Chap­ter 2, the weight of the deer pressed against Feyre’s aching shoul­ders as she made her way through the dark­en­ing woods, each step crunch­ing against the frost-bit­ten earth. Though exhaus­tion clawed at her limbs, she pressed for­ward, her thoughts pre­oc­cu­pied with the wait­ing hunger of her fam­i­ly. The sky, once streaked with the faint hues of a dying sun, had sur­ren­dered to the deep indi­go of twi­light, and the loom­ing sil­hou­ette of her home final­ly came into view—a small, weath­er-worn cot­tage stand­ing in defi­ance against the relent­less win­ter.

The dim can­dle­light flick­er­ing from its cracked win­dows stirred a fleet­ing sense of com­fort in her chest, but she knew bet­ter than to let it linger. Inside, her sis­ters’ voic­es car­ried through the thin walls, their words uncon­cerned with the bru­tal real­i­ties of their exis­tence. Elain, ever the opti­mist, spoke in hushed tones of the flow­ers she would plant come spring, while Nes­ta, her voice edged with sharp cyn­i­cism, coun­tered with remarks about how such fool­ish dreams held no place in their world.

Step­ping through the door, Feyre was met with the famil­iar warmth of the hearth, though it did lit­tle to ease the cold seep­ing into her bones. She heaved the deer onto the wood­en table, its life­less form draw­ing gasps from Elain and a silent, apprais­ing glance from Nes­ta. Their father, seat­ed near the fire­place, bare­ly looked up from the carv­ing he was absent­mind­ed­ly whittling—his once strong hands now worn and frail, a shad­ow of the man he used to be.

With­out a word, Feyre began the labo­ri­ous task of skin­ning and butcher­ing the deer, her fin­gers deft­ly work­ing through mus­cle and sinew. The rhyth­mic slice of her knife was the only sound that filled the room for a moment, save for the occa­sion­al crack­le of burn­ing wood. She had long stopped expect­ing grat­i­tude for her efforts; after all, it was an unspo­ken truth that their sur­vival rest­ed sole­ly on her shoul­ders.

As the scent of roast­ing veni­son filled the air, Feyre could feel the ten­sion ease, if only for a moment. The meal was a rare indul­gence, and even Nes­ta, with all her hard­ened pride, accept­ed her por­tion with­out a snide remark. They ate in near silence, save for Elain’s occa­sion­al mus­ings about their future—dreams of a life beyond their crum­bling home, of suit­ors and oppor­tu­ni­ties that seemed almost laugh­able in their cur­rent state.

The con­ver­sa­tion took a turn when Nes­ta, ever blunt, scoffed at Elain’s hope­ful out­look, call­ing it a fool’s fan­ta­sy in a world that had already stolen too much from them. Feyre clenched her jaw, unwill­ing to engage in yet anoth­er argu­ment that would lead nowhere. She had long since accept­ed that their cir­cum­stances would not change—not unless she found a way to alter them her­self.

Her father, who had remained silent for most of the evening, final­ly spoke, rem­i­nisc­ing about the wealth and pros­per­i­ty they once had. His words, though wist­ful, car­ried no real hope, only the dull ache of regret. Nesta’s expres­sion dark­ened, her patience wear­ing thin with his use­less nos­tal­gia.

Feyre, how­ev­er, remained qui­et, focused on the last few bites of her meal. She could not afford the lux­u­ry of rem­i­nisc­ing. The past was a for­eign land she had long since aban­doned, and the future was uncer­tain at best. All that mat­tered was the present—the next hunt, the next meal, the next day she would have to endure.

Once din­ner was fin­ished, Feyre retreat­ed to the cor­ner of the room, curl­ing up beside the dwin­dling fire. The warmth of the flames was a fleet­ing com­fort against the bit­ter chill creep­ing through the walls. Her fin­gers traced absent pat­terns on the floor­boards as she lis­tened to the sounds of her fam­i­ly set­tling in for the night.

The weight of her promise to her moth­er set­tled heav­i­ly on her chest. She had vowed to care for them, to keep them safe, no mat­ter the cost. It was a duty that teth­ered her to this life, a chain forged from love and oblig­a­tion. Even as she dreamed of free­dom, of some­thing more than mere sur­vival, she knew she could not aban­don them—not yet.

The night stretched on, the wind howl­ing soft­ly beyond the walls, whis­per­ing of things unseen. Feyre closed her eyes, let­ting exhaus­tion claim her at last, know­ing that come morn­ing, she would rise again to face the same strug­gles. Because that was what she did. Because that was what she had to do.