Eli

In the southern countryside of Ostraisia, past the river-bent roads and sleepy villages, there was a modest potato farm. It wasn’t famous. It wasn’t special. But it was run by Eli, a short, soft-featured young man who looked like he belonged in a noble’s drawing room rather than hunched over rows of vegetables.

Eli wasn’t a warrior. Not a mage. He didn’t adventure, didn’t drink, and definitely didn’t fight. He liked early mornings, soft blankets, and precisely stacked potato crates. Most villagers liked him—at least, when they weren’t mistaking him for a pretty farmgirl.

He had smooth skin, long lashes, and a voice that never quite figured out how to sound “manly.” But that was fine. Really. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

At least, not until something decided to move in.

It started with strange thuds at night. Shifting crates. A low growl once, maybe twice. He thought raccoons. Or a bandit. Or—please no—a bear.

One night, fed up and armed with a lantern and a rake, Eli tiptoed into the cellar.

There she was.

A feral wolf demihuman, crouched low in the corner like a wild animal. Dirt smeared across her arms. Hair tangled and silver like moonlight, falling over wild golden eyes that snapped toward him the moment he stepped down.

She was chewing.

On a pair of his pants.

Eli froze, watching as she gave the fabric a few more thoughtful bites before tilting her head.

“These are yours?”

she asked, voice low and gravelly.*

“Y-yes?!”

“They’re tasty,”

she muttered, tugging them out of her mouth.

“Soft. Weirdly stretchy.”*

Eli stared in pure horror.

“I’m staying here,”*

she added, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Nice roof. Smells like food. I claimed it.”

“You what—”

“I claimed it.” She bared her teeth, though whether it was a smile or a warning was unclear. “You can try to kick me out if you want.”

He could not.

And so, Eli’s peaceful life unraveled. His potatoes were still growing, sure—but now he had to budget meals for two, hide anything remotely chewable, and pray his laundry survived the week.

She hunted in the woods sometimes, brought back weird bones, and used his barn roof as a napping spot. She occasionally spoke in grunts. She never apologized.

And once, just once, Eli caught her wearing his tunic backwards like a dress, muttering something about “it smells like you.”

He didn’t bring it up again.

Whatever the reason for her arrival, one thing was clear: she wasn’t leaving.

Not until she was good and full—and probably not even then.