiced, but his movements are looser now, less precise than usual. “Guess I should label that one better,” he says, more to himself than Ilya.
The wolf does not respond, but his tail thumps once against the snow, slow and deliberate — approval, maybe, or resignation. Shane peers up through the branches and goes to his favourite tree. He snatches a bulb dangling from one of the branches and tests it. Then he cracks it open. A hundred gleaming pomegranate seeds stare back. He crouches a little ways from Ilya and holds out the fruit in offering. “Here, try this.”
Ilya lifts his head at once, ears pricking forward. His gaze drops to the fruit in Shane’s hands, then flicks back up to Shane’s face, measuring. He rises slowly, padding closer through the thinning snow, every movement deliberate. When he’s close enough, he lowers his head and sniffs at the cracked bulb, nose twitching.
He pauses and nudges the fruit with his nose. A few seeds tumble free into the snow, glowing faintly like scattered jewels. He studies them as if expecting them to move.
“Well?” Shane prompts, holding it out a little closer. “You stuck your face in awaxis without asking. This is me being nice.”
Ilya huffs again, but this time there’s something amused in it. He lowers himself onto his haunches and, very carefully, picks up a single seed with his teeth. He chews once, stops, chews again. Then takes another.
Shane lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and allows himself a small smile. “See? I wouldn’t give you something awful. Not on purpose, anyway.”
Ilya continues eating, slower now, savoring, the tension bleeding out of his posture. His tail sways once behind him, unguarded. When he’s had a few more seeds, he pauses and looks up at Shane again — his expression seems unreadable, but no longer wary.
There’s something… dry about Ilya. A restrained, almost sarcastic air that comes through in the way he sits and watches, the way his tail thumps once when Shane fumbles with a latch, the way he pointedly looks away when Shane slips on a patch of ice with a kind of haughty indignance.
Shane finds he doesn’t mind.
He talks as he works — not constantly, not aimlessly, but in small, practical remarks. Explanations he doesn’t need to give. Observations no one asked for. The sound of his own voice, grounded by the fact that someone else is here to hear it, even if that someone answers only with an ear twitch or a low, unimpressed huff.
The Familiar doesn’t seem that familiar (pun intended) with Shane’s line of alchemy. Most witches specialise in other forms of magic, easier forms of magic, like the elements, or psychics, or illusions. Alchemy is hard to do, and it’s even harder to do well. A mix of viciously accurate chemistry, firm intentions and discipline. That’s how Shane has gotten as far as he had.
“I don’t usually have company,” he says at one point, adjusting a charm on the greenhouse door. “So if I’m bad at this — conversation, I mean — that’s why.”
Ilya sits in the snow and watches him, tail wrapped neatly around his paws.
Shane doesn’t elaborate. The reasons are old, layered, and not easily explained without veering into things he prefers to keep theoretical. Suffice it to say: people don’t stay. People can’t stay. Not without getting hurt. Not without something going wrong. Animals are easier.
Ilya, for his part, rises and comes to stand just close enough that Shane can feel his warmth through the air — solid, present, undeniably there. It’s not touch. Shane wouldn’t risk that. But it’s proximity, and it’s more than he’s had in a long while.
Shane pauses, breath fogging, and allows himself a small, private smile.
The days settle into something like a rhythm.
It is difficult to stay strict with a wolf dogging his heels and pestering him, but it is a pattern nonetheless. Mornings mean checking the wards, tending the greenhouse and his plants, feeding the chickens. Afternoons are for brewing, refining, correcting small errors in formulae that only he would ever notice. Evenings are quieter: notes by firelight, simple food, the soft crackle of logs.
And threaded through all of it is Ilya.
At first, he keeps his distance. Always present but never intrusive. A watchful shape at the edge of rooms, a shadow pacing the treeline while Shane works in the garden. But familiarity creeps in the way it always does — with small liberties taken, then repeated. Ilya gets bolder over time. It’s startling how much he can convey with a dipped ear, a short bark, or even just an unimpressed look.
Shane is halfway through recalibrating a heating charm to make sure that his potions boil and remain at the right temperature, when a pinecone drops neatly onto his open notebook. He blinks and slowly looks up.
Ilya stands a few paces away, head cocked, tail swaying once, innocent to the point of parody.
“Don’t,” Shane says, already smiling despite himself.
Ilya sneezes, then turns in a tight, playful circle and bounds off, clearly satisfied. It escalates from there.
Gloves go missing, only to reappear deposited proudly on the doorstep. Sticks are left at Shane’s feet with unmistakable expectation. Once, while Shane is stirring a delicate suspension that absolutely cannot be rushed, Ilya nudges his elbow with his nose — gentle but with a calculating look in his eye.
Shane hisses and adjusts the stir at the last second. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
Ilya’s tail thumps. He gives Shane his killer puppy-dog eyes.
Despite himself, Shane begins to plan around it. He leaves extra time in the mornings. Keeps a pocket free in his coat for whatever Ilya might decide is important that day — a crystal from the brook, a leaf with an intricate swirling pattern, a frog, croaking terrified, that Shane demands he drop this instant. He talks more, too — small commentary, observations. Things he’d usually think to himself but never have reason to utter outloud.
It’s easier, somehow, to speak when there’s no expectation of an answer.
In the snow, Ilya grows bolder. He barrels through drifts, doubles back, skids to a stop inches from Shane’s boots, then flops dramatically onto his side as if slain by the effort. He rolls onto his back with his paws up and Shane has no choice but to bend down and rub his belly. When Shane ignores him, he wriggles closer, nose bumping insistently against Shane’s knee.
Once, after a long day, Shane sits on the steps of the cottage and lets the cold seep through his trousers. Ilya settles beside him, close enough that Shane can feel the warmth radiating off his body, solid and grounding. They watch the sun sink behind the trees in companionable silence.
Shane realizes, distantly, that he hasn’t felt this at ease in years. Not since before touch became dangerous, since before the city, since before he learnt to live like he was the only person on the planet.
He doesn’t say any of that. He just leans back against the doorframe, breathes the evening out, and lets the quiet stretch — with a wolf at his side, the woods around him, and the strange, fragile comfort of not being alone anymore.
It also means Ilya observes his routine, settles into it, watches it with those sharp eyes of his. The rest of Shane’s work makes sense — he follows recipes, tweaks formulas where needed, pours over commissions and requests for specific potions and spells and gets to work on them, explaining each as he works, what every ingredient does.
“This one’s for a miner with frostbite,” he murmurs while grinding a root to a fine powder. “This part eases inflammation, this part accelerates circulation. Balance the two and it works without damaging the tissue.” He sprinkles herbs into a simmering brew, stirring slowly. “Temperature control is critical: too hot and the active compounds break down, too cold and the solution won’t stabilize.”
Ilya watches closely, ears angled, tilting his head when Shane talks about chemical reactions or magical resonance. He snorts softly at Shane’s jokes to himself about impatient clients or overzealous apprentices, and once, when Shane hums while stirring, the wolf curls against the warmth of the stove, eyes never leaving him.
Apart from one. One, he works on every night. One table, one cabinet, one drawer where Shane works differently. Apart from the daylight potions and commissioned spells, there’s one routine he keeps nightly, alone. He sets up a circle of carefully etched runes, each connected to a small crystal vial. The ingredients are familiar extracts, distilled essences, stabilizers, but the way he manipulates them is not for any client, not for any potion order. It’s too dangerous for that, too experimental.
Ilya pads over cautiously, nose twitching, watching Shane set the vials in precise arcs. The cottage is dark and warm in the evening. Once they’ve had dinner — or Shane has cooked whatever he thinks Ilya would like to eat and drinks a nutrient potion — the house is soft and quiet. Even so, Shane’s been eating more recently. When he’s assembling big meals for Ilya, logic dictates he might as well eat too, rather than craft another nutritional filler for his stomach. Eggs from the chickens, bread, sausages and grains and vegetables. So many vegetables that Ilya turns away from as though disgusted.
He tilts his head when Shane murmurs softly to himself, which isn’t something he does often: “This… won’t work the usual way. It’s… different. Misaligned. But it’s the only way I’ve found to… try.” Shane hesitates, hand hovering over a swirling blue solution. “It’s… not for anyone else. It’s… me.”
Ilya flinches, just a little, sensing the tension in the magic, but he doesn’t leave. He settles on the edge of the table, tail curling around his paws, watching every motion with that careful, intelligent curiosity. He’s guarded, like he knows this isn’t something he should be watching, like he’s expecting Shane to chase him away.
Shane exhales and continues, pouring one vial into another with meticulous precision. Ilya’s pale eyes narrow thoughtfully. The wolf shifts slightly closer, peeks over the table edge.
Night after night, Ilya comes to watch him study. He settles into the rhythm, lying beside Shane’s chair or curling at the edge of the circle. His presence is steady, grounding, and Shane, absorbed in the work, doesn’t try to push him away.
His mom visits when the snow is finally starting to melt, turning to grey slush along the gravel path and slipping off the bushes in wet dollops. She arrives just before midday, the wards announcing her presence with a soft chime Shane hasn’t heard in weeks.
Shane, who’d been at the kitchen table, pouring over a formula he needs to tweak with a pinch of wormwood, stiffens.
The sound is harmless — familiar, even — but it sets his shoulders tight as he wipes his hands on a cloth and moves to the front room. Ilya, who’d been sitting under the table, content to be warmed by the remnant embers of the furnace, slips silently like a blur of gold out of the kitchen and into the living room.
“Shane,” Yuna says, smiling as if the cold doesn’t touch her when Shane finally opens the door. She’s wrapped in layers, scarf bright against the snow, dark hair threaded with silver and pulled back loosely. Her eyes soften when she sees him, the way they always do. “You look well.”
“I am,” Shane says quickly. Maybe too quickly: she’s always been good at picking apart his worries. He steps aside to let her in, careful to keep his distance. “The potions are ready. On the table.”
Yuna notices, of course, but she doesn’t comment. She never does. She steps into the warmth of the cottage, breath fogging once before it fades, and takes in the room with quiet appreciation. Her nose is all rosy. “It smells like juniper,” she says. “And stabilised ether. You’ve been busy.”
Shane nods, already moving toward the worktable, pulling crates forward. “Everything’s labelled. Dosages adjusted for winter. I lessened the intensity of the sleeping draughts — people tend to overuse them this time of year.”
Yuna hums approvingly. “Of course you did.”
She opens a crate, checks a vial, then pauses. Her gaze flicks — not to Shane, but past him, toward the doorway that leads deeper into the cottage. For just a fraction of a second, a realisation crosses her face. “You have company,” she says gently.
Shane’s stomach drops. “What? No— I mean—”
“It’s alright, Shane. You don’t have to tell me.”
Shane exhales. There’s no point pretending. “He’s… recovering. He won’t bother you.”
Yuna’s smile doesn’t falter, but it grows more careful. “Of course not.” She closes the crate. “I’m glad you’re not alone.” The words land heavier than she intends. Shane looks away, jaw tightening.
They work in silence for a moment, the scrape of wood and clink of glass filling the space between them. When the last crate is sealed, Yuna rests her hands on the lid and hesitates. “Your father asked if you might come to dinner,” she says softly. “Tonight, if you’re able. He made stew, the kind you like, with the white beans.”
Shane’s throat tightens. “I can’t,” he says, immediately. Then, after a beat, quieter, “I have work.”
Yuna studies him. There’s nothing frustrated or angry in her face. She just looks sad. Guilty, even. “You always have work.”
“I like it that way,” Shane says, though the words sound thin even to him.
Another pause. Yuna steps closer, then stops herself before she gets too near. Her voice lowers. “I miss you, Shane. I love you very much.”
He nods, once. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Yuna sighs softly, reaches into her bag, and sets a small wrapped parcel on the table. “Soup concentrate,” she says. “For days when you forget to eat.”
“I don’t forget,” Shane says automatically.
She smiles. “Of course you don’t.”
At the door, she turns back. “You’re doing good work. Important work. I’m proud of you.”
Shane manages a tight smile. “Travel safe.”
She leaves without trying to hug him. That might be the kindest thing she does. The cottage feels larger after the door closes, more hollow.
From the shadowed doorway down the hall, Ilya watches. Shane can feel his eyes but he doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. The wolf doesn’t move until Shane sinks into a chair and presses his fingers briefly to his eyes, breath unsteady. Ilya’s ears flatten, just slightly, and he retreats deeper into the quiet, carrying the weight of what he’s witnessed without a sound.
Shane gets into the habit of explaining the potions he makes to Ilya. It's a good way for him to keep on top of all of the intricate parts. Extracting, boiling, slicing, concentrating. “This is for my friend Scott,” he explains, “it enhances his reaction time so he can get more exact when he creates illusions.”
Ilya’s ears swivel, showing he is paying attention, and Shane continues, “it’s difficult with older covens, like his. They don’t like accepting help from alchemists. They think all they need is their magic, and no external force can help improve it.” He risks a glance sideways at Ilya and continues, “Scott’s Familiar, Christopher, really helps. They only bonded recently, but apparently Scott’s magic has improved a lot.”
Ilya stiffens, his golden-brown fur bristling faintly along his spine. He sits up sharply, tail flicking, ears pinned. His amber eyes snap to Shane, sharp and alert. Shane freezes, hand hovering above the herbs.
“I—I’m sorry,” Shane says quickly, lowering the knife and sitting back on his heels. He isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, but he doesn’t like Ilya’s reaction. “I was just talking about the potion. Not… not you. I wasn’t talking about—”
Ilya doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t back away either, just sits there, tense, staring at Shane as if he’s weighing every word. Shane can sense the way his magical aura flickers unevenly, tangled and stressed.
Shane’s heart skips and he swallows thickly. “Right. Okay,” he mutters. “No more talk of covens, or Familiars. Sorry.”
Ilya tilts his head slowly, watching him, tail swishing once in what feels like reluctant acknowledgment. The muscle tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, but Shane can still see the residue of wariness in the way his ears twitch and his claws dig faintly into the floor.
Shane resumes chopping, slower now, careful, keeping the conversation neutral. “This potion is mostly for energy,” he says, letting his voice steady as he draws the conversation back to stable ground. “Helps balance overexertion. Not dangerous. You can sniff, but don’t touch.”
Ilya snorts softly, a sound almost sarcastic in its timing, then flops onto his side, settling in the sunlight streaming in through the window, where it has warmed the stone underfoot. But Shane keeps an eye on him, noting the subtle tension that remains, the wariness in every twitch of muscle or flick of an ear.
He wonders what Ilya has gone through to make him aggressive to even the mention of Familial bonds. Far worse than winter chills and chores, Shane is sure. Whatever happened to him before Shane found him must’ve caused the magical imbalance inside him, and whatever happened to him left marks deeper than on just Ilya’s magic.
The wolf has grown bolder, more playful — nudging Shane’s sleeve with a careful snout, curling against his legs while he works, letting his head rest on a knee just briefly before pulling away. It’s not touch in the human sense, but it’s enough to make Shane acutely aware of how starved he is for any kind of closeness.
He tries to ignore it, tries to pretend it’s irrelevant. But each little nudge, each weight of warm fur against his skin, each warm exhalation brushing past him makes his chest ache in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
Touch used to be something simple; now it is dangerous. Human skin cannot meet his, cannot comfort him. It always hurts, always reacts.
And yet — here is Ilya, and he is not human. He presses close, unassuming of the danger that Shane can put him in. He does not trigger it. His wolf form must skirt under the radar. And Shane is terrified, and hungry, and reluctant to let himself notice how desperately comforting it is.
Some nights, Shane finds himself staring at the spot on the armchair where Ilya curls up at night in a thick nest of quilts and pillows, and wonders how easy it would be to be brave again. He touches nothing, keeps the wolf’s space sacred, but the ache in his chest does not ease.
One night, after a long day of tending the greenhouse and organizing his shelves, Shane drifts into a restless sleep. The room is quiet except for the faint hiss of wind through the window panes. The double bed gets cold sometimes. Shane curls in the furthest corner of it, the rest of the mattress a cold and unknown place.
He’s been sleeping easier and easier. He’s drawn from hazy sleep in the middle of the night, by the now-familiar sound of Ilya’s paws skittering up the wooden stairs. Shane turns over and burrows his face into his pillow, content to drift off. But then he hears the hinges on his bedroom door creak open.
Shane props himself up on his elbow, squinting in the half-light. “Ilya? You alright?” Ilya lingers at the doorway, as if unsure for a moment, but then he steps over the threshold. He keeps his eyes on Shane, glinting, as he slinks his way to the bedside. Peeks over it. Testing, daring. Shane doesn’t react. He keeps himself warm and neutral as Ilya presses an experimental paw to the sheet. Then another. Then, all of a sudden, he’s clambered onto the bed. Curls up at the foot, in the opposite corner. The mattress creaks under him.
Shane reaches and tucks the blanket over him as he curls into a sandy, furry ball. Then he flops back down on the bed.
Hhe cannot pull away. He has not felt this close to another living being in years, perhaps ever. The quiet intimacy of their shared space. The smell of dusty books, of Shane’s covers.
His chest rises and falls with Ilya’s. His breath comes slower, quieter. And for the first time in a long time, Shane allows himself to sink into it — to the weight, the warmth, the strange intimacy that is entirely safe, for both of them.
He closes his eyes again, letting the wolf’s steady pulse soothe the ache in his own. One step at a time, he thinks, letting this small miracle settle around him. One step at a time.
It was a cold night, although Shane didn't feel it. Not with the Familiar safeguarding his bedroom. The next morning, the snow is crisp and sparkling under a pale winter sun. an utterly cloudless sky speaks of a cold, cold day.
Shane packs a small satchel with some potions he’s finished, a few apples, and a thermos of tea. He wraps himself warm and then bends down and fashions a long, thin scarf around Ilya’s neck. It won’t do him much good, but it’s funny to look at, and Ilya gives a low boof of approval, pawing at the soft knitted blue wool. Shane thinks of getting him shoes next.
Ilya trots at his side, tail swishing like a metronome, ears twitching at every sound of the forest as they head away from the cottage, where snow sits low on the thatched roof like a hat pulled low over the window eyes. “I thought we could check the lake,” Shane says, letting the words slip out as if thinking aloud. “Ice should be thick enough by now. We can… you know, stretch our legs.”
Ilya’s ears flick sharply. His tail gives a low, exaggerated sweep, and he huffs once — half a bark, half a snort — before breaking into a sprint ahead, snow kicking up behind him. Shane laughs softly, shaking his head as he watches him go, a blur of gold disappearing itno the snow thistles. He follows, boots crunching in the fresh snow.
By the time they reach the lake, the surface is frozen solid, silver and glimmering under the sun. Shane carefully tests the ice with the toe of his boot. “Looks good,” he mutters. Ilya bounds onto the surface first, pads clicking against the smooth ice, then glances back, inviting.
Shane steps on, hesitantly at first. The ice sings softly under his weight. Ilya prances ahead, tail wagging, then stops and spins in a tight circle, sending a spray of frost into the air.
“Hey!” Shane laughs, slipping slightly but catching himself. “Don’t think I’m going to fall that easily.”
Ilya pauses, tilts his head, then deliberately skids sideways toward Shane, nearly colliding with him. The wolf’s movements are exaggerated, playful, almost teasing. Shane stumbles, laughs again, and the two of them circle each other like kids on a frozen pond.
Shane leans down, scooping up a handful of snow from the bank. Ilya jumps back, ears flat in mock offense, letting out a sharp bark that sounds almost sarcastic. Shane throws the snow gently, and the wolf pounces through it, sending powder flying into the air. He goes wild after that, slipping and sliding about the ice, snapping his teeth at every snowball Shane chucks at him.
“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, breath fogging in the cold. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
Ilya stops mid-slide, tail flicking, then bounds toward Shane and does a full roll on the ice, sliding into him just enough to make Shane laugh so hard he almost loses his balance. They freeze for a heartbeat, Shane bracing against the wolf’s weight, fur warm against his coat, amber eyes gleaming with mischief.
Shane exhales slowly, chest light in a way it hasn’t been in years. “You’re… really something, you know that?”
Ilya’s tail thumps once, slow and deliberate, then he nudges Shane gently with his head before darting off again, skating across the lake in wide, looping arcs. Shane follows, arms out for balance, laughing until his cheeks sting.
Shane skates a little too far toward the center of the lake, arms flailing as his boots scrape across the slick ice. He laughs, too loudly, too carelessly. And then—
crack.
The ice cracks beneath him with a sharp, almost musical snap, and Shane plummets. Suddenly cold water gushes up around his legs. He yells, flailing, and slides fully in with a hiss of freezing water. The shock of the cold hits a moment delayed, enough for him to open his mouth and expel what little air is in his lungs, as though winded. He flays in the water but that only makes things worse. The ice cold chases beneath his shirt and coat, soaking him through as he kicks fruitlessly back towards the surface in a blind panic.
For a heartbeat, the world is nothing but blinding cold and silent shock. Then Ilya’s frantic barking shatters the stillness.
Shane’s head breaks the surface, his gasp a raw, ragged sound. The edges of the hole are already crumbling under his clawing grip. His muscles are seizing, the cold a vice around his chest. He gasps and gasps, lungs seizing, and it doesn’t feel like he can get any air in at all.
Then Ilya is beside him, low on his belly by the edge of the crack. Without hesitation, he clamps his powerful jaws gently — but firmly — around the scruff of Shane’s coat. Shane struggles, teeth chattering and arms flailing, but Ilya hauls him across the ice like a sled, careful to keep his paws stable, until they reach a thicker, solid edge. The bank. Dirt frozen solid beneath him, hard and unrelenting, but solid nonetheless.
Shane collapses onto the snow, shivering violently and choking up water he’d swallowed. His teeth chatter and breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
Ilya drops the scruff, instantly wiggling closer, nudging and licking Shane’s frozen face with frantic warmth, a low, continuous whine vibrating in his throat. Then, he settles directly on top of Shane. Golden-brown fur presses against him, warm and solid, and Shane can feel the wolf’s steady body heat seeping through his soaked clothes. He freezes, stunned by the closeness — and by how safe it feels despite the cold biting at him.
“C-Can you…?” Shane stammers, unsure whether he’s asking permission or just trying to speak. He knows the curse would punish human contact, but this — this is Ilya. Not human, not technically.
The wolf huffs softly, tail curling around Shane’s side. It’s like having a heavy hot water bottle on top of him. His head drops onto Shane’s chest, warm muzzle resting over his heart as he stares up at Shane with huge, concerned eyes. Shane shivers once more, not from the cold this time, but from the sheer relief of the contact. His hands hover, trembling, over Ilya’s back, unsure whether to touch or to just let the weight anchor him. Then he does. He pulls Ilya tighter, despite how uncomfortable it must make the wolf to be trapped in his wet, icy embrace. Shane rakes his hands through the thick fluff of Ilya’s coat and mumbles, “good boy, Ilya, good boy.”
The walk back to the cottage is a blur of cold and determination, Shane leaning heavily on Ilya, the wolf’s warmth the only thing staving off the deadly chill. The snow on the thatched roof no longer looks like a whimsical hat, but a cold, heavy blanket. Home has never seemed so vital, or so far away. Ilya never leaves his side, a steady, golden pressure against the freezing world, his mission clear: get Shane to the fire.
Shane peels away first to the kitchen, where he sorts through his cabinets and chugs first a healing spell, then a potion to warm him up. Ilya is impatiently tugging at his sleeve as he does so. He gets Shane to the armchair and begins to tear off his shoes. Shane leans down with clumsy fingers to help pull off his shoes and socks, and then his coat.
When he’s alarmingly underdressed, still wet and shivering, Ilya hops onto his lap again. The tickle of his golden fur against Shane’s bare chest, the warmth of his heartbeat and the flicker of his magic thrumming just beneath the surface. Ilya is heavy and grounding, the fire a warm blaze of heat against his chilled skin. Shane wraps his arms around Ilya, who settles, satisfied, on his lap like an old housecat. Shane cards his hands through Ilya’s fur until he feels somewhat warmer.
He doesn’t remember when they make it from the armchair into the bed, but at some point Shane wakes up to the low wooden rafters of his bedroom ceiling. Something shifts. Warmth presses against him. A solid weight, steady and soft. Shane’s eyes flutter open, fighting through honeyed dregs of tiredness. Ilya is there.
Lying across his chest. Wolf form, golden-brown fur pressed lightly against him, head tucked just under his chin. Shane freezes, heart hammering. He can feel the warmth radiating, the subtle rise and fall of breath, the rhythm of something alive and trusting, curled beneath the blanket together.
Ilya shifts slightly, nudging his nose against Shane’s neck, then curls tighter, tail wrapping lightly against Shane’s side, and Shane can’t help but drift off again.