Azazel returned to his lupine form—imposing, silent—and turned his back to her, offering a wordless invitation. Ophelia, hesitant but overtaken by curiosity, approached and carefully climbed onto his back. She felt the heat radiating from him, the strength pulsing beneath his silver fur. Satisfied, Azazel shot forward into the forest, and Ophelia instinctively leaned in, holding on tightly as the wind danced against her face and the world blurred into leaves, trunks, and light.
The forest began to open before them. The sound of paws against muffled earth gave way to a soft rustling, and the dense vegetation gave space to worn trails and sun-drenched clearings.
Soon, simple structures emerged—mud huts topped with thatched straw, built within nature with a near-instinctive touch. There were no signs of technology, only raw wood, stacked stones, and the faint scent of smoke wafting from small fires in the distance.
Ophelia felt Azazel's pace slow. The wind faded little by little, and her eyes widened as she spotted small creatures darting between the buildings—fox cubs, wolf pups, and even a young leopard, playing freely and without fear.
This was a tribe born from the very heart of the forest—where every sound was natural, every movement simple... and sacred.
Upon reaching the edge of the village, Ophelia scanned the people around her. There were no women—only men with wolf ears, others with fox-like features, and a few bearing feline traits. The diversity caught her attention, but it was their gaze that truly made her shiver.
Nearly all of them were watching her with a primal intensity, as if her presence stirred something deep and ancient within their hearts. A few seemed indifferent, occupied with simple tasks—feeding the young or tending scattered flames—but most stared at her as if she were something precious and deeply desirable.
Ophelia swallowed hard. The heat of their stares wrapped around her like a thick, electric breeze. None of them approached—yet—but the veiled passion on their faces was impossible to ignore. They don't even know me, she thought, confused.
But she knew—even with only fragmented memories—that in this world, polyandry was the norm. And the ratio of women to men was one to seventy. She was... a woman. A rarity, emerging unexpectedly in a secluded tribe long used to feminine scarcity. And now, they all knew: a new woman had arrived.
The first to approach her was a young man with hair and eyes the color of molten amber. He was beautiful—his features soft and gentle—and he carried a serene glow in his gaze as he stopped before her.
"Beautiful female, would you accept me as your husband?" he asked without hesitation. "Your eyes are like the violet flowers I grow in my garden. Sweet, rare... and breathtaking."
His words were direct, yet full of tenderness. But before Ophelia could react, a deep growl sliced through the air like a muffled thunderclap.
Azazel, still in his wolf form, had positioned himself between them. The growl was not of rage, but dominance. A primal warning that said everything without a single word: she is not yours.
The young man took a step back, startled but not insulted. He lowered his head slightly in respect—and in fear—of a level six warrior, and retreated with eyes still glowing with hope.
Ofélia could barely breathe. Her heart raced, unsure if it was from fear, confusion... or something else entirely.
She took an instinctive step back. The air around her seemed to vibrate, as if the entire village was holding its breath for the next word, the next move. Her gaze swept across the masculine faces, many still watching her with thinly veiled anticipation. If that was the first... how many more would come?
And why, among so many, was it Azazel who made her heart race in a way she couldn't explain? After all, she had just met him. Even in a world where emotions were pure and intense, she shouldn't have been this affected...
She could feel Azazel's gaze on her even without looking. Still in his wolf form, he stood perfectly still before her, body tense, eyes alert. There was something in that silence—something that spoke louder than any word.
Ophelia looked away, trying to escape the storm inside her that was starting to overflow. Why did this wolf unnerve her so deeply? Why had that growl made her skin prickle—not with fear, but with something she couldn't name?
No other male dared approach. Not after the warning. Azazel had made it clear, without even shifting forms: she wasn't free territory.
But… what about her? What did she want?
Her breath came unevenly, as if the very air inside the village had thickened. And even without fully understanding this new world, she knew one thing: it wasn't just fate that had brought her here.
It was him. Azazel.
Then, Azazel moved.
Slowly, with the silent authority of someone who controlled every fiber of his being, he stepped to the side—just enough for her to meet his eyes. And there, in front of her, the silver wolf began to transform.
The shift was fluid, as if nature itself willed it. Fur gave way to skin; claws became long, steady fingers. In seconds, Azazel stood before her—naked, but still radiating that same wild power he held as a wolf. His silver eyes never left hers.
"Let's go to the healer's hut," he said at last, his voice low and rough like embers under ash. "No one will touch you without your permission…"
Ophelia felt the air vanish from her lungs for a moment. She hadn't asked for protection. Hadn't said a word. But there was something in his tone—that unsolicited vow—that made her tremble from the inside out.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. So she simply nodded and followed Azazel toward the heart of the village.
At its center stood a hut slightly larger than the others. Though equally simple in appearance—mud walls and a thickly woven straw roof—there was something about it that commanded respect. Perhaps it was its placement… or the invisible presence that clung to it like fog.
As they stepped inside, a strong scent of dried herbs and sweet smoke filled her senses. The air was heavy, laced with aromas that seemed to whisper ancient secrets directly onto her skin. Branches of myrrh, bundles of rue, flowers hung upside down—everything in that space pulsed with ancestral energy.
Azazel turned to her with a seriousness that lacked the earlier wildness—his gaze softer now. Almost reverent.
"The healer will want to see you," he said in a low voice. "She'll examine you… and decide if the tribe will accept your presence."