Page 118 of The Moonborn's Curse

He moved with surprising gentleness, backing into her space. Slowly, he lay beside her, pressing the curve of his back to hers.

After a while, he turned and laid his great head across her stomach.

A low, sorrowful growl hummed in his chest.

And gradually, her breathing steadied.

On the fourth day, she sat bundled in her cloak near the light shaft, knees hugged to her chest.

"I dreamed of him again," she whispered.

The bear listened, head low, still.

"I used to think that finally...finally... he saw me," she said, voice rough. "Really saw me. Like I wasn't just a duty or a prophecy or a role."

She rubbed her chest again—fingers trembling over the inked knot that wouldn't stop burning.

"But he didn't, did he?" she said bitterly. "He chose her. And I was left behind... again. Like nothing."

The bear huffed.

"Why is it always me?" she asked, tears glistening. "Why do I always come second... or third... or not at all? Why can't I be first? Just once?"

She looked over at him.

He didn't answer with words.

Instead, he stepped closer and nudged her gently with his snout.

Bit by bit, in that cave of forgotten things, she began to speak.

Not all at once.

But in slow, broken pieces—about her childhood. Her loneliness. The pressure. The bond. The betrayal.

He stayed.

He seemed to listen.

And somehow... he understood.

By the fourth day, she was wrapped tight in her cloak, sitting near the edge of the cave's natural skylight as she spoke softly to him.

"Where are you from?" she asked. "What happened to you?"

The bear made a low, mournful sound.

"Do you have a name? Family?"

He became restless. Agitated. His large paws scraped the stone floor, and he turned away.

He left without warning.

Hours later, he returned dripping wet, carrying a bundle of fresh berries cupped in a hollowed gourd.

She smiled. "Thank you."

He lay beside her again that night.

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