Butch the Wereboar

Butch steps inside and the door thumps shut behind him. The room smells of ozone, damp earth, and old timber.

Sable braces a heavy chair against the door, then pauses when she sees him. The Son stands near the hearth, training axe hugged to his chest.

Sable leaves the chair where it is and crosses to Butch, her shoulders loosening a little. The Son watches both of them, waiting for the answer to settle.

The room quiets. For the first time in hours, no one moves to fight the house itself.

Butch catches the edge of the rug and hauls it across the threshold. The thick weave scrapes over mud and settles under the door like a second latch.

Sable turns at the sound, her hand still on the chair brace, and nods once as the fabric seals the gap at the bottom of the door.

The Son steps closer to the hearth, looking from the rug to Butch with a steadier face than before. The lantern light flickers low over the dead stain on the roof beam above the door.

Outside, the moor stays silent. Inside, the house feels tighter, warmer, held.