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Chapter Text

"Souls Don’t Meet by Accident"

───⋆ Winter, Somewhere in the Snow ⋆───

You pressed two fingers against the clammy skin of the man’s neck, searching desperately for a sign of life. There—a pulse, faint and uneven, but there. He didn’t have much time left. Shifting quickly, you hooked one of his bloodstained arms over your shoulder and heaved him onto your back.

Gods, he’s heavy.

 Your teeth clenched as you staggered upright, his dead weight dragging at your spine. The iron tang of blood filled your nostrils, hot and metallic despite the frigid air. An arrow jutted from his back at an odd angle, its shaft slick with blood that spattered across your cloak and speckled the snow in red.

You had been lucky—if luck was the word for it—to stumble across him while harvesting winter herbs at the forest’s edge. Any later and he might have been another lifeless body for the wolves to find. 

Now it was up to you to keep him alive.

The journey to your cottage, normally a short and familiar walk, felt endless beneath his weight. Each step was a labor, your boots sinking into the snow with a crunch, your breath misting heavily in the cold air. Sweat prickled at your brow despite the winter wind biting your cheeks raw. 

You grunted under his weight, forcing your legs to keep moving, willing your body to endure until your home came into view.

At last—smoke curled upward from your chimney, a fragile promise of warmth and safety. Relief burned in your chest, and you pushed yourself into a halting, labored pace, urgency fueling your trembling limbs.

You kicked open the door with more force than intended, the hinges groaning in protest, but you didn’t stop. Stumbling across the threshold, you carried him straight into the spare room off your living space and eased him onto the bed, careful to keep him face down just as you’d found him. The arrow would have to come out if he was to have any chance.

Shedding your cloak in a single motion, you rolled up your sleeves, washed your hands in the basin, and snatched up your healer’s kit. There was no time for hesitation.

You were the healer of this village—and a damn good one. 

You’d pulled children from the brink of death, fought back disease with poultices and tinctures, reset broken bones, and stitched wounds clean through the night. This was not your first battle against death.

But this man… this man was unlike any patient you’d ever seen.

His leather armor was in tatters, each knot loosening reluctantly beneath your fingers. The straps were stiff with dried blood, the smell acrid and heavy in your nose. At last, you peeled it away, revealing an undershirt soaked through with fresh crimson. With a swift slice of your knife, you cut the fabric down his spine, exposing a back crisscrossed with scars, old and new, a history carved into his flesh.

“What happened to you?” you murmured under your breath, though you knew he couldn’t hear you.

You fixed your attention on the arrow shaft. Bracing yourself, you wrapped your fingers around it, drew in a steadying breath, whispered a quick prayer, and pulled.

The sound was wet and sickening, his body twitching under your hands as the arrow slid free with a grisly squelch. You flung it aside and immediately clamped a thick cloth over the wound. Blood welled up, hot and slick between your fingers, soaking the linen faster than you could press it down.

He didn’t stir. Not even a groan. That worried you more than the wound itself.

With one hand keeping firm pressure on the injury, you reached with the other to feel for his pulse again. Still there—weak, but steady. Relief sighed out of you, though you didn’t dare relax.

Minutes dragged by, measured only in heartbeats—his and your own—until at last the bleeding slowed, the gush reduced to a steady seep. The cloth was soaked through, but the worst of it had passed.

You set your jaw and reached for fresh bandages. The real work was only just beginning.

You wiped your bloodied hands on a rag and reached for your kit, spreading it open across the bedside table. Inside lay your tools: bone needles, gut-thread, small knives honed thin as razors, and pouches of dried herbs. You set them out in practiced order, the motions steady despite the tight knot of fear curling in your stomach.

The first step was to clean the wound. Infection killed more surely than any arrow. 

You stoked the fire in the hearth until it roared, then filled a kettle with water and set it over the flames. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the earthy smoke of burning oak, heavy in your lungs.

While the water heated, you ground a pinch of dried comfrey root and yarrow in your mortar, their bitter scents rising with each turn of the pestle. 

Healing herbs—good for clotting and mending torn flesh. Beside them, you laid strips of clean linen, already cut for bandages.

Returning to the man, you peeled back the soaked cloth and hissed softly. The arrow had torn deep, the wound a ragged crater edged with bruising. His back rose and fell shallowly, his skin pale beneath the candlelight.

“Stay with me,” you murmured, though his eyes remained closed.

The kettle began to whistle. You poured the boiling water into a bowl and set your tools within it, letting them hiss and steam. Another cloth, dunked and wrung out, pressed against the wound. He flinched, barely, a flicker of life that gave you heart.

Once the blood was cleaned away, you threaded the bone needle with gut string. You steadied your hand. It had to be done quickly. Stitch by stitch, you drew the torn flesh together, the thread pulling tight with each careful pass. The sound of it—skin yielding beneath the needle—was one you’d never quite grown used to, no matter how many times you’d done this work. 

Still, your hands did not falter.

When at last the wound was closed, you packed it with the herbal paste, dark and pungent against the fresh stitches, then bound his torso tightly with the linen. The bleeding slowed to a sluggish seep, held in check by the herbs and pressure.

Exhaling, you allowed yourself the smallest breath of relief. 

He was alive—for now.

You leaned back, wiping your brow with the back of your sleeve, and studied him in the firelight. His face was drawn, sharp even in unconsciousness, his skin clammy with fever already threatening to set in. Whoever he was, he’d carried battles upon his back long before you found him in the snow.

The stitched arrow wound was only the beginning. Now that you had steadied the bleeding there, your eyes swept across the rest of him, cataloguing the damage with a healer’s eye.

More cuts marked his back—some shallow, others gaping open where blades had pierced through his armor. The skin around them was bruised and angry, flesh already swelling from the blows that had landed.

You reached again for your steaming cloth, wiping blood and dirt away from the lesser wounds first. 

His body told the story of a desperate fight, the kind that left little room for mercy.

With careful hands, you cleaned each cut, flushing them with boiled water until the filth and blood ran clear, then pressing fresh strips of linen to soak what remained. For the deeper slashes, you worked your needle again, the gut-thread pulling skin together with a practiced rhythm. Your lips pressed into a thin line, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint sound of his breathing.

Herbs came next—pounded into paste and pressed into the worst of the wounds before you bound them in tight wraps. For the smaller cuts, you dusted them with powdered marigold and wrapped them lightly, knowing infection could grow anywhere if left unchecked.

By the time you finished, his back was a map of linen, herbs, and fresh stitches. You flexed your aching fingers and sat back for a moment, letting out a sharp breath.

But you knew you weren’t finished.

With a grunt, you slid your arms under him and rolled his limp weight carefully onto his side, propping him with a pillow so he wouldn’t slip back. Your eyes dropped to his front—and froze.

Across his abdomen, just above the hip, ran a deep gash. The fabric of his shirt was soaked black with dried blood, clinging stubbornly to the wound beneath. It was no clean slice but a brutal hack, the sort meant to spill a man’s insides across the ground.

Your stomach tightened. No wonder his pulse was weak. 

He should already be dead.

Working quickly, you drew your knife and cut the ruined cloth away. The wound gaped open, edges torn and ragged, blood still oozing sluggishly. His belly rose and fell shallowly, each breath a struggle against pain that had dragged him to the edge of death.

You reached for fresh water, clean cloths, and the strongest of your herbs. This wound would demand everything you had.

You drew a steadying breath, steadying your trembling fingers. This was the kind of wound that killed men twice his size before a healer could even reach them. And yet here he was, clinging to life by the thinnest thread.

You dipped a cloth into the steaming water and pressed it firmly against his abdomen. Blood blossomed through the linen in a heartbeat, hot against your skin, but you held fast, wiping and pressing until the worst of the clots loosened and the wound bared itself fully to you. The gash ran cruelly across his belly, wide enough that you could glimpse the pale muscle beneath. A single wrong cut deeper, and his insides would have spilled out into the snow.

“Stubborn bastard,” you muttered, though whether to him or the gods you didn’t know.

Your mortar came next. You ground comfrey with garlic root and a pinch of dried sage until the paste gave off a sharp, bitter scent that filled the room. Infection would be your greatest enemy now. With the paste ready, you threaded your bone needle once more, each knot tied tighter than the last.

You set to work. Stitch by stitch, you closed the gaping wound, drawing flesh together in a crooked line. His body twitched faintly under your hands, but he made no sound. That frightened you more than any scream could have. When the last stitch was tied, you packed the wound with the pungent paste and bound it tight with linen, winding the cloth around his waist until the bandage held firm.

It was done. Crude, ugly—but done.

Your arms ached, your shoulders burned, but you did not stop. His body was mottled with bruises, angry purple blooms spreading across his ribs and thighs, the kind that came from heavy blows. Smaller cuts ran along his arms and chest, some shallow nicks, others deep enough to need tending. 

You cleaned each one in turn, washing away the blood and dirt, binding what required it, leaving the rest to the air.

By the time you finished, the man lay swathed in your work, his body crisscrossed with stitches and wrapped in linen, smelling of smoke, herbs, and blood. He looked less like a warrior than a corpse stubbornly refusing to yield.

You reached again for his pulse, needing the reassurance. Still there—faint, but fighting.

Then you touched his forehead, and your stomach dropped.

Fever. 

His skin burned hot beneath your palm, sweat already beading at his temples despite the cold room. His body was fighting with everything it had, but fever this strong could undo all you’d just worked to save.

You pressed your lips together, glancing toward the shelf where your herbs sat. Willow bark for the fever, honey and mint for strength, and broth to keep him from wasting away. He would need all of it if he was to live.

You rose from the bedside, your movements swift, determined. You would not lose him now—not after all this.

You worked quickly, brewing a concoction from what herbs and roots you had at hand—a bitter mix. Whether it was tea, broth, or something in between, it hardly mattered. It would be enough to cool his fever, if his body was strong enough to take it.

Getting it into him, however, was another challenge. You slipped an arm beneath his head, tilting it back with care. 

His jaw was slack, lips pale and dry, but you coaxed them open. With painstaking slowness, you pressed the rim of the bowl to his mouth and trickled the warm liquid past his lips. Each swallow was a victory. You paused often, giving him time, watching the hollow of his throat move as the brew slid down. The last thing you wanted was to drown the poor man while trying to save him.

At last the bowl was empty. You set it aside with a soft clink, then pressed the back of your hand to his brow. Still hot—far too hot—but you prayed the fever would soon break.

Exhaustion crept into your bones, and you dropped heavily into the old rocking chair beside the bed. Its wood creaked as you sank back, shoulders aching, head heavy. You let your eyes fall closed for the briefest of moments, a sigh escaping you.

But rest was a luxury you couldn’t yet afford. Your eyes opened, falling back to the man laying motionless on the bed.

And for the first time, you truly looked at him.

He was… handsome. 

Striking, even. 

Hair the color of fresh-fallen snow, silvery-white and glinting in the firelight. His jaw was strong, his nose sharply cut, his lashes dark against pale cheeks. He was built like a sculpture carved to honor some god of war, all taut muscle even in his battered state. There could be no mistaking it—he was a warrior.

But what warrior found himself alone, bleeding out in the heart of the Edonia woods?

Your village was a small one, scarcely more than a scatter of farms, a mill, and a smithy. No battles were fought here, no armies marched through. The forest had little to offer but quiet and solitude. Whoever he was, he had no business being this deep into the wilds.

You rocked slowly in the chair, the fire’s glow flickering across his scarred body. 

Perhaps he had fallen from his horse? Or perhaps something darker had brought him to your doorstep. 

You pursed your lips, unsettled.

Still… there was something about him that stirred an old memory. He reminded you of the knights of your birthplace, lean and hardened men who patrolled the city walls with stern vigilance. Men who carried danger with them like a second skin.

And now one of them lay in your bed.

You lowered your gaze to your hands, the skin stained with blood that wasn’t your own. A weary sigh slipped from your lips as you rose, carrying yourself to the basin. The water clouded red as you scrubbed, the sting of cold biting into your raw skin until sweat, blood, and grime finally washed away.

How much time had passed? You could not say. Only the silver light spilling through the window told you that night had fully claimed the sky, the moon hanging high and watchful above.

You dried your hands on a cloth, movements slow, almost mechanical, before drifting toward the kitchen. From your stores you pulled a heel of bread and a strip of dried fish—simple fare, but enough to quiet the gnawing in your stomach.

Returning to the rocking chair, you lowered yourself into its familiar creak, eating in measured bites. Your eyes, however, never truly left the stranger laying in your bed. Even in stillness, he commanded your attention—an enigma of blood and scars, of danger and survival.

The night stretched on, slow and restless. You did not sleep. Instead, you kept watch as though guarding a battlefield rather than a bedside.

Every so often, you leaned forward to press your hand against his brow. Too warm. Always too warm. You wiped the sweat from his temples with a damp cloth, murmuring words he would never hear, and prayed the fever would break.

You rose again and again, checking each bandage, pressing your palm lightly against them to be sure the wounds had not opened beneath the linen. Some seeped faintly, but none bled through—your stitches had held. Each time you confirmed this, the tension in your shoulders eased, if only for a moment.

Hours passed in silence broken only by the fire’s crackle and his shallow breaths. To occupy your mind, you turned to what little he had brought with him. His leather armor lay discarded in a heap, stiff with dried blood. 

You picked through it carefully, searching for some mark, some sigil, any indication of who he was or where he came from. Nothing. No crest, no colors, not even a scrap of parchment hidden in a pocket. Only steel buckles and torn straps, worn like they’d seen a hundred battles.

His shirt was little more than rags. His boots, scuffed and caked with mud, gave you no hint of what roads he’d walked. It was as though he had stepped out of the forest itself, a man with no past.

You sat back in the chair, cloak drawn tight around your shoulders, eyes never leaving him. The moon shifted across the windowpane, shadows moving with it, measuring the hours of your vigil. Each time his chest rose, faint but steady, you allowed yourself one small breath of relief.

Still, unease coiled in your gut. Whoever he was, he had not simply wandered into Edonia’s quiet woods by chance. Men like this—scarred, armed, and broken—carried storms with them.

And now one such storm was under your roof.

The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly in the hearth, casting the room in a dull orange haze. You sat curled in the rocking chair, cloak wrapped tight, every muscle sore from the hours spent mending, tending, and waiting.

You meant to keep watch, to check his fever again, to see that his chest still rose and fell. But your head grew heavy, your blinks longer and longer. The chair’s gentle creak lulled you, the rhythm matching the faint rasp of his breathing.

At last, your eyes slid shut.

Sleep stole over you before you realized it, a surrender as involuntary as breath. The cloth you had been holding slipped from your lap to the floor, forgotten. The last thing you registered was the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips, echoing in your memory like a promise that, for now at least, he still lived.

And with that thought, you drifted into dreams, the storm of questions surrounding him carried into your restless sleep.

༒︎

When you awoke, your body jolted with a start—the sight of the stranger still laying in your bed sent your heart racing. For a fleeting moment you wondered if it had all been some fever-dream of your own, but the ache in your bones and the faint copper tang of blood lingering in the air told you otherwise.

Stifling a yawn, you leaned forward, pressing the back of your hand to his brow. Warm still, but not the burning heat of before—his fever was breaking. 

Relief whispered through you. You moved to his wrist, fingers seeking the beat beneath his skin. Stronger now. Steady. No longer a pulse fighting against the abyss.

You checked his bandages next, unwrapping one, then another, searching for signs of fresh bleeding. Each held fast. Each wound, for now, was clean and closed. A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding left you all at once.

Your gaze lingered on his face, pale in the early light. You would not wake him. Healing demanded rest. Yet a darker thought tugged at you—what if he never woke? What if he lingered like this for days, weeks, caught in a silence he’d never break? You forced the thought aside with a shake of your head.

Practicality steadied you. You poured a glass of water from the decanter, placing it on the bedside, then went to the kitchen. An apple, a slice of bread, and a strip of dried beef filled a simple plate, which you carried back and set quietly on the nightstand. 

Should he wake, he would have both food and drink waiting.

Satisfied, you turned on your heel and left the room. 

You boiled water for a bath. 

The smell of dried blood still clung to your clothes, so you stripped them off, tossing them into the basket, and lowered yourself into the waiting tub. The hot water soothed the stiffness in your limbs, washing away sweat and stains alike until your skin felt like your own again.

When you emerged, you pulled on clean linen, fresh and unsoiled, braiding your damp hair back from your face. Already your mind shifted to what came next: a trip into the village.

You would need more food, more herbs, more bandages—supplies enough to keep a wounded man alive. Perhaps even clothing for him, if he survived long enough to need it.

And you intended he would.

Bundled in your cloak, you stepped out into the crisp morning air. The snow, still pristine in places, crunched beneath your boots as you made your way down the winding path to the village. Smoke rose from chimneys, curling lazily into the pale sky. The smell of baking bread and woodsmoke mingled with the scent of frost, grounding you in the quiet normalcy of Edonia.

Villagers were beginning their morning routines. A woman swept the steps of her cottage, scattering snow aside, while children in woolen caps chased one another, their laughter ringing bright in the cold. A farmer led a pair of oxen toward the fields, the animals’ breath steaming in the air. 

They noticed you, as always, and offered nods and murmured greetings, but something was different about you this morning. Perhaps it was the slight weariness in your eyes, or the urgency in your stride.

You made your way to the small apothecary first. The shelves were lined with jars of dried herbs, powders, and tinctures. You selected willow bark, sage, and yarrow, sliding each into your basket with a practiced hand. The shopkeeper, old Merek, watched you closely.

“Busy night?” he asked, brow furrowed.

You gave a tight smile. “Aye. Someone came to me in need. Nothing more than that.” You avoided his gaze as you passed, not wanting to invite questions you could not answer.

Next, you went to the general store, gathering more dried food, salted meat, and a small wheel of hard cheese. You added linens, bandages, and even a spare cloak—something that could fit a man of his size. All the while, your mind drifted back to the cottage. The stranger—wounded, silent, mysterious—lay there under your care. You could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down, heavier than any bundle of herbs or loaf of bread.

As you paid for your purchases, whispers followed you. Villagers’ eyes lingered just a moment too long, their curiosity unmistakable. They had not seen this man, but they had certainly noticed your hurried movements, your somber expression. Some were suspicious, others merely curious.

You tucked your cloak tighter around yourself, nodding politely to a few, ignoring the rest. Their questions would have to wait. The man in your home came first. You had seen the strength it took for him to cling to life through the night—now it was your turn to carry him through the day.

Basket heavy with supplies, you turned back toward the snow-blanketed path to your cottage, boots crunching with renewed determination. 

Whatever had brought him to Edonia, it had not yet been answered—but one thing was certain: you would see him through this, whatever it took.

By the time you trudged back to the cottage, your arms laden with baskets and bundles, the sun had climbed a little higher in the sky. Snow crunched beneath your boots, the cold sharper now in the thinning morning air. Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of herbs and smoke—the faint comfort of a home you had fought to keep alive all night.

He was still laying in the bed, silent and unmoving, chest rising and falling slowly but with the faint, steady pulse you had checked earlier. Relief mingled with worry. He was alive, yes—but he had not yet woken.

You set your bundles down and moved to the hearth, stoking the fire until it crackled warmly. You fetched a pot and set it on the flames, filling it with water and adding a handful of dried herbs, a few strips of salted meat, and some root vegetables. The aroma soon filled the room, faint but nourishing, promising strength.

Once the broth was ready, you ladled it carefully into a bowl, letting it cool just enough so it would not burn him. Then, taking a small cup of water as well, you returned to his bedside.

He did not stir, but you worked with steady hands, lifting his head gently, tilting it just enough to slide the rim of the bowl to his lips. A trickle of broth ran down, and you waited, watching for any sign of choking. When he swallowed, slowly at first, your chest eased with a soft sigh. Another sip, then another, until the bowl was nearly empty.

Water followed, slid down his throat with equal care. You set the cup aside, brushing back a stray lock of silvery hair from his face. The warmth of the broth and the water seeped into him, into the pulse you could feel beneath your fingers, like a quiet promise that he was still fighting.

You stayed there a moment longer, watching him, noting the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the faint twitch of a hand as if his body were still adjusting to life. For now, this was enough—strength slowly returning, the danger of the night fading bit by bit.

You let yourself exhale, though the weight of the night still pressed on your shoulders.

One step at a time. 

You had pulled him back from death once; now you would keep doing so, until he could stand again on his own.

Chapter Text

Sylus wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if he was still in hell. 

He saw the arrows raining down, black streaks against the gray sky, and remembered how careless he had been, how his brothers fell beside him. How he had been the one to lead them here. 

Was it his fault?

He felt again the searing pain as the man’s blade tore across his stomach, each strike sharper than the last. He remembered hauling Luke and Kieran onto a horse, the way he had driven it forward with the whip of his hand, saving the twins from certain death.

Then the world shifted, and he was himself, bloodied and broken, climbing onto the horse’s back, each movement a torment of pain. He thought he had escaped, only to feel an arrow pierce his back. His heart thundered in his chest, in his ears, drowning out everything else, as the world blurred and darkened around him.

He woke to cold—bone-deep, biting cold—face pressed into snow that had turned sticky and wet with his own blood. His horse was gone. The moon hung high, pale and watchful, casting a silver light across the silent forest. He tried to move. Tried to stand. But his body refused.

Was this truly how it would end?

Alone.

Frozen.

Waiting for death to claim him beneath the indifferent sky.

His world shifted again—but felt more tangible and real—warmth replacing cold, the sharp tang of blood mingling with the soothing scent of sage. Hands pressed against his skin, stitching him back together, warm broth sliding down his throat, a steady hand on his fevered forehead.

Sylus stirred. His eyelids felt heavy, leaden, as if weighed down by the night itself.

Slowly, he forced them open.

Moonlight spilled into the room, pale and silver, revealing walls and shadows he did not recognize. 

Room? 

The thought struck him with a jolt. The last thing he remembered was laying face down in the snow, the cold biting into his bones.

Now a fire crackled in the hearth, flickering warmth across the room. He lay in a bed, tucked under a thick, comforting quilt. His mouth was parched; his lips dry and cracked. Blinking against the haze in his mind, he tried to take it all in.

His eyes swept the room, finally landing on a figure curled in a rocking chair beside the bed. She slept, knees drawn to her chest, lips parted softly, lashes shadowing her cheeks. Sylus narrowed his eyes, heart hammering with a mix of wariness and confusion.

Where was he?

Instinctively, his hand went for his sword—but found only empty air. A groan escaped his throat as he tried to sit upright. The quilt shifted, and his fingers brushed against bandages and bruised, healing flesh. Ointments and poultices coated his body; someone had tended him, and done so with skill.

He attempted to rise, to test his strength—but his body would not obey. Weakness clung to him like a shroud. 

He was alive, yes, but barely. 

Every muscle protested, every joint screamed. For the first time in hours—or days—Sylus realized just how close he had come to dying.

Sylus exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in what felt like forever. Every muscle ached, every breath reminded him of how close he had come to death.

And yet… he was here. 

Warm. Fed. Cleaned. Alive.

His eyes drifted back to the woman, still curled in the rocking chair, her soft, even breathing a quiet reassurance. Still, he did not feel safe.

Kindness was not something usually offered to him. 

There was always a debt to be paid.

He let out a low, tired groan and shifted slightly under the quilt, testing the fragile comfort of the bed. His body protested, but it obeyed just enough. If he stayed still, if he allowed himself this brief reprieve, maybe he could regain some strength. Maybe he could gather enough to understand what had happened, who she was, and how he was somehow still alive.

And so he did. He let his eyes fall closed, sinking back into the warm, soft embrace of the blankets. Outside, the moon traced silver patterns on the snow, but inside, he rested. For now, there was nothing to fight, no enemies, no pain but the dull ache of healing muscles and bruised skin.

He would sleep. He could afford it.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sylus allowed himself to let go.

When Sylus awoke again, it was to sunlight slipping through the curtains, warm bands of gold against the floor. His eyes felt heavy as lead, and every movement sent lances of pain through his body. He tried to roll onto his back, only for fire to twist through his abdomen, forcing a ragged breath from his lips.

Sweat beaded across his brow as he panted softly, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull him under again. The woman was gone, though faint sounds of movement drifted from another room. He clenched his jaw and tried to rise—he would not lie useless in this stranger’s bed forever.

Come on…

With what strength he had left, Sylus forced himself upright. Pain tore through him, sharp and unforgiving, and he felt the tug of stitches giving way. He glanced down as fresh blood seeped through the white bandage wrapped around his abdomen.

Damn.

For a moment, his gaze lingered on the stain, the memory of steel splitting his flesh flashing before his eyes. So consumed by the thought, he didn’t hear the soft footsteps until they halted in the doorway.

“You’re awake.”

His head snapped up. You stood there, wide-eyed, a basket of bandages in your arms, your hair tied back and an apron streaked faintly from kitchen work. The smell of roast lingered on your clothes, mingling with the sharper tang of herbs.

Your voice startled him less than your presence. 

And yet… it was the molten, crimson glow of his eyes that stole your breath. His eyes so red they looked like pools of fresh blood.

“How long was I out?” he asked, his tone flat but edged with command.

“Three days,” you answered carefully, stepping into the room. “Do you know how long you were laying in the snow before I found you?”

He ignored the question, his gaze flicking to his wrapped body. 

“Did you do this?” His hand gestured to the bandages, the salves, the careful stitching.

You nodded once.

He pressed his lips together, gave a single curt nod of acknowledgement, and let the quilt fall. Your eyes darted to his abdomen, where the bandage was blooming crimson.

“The stitches tore.” You set the basket down, already reaching for your supplies. “I’ll need to—”

“No.” His voice cut through the space, firm. “I’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was light, incredulous, almost mocking. Sylus blinked, caught off guard by the sound.

“Gods, no,” you said, striding to the bedside with authority. “Your fever only just broke, your wounds are still fresh, and if they aren’t treated properly, you’ll die of infection before you make it to the next village. You’re not leaving.”

His red eyes narrowed dangerously. “And why do you care, woman?”

“Because I spent three days and nights keeping you alive,” you shot back, sitting firmly on the edge of the bed. “I hardly slept. I used most of my supplies. And I will not let all of that go to waste.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smirk, almost a frown. 

Tenacious. 

He hadn’t expected that.

“Fine.” He leaned back into the pillows with reluctant acceptance. “Do your work.”

You gathered your needle and thread, a fresh roll of bandages, and a small pot of salve. Without another word, you pressed a hand gently against his shoulder, urging him back against the pillows.

“Stay still,” you murmured.

Sylus obeyed, though every instinct bristled at the command. He gritted his teeth as you peeled back the blood-soaked bandage, exposing the angry wound across his abdomen. The air stung against raw flesh, but you didn’t flinch. Your brow furrowed, your lips pressed together, and with steady hands you began to work.

The silence stretched, broken only by the quiet crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of your tools.

Sylus found his gaze drifting, despite himself. To the curve of your lips as they tightened in concentration. To the slope of your nose, the flutter of your lashes each time you blinked. Even to the delicate line of your throat, illuminated in the firelight as you bent over him. 

The gods, he thought, must not have abandoned me yet. 

If they had, they would not have sent a healer such as this—skilled enough to keep him alive, steady-handed enough to stitch his torn flesh as if she had done so for a hundred warriors before him.

She seems to be younger than me, Sylus mused, and yet…

He grunted softly as the needle bit, but you didn’t falter. Your hand was as unwavering as any old Maester of the king’s court, sharper and surer than some battlefield surgeons he had known. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not from pain this time, but in wonder. Who was this woman, hidden away in a snowbound cottage, with hands steady enough to rival the most seasoned healers of his homeland?

At last, you tied off the final stitch and pressed a clean cloth against the wound, binding it with fresh linen. The bandage wrapped snug and firm, the bleeding slowed to a halt. You sat back, exhaling softly as though the effort had been yours instead of his.

“There,” you said, smoothing the quilt back over him. “The stitches will hold, but only if you stay still. No straining, no standing, no sudden movements. Do you understand?”

Sylus gave a low grunt of acknowledgment, though his pride balked at the thought of laying idle in bed.

You ignored the flicker of defiance in his crimson eyes and rose, gathering the bloodied cloth and thread. 

“I’ll bring you something to eat. Broth, bread—something gentle enough for your stomach. You’ll need your strength back.”

You turned toward the door, steps brisk, already planning what you might prepare from your stores. But just before you crossed the threshold, you paused. Your hand lingered on the frame, and you glanced back over your shoulder.

“What’s your name?” you asked quietly, voice softer now, stripped of the healer’s authority you’d wielded so firmly moments ago.

The firelight flickered across his face, carving shadows along the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the exhaustion in his eyes. The weight of the question seemed to linger in the silence between you.

He didn’t answer at once. When he finally spoke, it was with the faintest crease of a frown. 

“Sylus.”

“You will heal shortly, Sylus,” you said, testing his name on your tongue. It was unlike any name you had heard before; certainly, he was not of Edonia.

You turned to leave, but his voice caught you before you reached the door.

“Yours?”

Glancing back over your shoulder, you let a small smile touch your lips before giving it to him—your name.

Sylus repeated it under his breath, as if tasting it for himself. His voice was low, thoughtful, the sound of a man realizing just how far from home he truly was.

༒︎

The days slipped by as you tended to Sylus—redressing his wounds, rubbing ointment into torn skin so the scars would not mar too deeply, bringing him food, steadying him when he tried to stand.

The two of you spoke little. You held back your questions, though they pressed against your tongue.

Where had he come from? How had he been hurt so terribly? Who was he?

But silence had its own weight, and you often filled it with idle talk. 

You spoke of Edonia, of the village, of the little things that made up your days—though most of those days were spent caring for him. You murmured as you wiped the sweat from his brow with a warm rag, or as your hands moved carefully over his bandages.

Sylus listened. At times he asked a question, but more often he remained quiet, his expression shadowed—tired, perhaps even burdened by something heavier than pain.

“Would you like to try walking?” you asked one evening, passing him a cup of water.

He gave you a sidelong look, as though the very suggestion struck at his pride.

“Maybe,” he muttered at last.

“Good,” you said softly, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’ll help you. Just a few steps around the cottage, and then you can rest by the fire while I make dinner. Does that sound all right?”

Sylus hesitated, the silence stretching until you almost thought he would refuse. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, the muscles in his jaw shifting as if he were weighing the humiliation of weakness against the necessity of healing. 

Finally, with a low exhale, he set the cup aside and nodded.

“All right,” he said, though the word carried the weight of reluctant surrender.

You rose and stepped closer, slipping an arm beneath his to brace him. He was heavier than you remembered, even thinned by injury, his body radiating a warmth that seeped through the fabric of your sleeve. When he pushed himself upright, a sound escaped him—half a grunt, half a hiss of pain.

“Slowly,” you murmured, steadying him as his balance wavered. His arm bore down on your shoulder, the solid weight of him pressing into you until you could feel the tremor in his legs.

Together, the two of you shuffled forward. Each step was careful, deliberate—his body leaning hard into yours, your smaller frame straining just enough to keep him upright. It reminded you—so vividly you almost stumbled—of the night you had dragged his half-dead form through the dark, his blood soaking into your clothes as you hauled him back to the cottage. Back then, you hadn’t been sure he would survive the night. And now here he was, walking, however unsteadily, with your help.

“You’re doing well,” you told him softly, your voice meant to soothe, to distract him from the obvious pain etched across his face.

His breath was heavy, controlled, as if every step required him to wrestle with something unseen. But he kept moving, letting you guide him out of the spare room and into the living room.

When at last you eased him into the chair by the fire, he sat back with a weary exhale, sweat beading along his temple. For a moment he only stared at the flames, and you noticed the way his hand still twitched faintly as though it sought a weapon—or something to hold him steady.

“You see?” you said gently, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you crouched to meet his eye. “Stronger already.”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth tugged in the barest shadow of a smirk—gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Sylus’s gaze drifted around the cottage, taking in the details of this unfamiliar place. It was warm, lived-in—its age written into the beams and floorboards. Bundles of herbs hung drying from the rafters, their fragrance mingling with the faint smoke of the fire. Pots of ointments and salves cluttered a small table, while across the room the kitchen was modest but orderly. Piles of folded quilts softened the corners, and books—more than he expected—lined a shelf near the hearth.

It felt less like a battlefield refuge and more like a home passed down through generations. Almost like some grandmother’s dwelling, Sylus mused.

You rose to fetch something, but his voice—rough, abrupt—halted you.

“Why did you save me?”

The question hung heavy, the fire snapping between you.

“You were dying,” you answered without hesitation. “And I could save you.”

The confidence in your tone danced in Sylus’ mind.

His eyes lifted to yours, sharp and searching, as though he could strip the truth from your face. His legs parted, his shoulders squared despite the bandages. “You said you found me in the snow?”

You nodded. “Yes. I reached you before the wolves did.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Where is my sword?”

Your head tilted slightly. “You had no weapons on you. I’m afraid there was nothing.”

Sylus’s lips pressed into a hard line. He turned back to the fire, the orange light cutting across the hollows of his face.

“I can go look,” you offered quickly, reaching for your cloak. “Maybe I missed it.”

“The snow would have swallowed it by now.” His sigh was heavy, almost pained, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with thick fingers.

You hesitated, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry.”

His voice came quieter this time, rough but softer at the edges. “It is not your fault.”

You lingered by him for a heartbeat longer, watching the way the firelight carved deep shadows across his face. His silence was weightier than words, a wall you didn’t feel ready to scale.

Instead, you crossed to the shelf, running your fingers along the spines of the books stacked neatly there. Some were old, their bindings frayed from use; others newer, gifts perhaps, or treasures traded from passing merchants. You plucked one free and carried it over, holding it out to him.

“Here,” you said softly, as if you were intruding on his thoughts. “If you’re restless… this might pass the time.”

He didn’t reach for it immediately, but his eyes flicked to the book, then back to the fire. You set it gently on the small table beside the chair, close enough for him to take when he wanted.

“I’ll start on dinner,” you added, smoothing your apron with nervous hands. “If you need anything… just call for me.”

The words hung in the air between you, simple but certain. You didn’t wait for a reply—he offered none—but moved toward the kitchen, the soft rustle of your skirts and the quiet crackle of the fire the only sounds left in the room.

Behind you, Sylus remained where he was, the firelight glinting faintly in his crimson eyes as he stared at the unopened book.

Sylus sat in silence long after you’d left the room, his jaw tight as he listened to the faint clatter of pots and the muted rhythm of your movements in the kitchen. The smell of herbs and roasting meat wafted faintly toward him, warm and domestic, and it only made the bitter taste in his mouth stronger.

He hated this—hated sitting there, helpless, his strength stolen from him by blade and snow. Back home, even when wounds had been carved deep, he never allowed himself to linger. 

A day, perhaps two, and he was back on his feet, pushing through with sheer will. But this… this was different. His body had betrayed him. He had been broken in ways he had never imagined possible. 

And now, he was being… tended. Doted on like a child.

Sylus dragged a hand across his face, fingers brushing the edge of a bandage at his temple. The fire crackled in answer, mocking his silence. His gaze fell on the book you had left, resting by his side as though it might fill the hollow hours he had to endure.

With a grimace, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The cover was worn but cared for, the title etched in faded ink. It was a story of dragons, of ancient battles and heroes long forgotten. Something meant for a dreamer. Not for him.

He flipped it open, skimmed a page or two, and felt only the ache of distance—between himself and the man he once was, between himself and the world that still seemed to move while he lay trapped. 

With a sigh, Sylus shut the book and let it fall back to the table with a dull thud.

The weight in his chest pressed heavier than his wounds.

Sylus’ eyes drifted toward the kitchen, following the soft movements of your hands as you chopped, stirred, and arranged ingredients. The way you moved—so sure, so purposeful—was a far cry from anything he’d ever experienced. Back home, women in his circles were quiet, polite, measured in every word, or they were fighters with bad attitudes. You were none of those things. You made small, witty remarks under your breath as you worked, muttered commentary at some minor kitchen mishap, and didn’t flinch from speaking your mind it seemed.

And yet, here you were, caring for him without hesitation, without the slightest expectation of reward, knowing nothing of who he was beyond the name he had finally given you. It unsettled him in ways he didn’t expect.

He shifted slightly in the chair, wincing as the movement tugged at his stitches. A thought, sharp and sudden, coiled in his stomach: your boldness, your willingness to put yourself in harm’s way for strangers—someone like you could easily get caught on the wrong side of the world. 

Perhaps one day you’d save the wrong person, and the cost would fall on you.

The image made his chest tighten, but beneath the edge of unease was something else: an acknowledgment of familiarity.

Even in your brief absences, the cottage felt emptier, quieter—less alive. 

Watching you, listening to the faint scrape of your knife against the wooden board, he understood that your presence these past few days, for all its unexpectedness, had become something steady he could rely on.

Sylus closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the thought settle, uncomfortable yet undeniable. The world outside could be cruel, chaotic, and unforgiving—but here, in the quiet warmth of your cottage, he could, for the first time in days, simply observe. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind it.

You mused over the kitchen as the roast seared in the pot on the fire, the fat cap hissing and browning. The aroma filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of herbs and smoke.

“Do you not live with anyone else?” Sylus’s voice broke the quiet, and you looked up to see him turning his head toward you.

You shook your head. “Just me.”

“Why?”

Your brows furrowed slightly at the question, curious now that he was asking.

“Well… I don’t have a family,” you said, pouring broth over the meat before tossing in some herbs. “I used to live here with a woman named Genevieve.”

“And where is she?” he asked.

“Dead,” you said simply, covering the pot and turning to meet his gaze. “She passed two winters back—natural causes.”

A flicker of discomfort passed across his face, as if he hadn’t meant to bring up unpleasant memories. “I am sorry.”

“It’s all right,” you replied, shrugging as you fanned the flames under the pot. “It was her time. She left me this cottage, told me to stay as long as I liked.”

“Are you not from here?” Sylus asked, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly.

You chuckled softly as you chopped potatoes and carrots. 

“You have many questions,” you said, tossing the diced vegetables into the pot. “No, I’m not from here. Genevieve took me in years ago.”

Sylus nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I am merely curious why a woman like you would dare to rescue someone like me,” he said with a quiet exhale. “What if I am a criminal? What if I rise from this chair and kill you, steal everything valuable in your home?”

You smiled faintly and continued stirring the pot. “I highly doubt that.”

“And why is that?”

You shrugged, speaking nonchalantly as you arranged the vegetables in the broth. “Because if you truly intended to kill me, you would’ve done it already. Strangled me as I tended your wounds, grabbed my shears from the bedside, stabbed me…” You let your voice trail as you cast a sidelong glance at him.

Sylus’ brow furrowed in confusion, as though he couldn’t decide whether you were reckless or terrifyingly clever.

“Trust me,” you said quietly, your eyes flickering with something almost like sorrow, “cruel men are cruel from the start. If you wanted to hurt me… you would’ve done so already.”

Sylus leaned back slightly in his chair, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the first trace of humor since he had arrived.

“Then,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “I suppose I should be careful how I treat you. I might underestimate you.”

You paused mid-stir, a hand frozen over the pot, and looked at him with raised brows. The words, soft but sharp, carried something more than jest—something that hinted he was aware of her skill, of her strength.

“You’re not as gentle as I thought,” he added, a gleam of amusement in his crimson eyes.

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself, the tension of the day loosening for a moment. “And here I thought I was just keeping you alive,” you said lightly, shaking your head.

Sylus let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back against the pillows, and you felt a small, private satisfaction. 

That laugh, however brief, told you more than words could: he was feeling better.

For the first time since he’d arrived, Sylus seemed to relax—not fully, but enough to allow himself a sliver of comfort. And as you returned to your cooking, the warmth of the fire and the faint scent of roast filling the room, you realized that maybe he was beginning to trust that he was safe here.

A softer silence settled between you, no longer strained but companionable, as you moved about the kitchen. The rich scent of roasting meat filled the cottage, mingling with herbs and smoke until the warmth seemed to seep into every corner of the room.

At last, you ladled out a portion for Sylus—a proper meal this time, hearty with tender roast, potatoes, carrots, and garden vegetables. Carrying the steaming bowl carefully, you crossed the room and paused at his side.

“Careful,” you murmured, handing it to him. “It’s still hot.”

Sylus accepted it, his fingers brushing the rim as if testing the heat. For a moment, he only studied the food, then he speared a small piece of meat and potato. He blew on it twice before tasting it.

A quiet sound rumbled from his chest—a hum, low and approving—as the warmth of the food spread through him. “You are skilled in the kitchen,” he said at last, taking another measured bite.

The compliment tugged a smile from you, soft but genuine. You caught yourself watching as his tongue flicked to the corner of his mouth, catching a trace of broth. “Thank you, Sylus,” you said, his name rolling easily from your lips now.

You fetched a bowl for yourself and dropped into the couch scattered with quilts, eating with none of his restraint. Sylus’ gaze drifted toward you between bites, watching how you devoured the meal with a hunger that spoke of long neglect. The shadows under your eyes, the pale cast of your skin—signs of exhaustion, of a body too long pushed aside for another’s sake.

His fork stilled for a moment, the food forgotten as he studied you. For all your skill and sharp wit, it was clear to him now: you had not been taking care of yourself.

“You eat like a staved orphan,” Sylus couldn’t help but tease. “Do you take care of yourself?”

You casted a prolonged side eye in his direction. 

Sylus shifted against the pillows, watching the way your lips pressed together. He let the silence stretch before deciding to cut it. 

“You know,” he said, voice low but steady, “if you get to lecture me on how to take care of myself, then I should be able to return the favor.”

You froze halfway through taking a bite, shoulders stiffening as if he’d struck a nerve. 

“I—” you started, fumbling for words, “I’ve just been more concerned about you than myself.” The admission came out softer, quieter, as though you regretted letting it slip.

Sylus huffed through his nose and rolled his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Concerned,” he muttered, the word tasting strange in his mouth. “I sleep through most of the day. You’ve got more than enough time to rest, if you actually bothered.”

Your lips tugged downward in a faint pout at his dry tone, and he caught the flicker of guilt that crossed your face before you quickly masked it. He almost smirked, though he tamped it down, reminding himself not to get too comfortable.

“It’s not just you I look after, you know,” you murmured, pushing a carrot across your plate with the edge of your fork. “I am the only healer in this village. People stop by often—asking for remedies, medicines.” You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out, humorless. “A good healer never really rests. Someone always needs you.”

Sylus stilled. The words sat heavy, too familiar. He realized with a grim edge that you sounded like him. The way he clung to duty and honor—always alert, never properly resting, shouldering burdens because no one else could. It wasn’t healthy. He knew that. But it was also inescapable.

“I’ve never seen these people stop by,” he muttered, taking another slow bite.

You glanced up at him, and the firelight from the hearth made your eyes shimmer, catching gold and amber in their depths. It twisted something deep in his gut. 

“Well, you’re asleep most of the day,” you countered, echoing his own words back at him. “I’m either in the village attending to them, or they slip in quickly. You wouldn’t notice.”

He hummed, turning back to his food. “You keep busy, then.”

“It’s winter,” you sighed, voice quieter now. “The sick are more than frequent.”

He let the silence sit between you, neither of you eager to break it.

Later, after you cleared the table and the hearth had burned lower, Sylus found himself slumped half-asleep in the chair. You came to his side, steady and patient, and guided him back toward the bed. He was stronger than a few days ago—he could feel that—but he still leaned on you, his weight pressing into your smaller frame. 

And you didn’t falter.

Once settled, you sat at the edge of the bed with a damp cloth. You wrung it out carefully, then pressed it against his brow. The chill made him blink, though the warmth of your hand steadying his temple quickly overpowered it.

“I want a bath,” Sylus muttered.

A soft laugh escaped you, and he caught the flicker of a smile tugging at your lips. “I cleaned you well enough the night I found you,” you said, gently brushing the cloth along his jaw, your thumb ghosting over his bottom lip as you steadied his chin. “Once your wounds heal more, you can soak properly. For now, sitting in water too long will only loosen the stitching.”

Sylus almost swallowed hard at the feel of your thumb against his mouth. The touch lingered like a spark, far too gentle for someone like him. And the way you looked in that moment—in firelight and moonlight both—made you seem otherworldly. 

Tender. Like you weren’t tending to a killer, but a wounded bird.

He almost teased you, almost asked if you planned to oversee his baths as you oversaw everything else he did. But he bit the words back, not wanting to shatter the strange peace hanging in the room.

“May I check your wounds?” you asked, lowering the cloth.

He nodded. Even if he’d said no, he knew you’d find a way to persuade him.

You loosened the ties of his shirt with deft fingers, brushing over his chest as you pulled the fabric over his head. He didn’t look away. Not when your hands trailed across his skin, searching for heat, infection, irritation. You peeled back the bandages slowly, your brow furrowed in concentration as you examined the wound at his abdomen. He saw the flicker of regret in your eyes, as though you already knew no matter what you did, the scar would remain.

Then your hands guided him to sit forward, your breath warm against his bare back. The contrast made him shiver. He was too aware of you—your nearness, your warmth, the steadiness of your touch.

“How much pain have you been in?” you asked softly, fingertips grazing the wound the arrow had left.

“Moderate,” he grumbled.

You nodded, scooping ointment onto your fingers before smoothing it gently into the skin. The press of your touch burned and soothed in equal measure. Once you’d finished, you wrapped the wound back up, then helped him ease into his shirt again, tugging the quilt into place around him with practiced care.

“Tomorrow, you should rest by the fire,” you said, fingers brushing over the scar above his brow. “I’ll change the bedding here. But I also need to go to the village for more supplies.”

Sylus lay still, listening. He hated the thought of you running about for him, hated how little he had to give in return. No coin, no strength. Nothing. 

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

“What do you do for fun?” you asked suddenly. The question caught him off guard. You studied him in the dim light, head tilted slightly, the curve of your neck catching the pale spill of moonlight through the shutters. “I’ll pick something up for you, to keep you entertained. Books? Games?”

“I train,” Sylus muttered, the answer automatic. He knew how useless that was right now.

Your lips quirked. “What else?”

What else? His mind came up blank. There was nothing else. No pastime that didn’t demand strength, endurance, precision. He exhaled through his nose, almost irritated with himself. “I repair weapons.”

You frowned slightly. “Maybe I’ll see if the farmers need tools mended. But that doesn’t sound the same… or like something you could do in your condition.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll think of something,” you said at last, rising to your feet. The sudden absence of your body heat made the room feel colder. “Let me know if you think of anything yourself. Rest now, Sylus.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He just watched you move about the small space, gathering things in your arms, the firelight clinging to your shape. He told himself the twisting in his stomach was irritation at his own weakness. But part of him wasn’t so sure anymore.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly a month since you’d found Sylus, and each day he seemed a little steadier on his feet. Stronger. But not himself—not yet.

The path from the village wound quiet and white beneath your boots, every step crunching into the snowpack. You pulled your cloak tighter around you, trying to keep the cold from sinking through. Winter was lingering, but you knew it wouldn’t last. Soon the ice would soften, fruit trees would bloom again, and the air would carry birdsong instead of silence. You clung to that thought, the promise of spring, as if it might warm you from within.

Still, your thoughts drifted to Sylus. You pictured him dozing in his chair by the hearth, book balanced in one hand. Reading had been his main pastime of late—his only one, really.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring at the flames instead of the page, as though the fire might answer questions neither of you spoke aloud.

There was still so much you didn’t know about him. A mercenary—that much he’d said, almost offhandedly. He’d fought alongside knights once, though he never explained whose banner they served or how long ago it had been. That vague mention haunted you more than it should have. Knights did not live gentle lives. Mercenaries even less so.

You slowed as the trees closed around you, scanning until your eyes landed on the faint splash of color—the strip of your scarf tied to a trunk. A marker. The place you had found him bleeding into the snow.

His home wasn’t anywhere near here. He had collapsed in the forest at the edge of your village, carried there by sheer will or blind luck. And though weeks had passed, you couldn’t help glancing down at the ground, wishing the bloodstains were still there to guide you. The snow had buried it all long ago.

Setting your basket on a rock, you knelt, the cold immediately seeping into your knees even through your skirts. With a huff, you plunged your gloved hands into the snow and began to dig.

The cold bit through the fur lining, numbing your fingers, but you pushed through, tossing clumps aside. 

“Should’ve brought a shovel,” you muttered under your breath, breath puffing white in the still air.

You weren’t even sure the sword was here. You couldn’t remember seeing it that night—your mind had been too focused on blood, on his pulse fluttering weakly beneath your fingers. Perhaps thieves had come across it later, though bandits were rare this deep in the woods during winter. Or perhaps it had slipped from his hand farther back along the path. Perhaps he’d lost it before he ever reached Edonia at all.

Still, you dug. Each handful of snow made you sweat despite the freezing wind, your heart pounding in your chest as though you could unearth more than a weapon here—maybe a piece of him, the part of him that seemed missing when he sat too quietly, staring into the fire.

It might be futile. You knew that. Waiting for the thaw would make more sense. But patience gnawed at you like hunger, and you couldn’t bear to wait. This mattered. To him, and—if you admitted it—to you.

So you dug deeper, shoving the snow aside, your breath crystallizing in the air, whispering a half-prayer to the earth itself: let it be here.

The sun sagged lower and lower behind the trees, bleeding what little warmth was left from the sky. Shadows stretched long over the snow, and the silence of the woods shifted—heavier, expectant. Soon, the wolves would stir from their dens, their cries carrying across the frozen forest. You knew better than to linger.

With stiff fingers you brushed snow from your skirts, the cold biting deep into your bones. Your gloves were soaked, your lips chapped raw, and every breath stung sharp in your throat. Reluctantly, you picked up your basket and began the walk home.

The path was familiar, but tonight it felt longer, heavier. Each crunch of your boots against the snow seemed to echo your failure—empty-handed, with nothing to show for your efforts but aching joints and numbed hands. Sylus’s sword remained buried, if it was even here at all.

Your mind, ever restless, sought distraction in the ordinary. Dinner. You would need to cook when you returned. Perhaps stew again, or roasted fowl if you still had some. Sylus seemed to like heavier meals, meat and potatoes, something solid that lingered on the tongue. You found yourself wondering—almost absurdly—what else he would enjoy. Sweet bread? Berries, once the thaw came?

The thought made you huff a laugh into the icy air.

How strange, how quickly your world had reshaped itself around another’s needs. Was this how Genevieve had felt when she took you in? When she fed you, tended you, made space for you in her quiet cottage?

The question stung. You bit down on the inside of your cheek and shoved it away, but grief had a way of creeping in, quiet as the cold. You didn’t want to think of her, not here, not now—not when her absence still ached like an old wound.

So you walked faster, forcing your thoughts back toward the little house ahead, the warm hearth, the man likely waiting drowsily by the fire. You let the rhythm of your steps, the sting of the wind, and the thought of food—roast, herbs, steaming broth—carry you homeward, even as a faint heaviness lingered in your chest.

You pushed open the cottage door and nearly dropped your basket.

There, in the center of your living room, stood Sylus.

“Sylus!” you gasped, slamming the door shut behind you to seal out the winter air. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” His voice carried that low, rasping timbre that seemed both weary and amused. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he slid a book back onto the shelf. “I finished that silly knight story of yours and thought I’d choose a new one.”

You set the basket on the table with more force than necessary, snow scattering off your cloak as you strode toward him. “You should be resting.”

“What? Am I forbidden from standing on my own?” he snickered, that smirk deepening.

No hand bracing against the wall, no arm hooked into yours for balance. Just his own two feet planted firmly on the wooden floor.

He looked down at you, taking in your frost-bitten state. Your nose was pink from the wind, cheeks flushed crimson, ice crystals clinging to your lashes and loose strands of hair. For a heartbeat you saw something shift in his eyes—something unreadable, like he was seeing you anew.

And you, in turn, realized just what a mountain of a man stood before you. Even weakened, even recovering, Sylus was formidable. Broad shoulders stretched taut beneath the loose shirt you had purchased for him, his chest filling out with strength that had been absent weeks before. His arms, corded with muscle even in healing, flexed easily as he plucked a fresh book from the shelf. His jaw was sharp, unshaven but strong, and his crimson eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, daring you to scold him further.

“You were gone for quite a while,” he drawled, flipping the book in his hand with deliberate ease. “I was beginning to think you’d slipped beneath the snow and buried yourself there.”

That gaze pinned you, molten and cutting all at once, and you had to look away lest he see too much. 

“I am fine,” you muttered, unfastening your cloak with trembling fingers.

Sylus watched you with narrowed eyes as you fussed with your cloak. Something about you was… off.

Your gloves were damp, soaked darker than they should have been from a simple walk back from the village. The hem of your skirt clung wet to your stockings, crusted with half-melted snow. And when you finally lifted your head, he caught a flicker of color along your cheeks that wasn’t just from the cold—it was from exertion.

“You weren’t just in the village,” he said evenly, his voice low, testing.

You stilled. For a beat too long. Then you bent toward your basket, fussing with nothing in particular. 

“I dropped something in the snow,” you said lightly, almost too lightly. “Had to dig it back out before it froze over.”

Sylus tilted his head, studying you. The words fell from your tongue smoothly enough, but your body told a different truth. Your eyes shifted away just as they always did when you were hiding something. And your teeth—he caught the faintest press of them against your bottom lip.

His gaze lingered there, longer than it should have.

Your lip, pink from the wind, caught gently between your teeth. He could almost imagine the softness of it, the warmth. A memory that wasn’t his—yet his chest tightened all the same.

Sylus clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away, back to the firelight flickering across the floorboards. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of softness, of tenderness—things he had no place entertaining.

“You should be more careful,” he said finally, the words sharper than he intended. “The sun was sinking when you returned. Wolves will be hunting.”

His crimson eyes cut back to you once more, searching, still suspicious.

“Careful, Sylus,” you tutted, shaking your head with mock reproach. “You’re starting to sound like you actually care about me.”

Caught off guard by the light, teasing lilt in your voice, Sylus froze for a fraction of a second before a crooked smirk tugged at his lips. “No, sweetling,” he said, the word almost teasing back, “I just need to make sure you’re alive… so I can pay you back properly.”

You rolled your eyes and tugged off your gloves, wiggling your numb fingers. They were red from the cold, stiff as if the chill had seeped straight into your bones. Shoving off your boots and setting them neatly by the door, you straightened. “I need to get started on dinner,” you said, brushing stray snowflakes from your cloak.

Sylus followed you, each step deliberate, slow, but unhesitating. 

“Let me help,” he said.

You paused mid-step and glanced over your shoulder. “Help?”

“Yes, I want to try,” he said, his voice low, soft, and almost earnest—an unfamiliar note you hadn’t expected from him.

You let a small smile tug at your lips and shook your head. “Okay…” You dipped your hands in the basin, scrubbing the chill from your skin, and then reached for your apron. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

“Not sure.” Sylus stepped into the kitchen cautiously, as if entering a foreign battlefield. He hung back for a moment, surveying the pots and herbs, the neatly stacked plates and knives.

You tapped your chin, thinking. “Stew it is then!” 

“I… haven’t cooked in a long time,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a sidelong glance, one brow raised. “Clearly,” you said lightly, handing him a knife. “But you can try. Just don’t cut your fingers off. Or mine.”

He smirked, taking the knife with a careful grip. “Noted.”

For a moment, the kitchen fell into an easy rhythm. You chopped vegetables, the knife flashing in the firelight, while Sylus stood a step away, awkwardly peeling potatoes and occasionally sneaking glances at you. He was careful, methodical, muscles tensed from years of practice elsewhere, though clearly unused to this domestic rhythm.

“Why is it,” you muttered, sprinkling herbs into the pot, “that men always think cooking is easy?”

Sylus glanced at you, lips twitching as if trying not to grin. “Because it should be easy,” he said, voice low. “Unlike… everything else in life.”

You shot him a look, playful and sharp. “Oh, I see. So chopping carrots is a battle, but nearly dying in the snow is just another day?”

He gave a small laugh, the sound rumbling softly. “I don’t see the difference,” he replied, shrugging.

You hummed, adding more broth to the pot, the scent of roasting meat filling the room. “Well, it should be easy for you now. You’ve got two hands, a fire, and me supervising.”

Sylus’s crimson eyes flicked to yours, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Ah, so it’s supervision, not instruction?”

“Both,” you said, meeting his gaze, though a small smile played at your lips. “Mostly supervision, though.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and returned to his potatoes. But you noticed the subtle shift in his stance, the way he leaned a little closer to your side to reach the cutting board. 

Familiarity. Tentative, careful—but present.

As the minutes passed, the air warmed, filled with the scent of food and the quiet banter between you. Sylus’s confidence grew, if only slightly, and your teasing became easier, lighter.

For the first time since he’d arrived at your cottage, he felt… almost at home.

The kitchen smelled of roasting meat and simmering vegetables, the warmth of the fire spilling across the floorboards. Finally, you ladled the stew into bowls, steam curling into the air.

“Here,” you said, setting a bowl in front of Sylus. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He lifted it with one hand, carefully balancing the weight, his other hand brushing against yours for the briefest moment as he set it on the table. You caught the contact and didn’t pull away, though your heart skipped.

He dipped his spoon in slowly at first, blowing on a bite before tasting it. His crimson eyes flicked toward you, and for a fleeting second, you caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Not bad,” he murmured, voice low and approving. “Better than I expected.”

You let out a small laugh, and slid into the chair opposite him, your own bowl steaming in front of you. 

“I’ve had some practice,” you said lightly, though a warmth spread in your chest at his approval. “And your help. Food always tastes better when you make it yourself.” 

The two of you ate in near silence for a few moments, the only sounds the occasional scrape of a spoon against a bowl and the crackle of the fire. Sylus studied you surreptitiously, noticing the faint lines of fatigue under your eyes, the way your hands moved deftly even after a long day outside. He marveled at your steadiness, your calm competence.

“Why do you cook such meals?” he asked quietly, not meeting your gaze. “You’re clearly tired, yet we just spent the past hour chopping and smoking and simmering dinner.”

You looked down at your bowl, fingers tightening slightly around the spoon. “Someone has to,” you said softly. “I… I’ve always done it. It’s nothing new.”

He shook his head, leaning back slightly, exhaling in a way that sounded almost like relief. 

“You care too much,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You glanced up, curious, and caught him watching you—really watching you—for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, recognition, perhaps admiration, or maybe even concern.

“Maybe,” you said lightly, trying to mask the sudden heat in your cheeks. “But I can’t help it.”

Sylus’s gaze softened, and he finally met yours. The firelight glinted across the sharp planes of his face, the angles softened by exhaustion and recovery. His crimson eyes held something unspoken—a silent acknowledgment of trust, of reliance.

He lifted his spoon again, this time more casually, letting the stew fill his mouth. And as he chewed, he realized he’d grown accustomed to having you near, to your steady presence, to the careful attentions that had healed him more than just physically.

You noticed him relax, you allowed yourself a small sigh of relief. He was safe, for now—and maybe you were beginning to matter to him in a way that had nothing to do with wounds and survival.

The warmth of the cottage, the quiet of the evening, the shared meal—it was a fragile kind of peace, but it felt like the first step toward something neither of you were ready to name aloud.

You were scrubbing the last of the dishes, the warm water steaming around your hands, while Sylus sat by the fire, engrossed in his book. The quiet was shattered by a loud knock at the door, sharp and urgent, followed by someone calling your name. Your heart jumped, and Sylus tensed beside the fire, his crimson eyes narrowing.

You wiped your hands on your apron and hurried to the door, throwing it open.

It was Tom, one of the village farmers, panting heavily, cheeks flushed crimson from exertion. Snow clung to his boots and coat as he struggled to catch his breath.

“My son…” he gasped, clutching your arm for support. “He’s… he’s broken into a fever! And he’s bleeding, I don’t know how—what happened—” His words tumbled out in a rush, panic-stricken and trembling.

You cut him off with a sharp glance, already sliding your cloak over your shoulders. “How long has he had the fever?”

Tom shook his head, voice catching. “Marcy went to get him for dinner and found him in bed… just bleeding, unresponsive…”

You felt a chill, but your heart steadied. “Does he have a pulse?”

“Yes,” Tom said, relief and fear mingling in his eyes.

You tugged on your boots, snatched your medical kit, and turned your gaze to Sylus. “Will you be alright without me?” you asked, voice tight but steady.

Sylus gave a slow, calm nod. His eyes, deep and unyielding even now, followed you.

Tom’s gaze flicked toward Sylus as well, widening in surprise at the tall, silver-haired man seated by the fire, a silent sentinel in your cottage.

“Please,” you said, giving Sylus a brief smile, “help yourself to whatever food you need. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With that, you followed Tom out into the frigid night, snow crunching beneath your boots, the winter wind biting at your cheeks. 

༒︎

Sylus hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d grown to having you around until the second day you were gone. Each quiet hour in your absence pressed on him with an unfamiliar weight. He wondered why you hadn’t returned. 

Had something happened? Had you fallen, been injured? Had wolves found you in the woods?

He stood at the sink in your kitchen, scrubbing a burnt pot. He had thought he could manage the stew while reading, but he’d become too absorbed in the story, only remembering the simmering pot when smoke began curling toward the ceiling. The pungent smell of charred meat made him grimace.

You had been there every morning to wake him, every night to see him to bed, your gentle hands checking his body, your light banter filling the kitchen as you cooked. You’d fussed over him tirelessly, worried he might overexert himself and reopen his wounds. And now, with none of that presence, the cottage felt emptier than he’d thought possible.

He looked out at the setting sun, orange light spilling across the snow outside. 

When will you return? He wondered, heart tightening. 

He had no map, no sense of direction beyond this tiny cottage. All he knew was your name, the sound of your voice, the warmth of your hands on his skin—and the unsettling realization of how much he’d come to rely on you.

He huffed and set the scrubbed pot to dry, then found himself wandering, almost without thought, toward your room. The door stood slightly ajar. He paused, taking in the larger space compared to the one he’d been confined in. Your bed was spacious, inviting, but untidy—books scattered, scraps of parchment littering the desk, crushed herbs and mortar spread across the surface, plants hanging from the window to dry.

Something inside him urged him closer, an instinctual curiosity he couldn’t suppress. He didn’t want to invade your privacy, yet the mercenary part of him—the part trained to seek information—whispered that he might find something. He opened a drawer on your desk. Inside were more herbs, more notes, recipes scribbled in careful handwriting.

Beneath the clutter, a letter caught his eye. Its wax seal was broken, edges yellowed with age. He lifted it gently, unfolding the delicate paper.

It was not addressed to you—but to Genevieve, the woman who had, according to your stories, once owned this cottage.

“Thank you for your kindness, Genevieve, but I must go. I appreciate your help in healing me, but I cannot remain. It would do me no good to stay in this tiny village, despite your words. I must continue my journey, lest I forget why I left home in the first place. I thank the gods I met you when I did; without you, I would have surely met an early grave. I know you wish to teach me, but there is no need for such skills when my life does not demand them.”

Sylus’ crimson eyes narrowed as he saw your signature scrawled at the bottom. The same hands that had tended to him so carefully, that had coaxed him back from the brink of death, had written this letter. He read it again, slower this time, trying to reconcile the thought of you as someone who might leave so easily.

He tucked the letter back into its place, scanning the room again. If you had truly intended to leave, why were you still here? Why had you stayed in this cottage, in this village, when it would have been so easy to vanish like you had written?

It only made Sylus realize how little he truly knew about you.

He found himself rifling through the things you had provided him—shirts, trousers, tunics, a finely made cloak to replace the tattered one he had worn when you found him, a pair of furlined boots, stockings, and fresh undergarments. He let out a soft, uncertain sigh.

Why were you doing all of this? How much coin did you have? Could a healer of a small village really afford such care?

Still, you had not discarded the broken armor or the bloodied clothes you had discovered him in. Sylus picked up the battered leather breastplate, fingers brushing over the cuts that had pierced through it, the arrows that had torn him. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening. The memory of pain, of bleeding and helplessness, rushed back with a brutal clarity.

His thoughts wandered to Luke and Kieran. Had they survived? Found shelter after the chaos of battle, or had the same fate befallen them? Had he thought them safe only to imagine them pierced by an unseen crossbow bolt in some distant field? The questions gnawed at him, relentless and bitter.

He set the broken armor down with a heavy, defeated sigh.

And all the while, he wished you would return. He did not want to be alone with these thoughts much longer—not when the silence pressed in so heavily, and his own memories were as sharp as any blade.

Still, he knew he would need to leave eventually—to see if Luke and Kieran had survived, to find whatever remained of the guild.

He eased himself onto the bed, eyes drifting upward to the wooden ceiling, but his gaze soon wandered toward the window. Snow fell in soft, relentless sheets, blanketing the world outside in white.

Sylus wasn’t entirely sure where he was. You had called it Edonia, a name he now murmured to himself, but he didn’t remember ever seeing it on a map. You had laughed when he asked, saying it was a very small village, barely over a hundred people. 

Small… yes, it was certainly small.

He tried to recall how he had ended up here, but the memory refused him. After losing consciousness on that battlefield, there had been nothing—just a void until he awoke in the snowbank. Where he came from, the snow never fell like this. And yet, here, time seemed to have slowed, the outside world paused. He had lost track of the days, the weeks—only the relentless winter reminded him of the passage of time.

His thoughts drifted to his horse. Where had it gone?

His hand absently searched through the tangle of his old clothes for his whistle—the one that called Mephisto—but it was gone. Still, he trusted the bird would find him eventually. Perhaps Mephisto was with Luke and Kieran, wherever they had managed to escape.

Tomorrow, he would try cooking again. But for now, he was too weary—fatigued from thinking, from worrying, from the gnawing ache of uncertainty.

He closed his eyes. Outside, the snow continued to fall, and inside the small cottage, the only sound was the gentle crackle of the fire.

Chapter Text

You were bone-tired. 

Not the pleasant kind of tired that comes after a long day’s work, but the hollow, jittering exhaustion of too many nights stitched together—ten poor hours of sleep spread over the last four days—and still you were on your knees in a drift, little shovel in hand. 

Your basket a few feet away was heavy with Tom and Marcy’s offerings: a jar of honey, a wedge of hard cheese, a small pouch of coin and a braid of onions tied with twine. Payment and thanks for the boy you’d pulled back from fever and infection—the dog bite he’d hidden until it festered and started poisoning him. 

You had cussed the whole time you worked, but you’d saved him, the way you’d saved Sylus.

Every movement felt leaden. Your shoulders burned from hauling snow, your lower back a steady ache, and there was a soreness behind your eyes that made the world swim a little at the edges. Your fingers—numb despite the furs—stung when you clenched them; your nails were rimmed with black from herbs and soot. 

The wind had kissed your cheeks hard all morning; your lips were split and raw. Hunger gnawed at the base of your skull—today you’d had nothing more than a strip of dried meat and half a beet while you monitored the boy sleeping in the early hours of the morning—enough to keep you upright but not enough for this kind of work.

You were still searching for Sylus’ missing sword.

You had scoured the place where you first found him and then pushed farther south, following that faint logic in your head about the way he must have come. You tied another length of your scarf to a twisted sapling each time you turned, a breadcrumb trail of bright wool against the white. 

You cursed softly when a fresh flurry two nights ago had buried every print and smear; cursed the weather, cursed your own stubbornness. 

“After I find this stupid sword,” you panted to the empty woods, “I’m going to throw it at Sylus’ stupid face, take a stupidly hot bath, eat a stupidly huge meal, and sleep like the dead.” 

You knew, as you said it, that you’d likely do none of it—not yet. There were always more wounds to bind, more people who needed you.

Still, the thought of Sylus tugged at you like a bruise you couldn’t ignore. His bandages would need checking—most of them were closing up fine after a month, but that stubborn gash across his abdomen would long outlast the rest. You’d have to maybe try a stronger salve for the scar tissue. The list of things to do rolled through your head even as your arms wanted to quit.

With a grunt that felt like it came from somewhere deep in your ribs, you shoved through another slab of snow. Cold bit at your cheeks, breath puffing in ragged clouds. You didn’t know if the sword was here; you didn’t even know if it still mattered. 

What you did know was this: once you turned back toward the cottage—shivering fingers or not—you would check his wounds. You would bring more salve. You would see that he was still breathing.

Then you heaved the shovel again.

Eventually, you surrendered to the gnawing emptiness in your stomach and abandoned the search.

By the time you reached your cottage, the sight of smoke curling from the chimney eased the knot in your chest. Seemed like nothing had happened to Sylus in your absence. You paused at the door, smoothing your hair, straightening your posture, and forcing a small smile to your lips. No matter how weary you were, you wouldn’t let him see your exhaustion.

You stepped inside. Sylus was exactly where you had left him—by the fire, a book balanced in his hands. The flames painted his face in shifting light, casting shadows across the scars that hadn’t yet faded.

“Hello,” you greeted lightly, heading toward the kitchen with the basket of gifts Tom and Marcy had given. “Did you manage to survive without me?” you teased, your voice laced with forced brightness.

Sylus hummed, low and amused. “Of course. The cottage didn’t burn down, and I’m not bleeding out. I’d call that a success.”

You glanced up properly this time, and your step faltered. He was shirtless, lounging in the chair as though it belonged to him. At ease in your home.

“Made yourself comfortable, I see,” you said with a soft chuckle, shaking your head.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Didn’t you say, what’s mine is yours?”

You slipped off your cloak and hung it near the door before moving to sit on the rattan stool before him. 

Tilting your head, you studied him with a healer’s scrutiny. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Just fine,” he replied, voice softer than you expected.

“And the boy?” he added, almost casually.

“He’ll live,” you answered, tugging off your gloves and flexing stiff fingers still stained with herbs. Then you fixed your gaze on Sylus again, unwilling to let him steer the conversation elsewhere. “And the pain?”

“Just fine.”

You narrowed your eyes at his evasiveness, leaning in slightly as though sheer will might strip the truth from him. “Let me see your wounds. I don’t trust the diagnosis of a mercenary.”

Sylus exhaled a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He shifted deeper into the chair, spreading an arm lazily along its edge. With a slow gesture toward his torso, he offered himself up. 

“Be my guest.”

You drew closer, the fire warming your back while the chill of the outdoors still clung to your skin. With careful hands, you reached for him. Your fingers brushed against his chest as you checked the edge of a bandage, and you nearly flinched at the contrast—his skin was warm, steady, alive, while your fingertips were still numb from the snow.

The faint scent of smoke and pine lingered on him, undercut with something sharper—iron, maybe, or simply the memory of blood that you could not seem to separate from him. You tried not to breathe it in, but your senses betrayed you, cataloguing him in ways that had nothing to do with medicine.

His breathing was slow, unbothered, each rise and fall of his chest brushing against your knuckles as you worked. The movement made you acutely aware of the muscle beneath your touch—solid, carved by years of battle, more proof of the life he had led before collapsing into your care. 

His chest, even in its bandaged state, was broad and heavily muscled, the kind of build that spoke of years of rigorous training and hardened strength. His arms, thick and sinewy, were like coiled springs, even in repose. You could feel the tension in his muscles, hard as iron under your touch, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the raw power he held within his frame.

You shook your head, forcing your mind back into its rightful place. Patient. He’s your patient.

“The wound along your ribs is closing cleanly,” you murmured, peeling back the bandage to inspect the fresh skin knitting together beneath. “No sign of infection. My ointment seems to be working.”

Your hand drifted to his abdomen, pausing above the stubborn gash you worried over most. Carefully, you pressed around the edges, searching for tenderness. His skin radiated heat under your chilled hands, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to focus.

“This one…” your voice dropped, softer now, “this will take longer. It’s healing, but it still needs attention.”

Sylus shifted slightly under your touch, and you couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or something else. His eyes were on you—watchful, unreadable—but you felt the weight of his gaze all the same.

You forced your tone to be clinical, brisk, though your pulse betrayed you. “I’ll need to apply more salve before you sleep tonight. And you’re not to strain it—no matter how invincible you think you are.”

For a moment, the fire cracked between you, the silence almost daring you to meet his gaze.

Your words hung between you, sharp but soft—an order wrapped in care. You began to withdraw your hands, ready to put distance back where it belonged.

But before you could, Sylus moved.

His fingers caught your chin, firm but not harsh, tilting your face upward until your eyes were locked with his. His touch was roughened by calluses, yet deliberate, controlled.

You froze. His red gaze bored into yours, the firelight flickering in their depths. For the first time, you felt as though he wasn’t just looking at you but through you, stripping away the mask you’d tried to hold in place since stepping back into the cottage.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye, a featherlight touch against skin you hadn’t realized was sore. You thought of how little you had slept, how your body ached from labor, how your reflection would betray the hollow shadows of your fatigue. 

He could see it, as plain as the scars you tended on him.

His jaw flexed, a quiet tension rippling through him as though he warred with himself.

And then his voice came—low, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Did you know…” he murmured, every word drawn out, deliberate, “…that you’re not as invincible as you think you are?”

The words echoed your own, but heavier now, carrying weight you hadn’t intended. A reminder. A warning. Maybe even something closer to concern.

The fire snapped, but you could hardly hear it over the sudden rush of your pulse.

“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow. You didn’t pull away from Sylus’ grasp, not when the heat of his skin against your chilled cheek anchored you in place.

“Have you slept at all?” His voice was quiet, but edged with something firm, unyielding. His crimson eyes swept over your face, taking in every shadow under your eyes, every line of fatigue etched into your skin.

“You look…” His jaw ticked, as though he stopped himself before saying more. “You look horrible, exhausted.”

It wasn’t an insult—you knew that—but still, your lips tugged downward, a frown betraying you.

“A little,” you admitted, voice low, heavy with weariness. “But the boy needed care.” 

You tried to avert your gaze, but his grip shifted, the pad of his thumb brushing your jaw before he tilted your chin higher, forcing your eyes back to his. The calluses of his skin were rough, but his touch was careful, deliberate, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“Have you eaten?” he pressed.

You gave a small nod.

His crimson eyes narrowed, his thumb ghosting over your lower lip as if to test the truth of your answer. “How much?”

Your lips pursed beneath his touch, voice dropping to a whisper. “A bit.”

A vague answer. Not good enough.

Sylus exhaled, slow, his breath warm against your face. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a scowl, not quite a smile. 

“Why are you so damned concerned about me when you can barely stand on your feet?” His voice roughened, and you felt the vibration of it in your chest as much as you heard it. “You need sleep. You need food. Yet you waste yourself on me.”

That broke the spell.

You swatted his hand away, more sharply than you intended, and rose to your feet, forcing distance between you. Your hands found your hips, if only to stop them from trembling. 

“Because it’s my job,” you snapped, though your voice cracked around the edges. “And I take it seriously.”

“Then take yourself seriously.” He leaned back in the chair, muscles rippling as he settled, though his eyes still tracked you with predatory sharpness. He picked his book back up, his tone deceptively mild. “Go. Rest. I’ll survive without you fussing over me.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Something twisted in your chest—not relief, but something perilously close to disappointment—tight and sharp, like guilt, like want. 

Maybe you didn’t want him to just survive. Maybe you wanted him to need you as much as you—

No.

The thought unsettled you, so you turned on your heel, fleeing to the safety of your room. The door shut harder than you meant it to, the echo ringing in your ears.

Bath. Food. Sleep. That’s all you needed. Anything to quiet the storm he stirred inside you.

Sylus exhaled slowly as the door rattled shut behind you, the sound sharp and final. His jaw clenched. He didn’t understand why his concern had sparked your temper—it was the same stubborn concern you lavished on him day after day. Perhaps it unsettled you, the way it unsettled him.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up from the chair, stretching until the pull of half-healed muscles reminded him to move carefully. The book thudded onto the table, forgotten. His steps carried him to the kitchen, where he opened your cupboards with a soldier’s decisiveness, though he moved with an unfamiliar hesitation.

Cooking was out of the question—he’d already learned that lesson with the burned stew—so he kept it simple. Bread first. He sliced it thick and drizzled honey over the crust, the amber sheen catching in the firelight. Next, a few strips of dried meat, arranged neatly at the edge of the plate.

He lingered there, tapping a finger against his chin as his crimson eyes scanned the shelves. What would please you? What might coax you to eat? He found cheese, sharp and crumbly, and cut it into wedges. A small cluster of grapes followed, plucked carefully from the vine, their skins cool against his calloused fingers.

By the time the plate was finished, it looked almost deliberate, as though he’d done this before. He hadn’t.

The kettle was next. He filled it, set it over the fire, and coaxed the flames to life until the soft crackle filled the silence. The warmth seeped into his skin as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

The kitchen smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, of your presence even though you’d shut yourself away. Sylus glanced at the closed door to your room, then back to the table he’d set with quiet precision—the plate of food, the two cups waiting for tea.

He waited.

The cottage had gone quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of the kettle heating. Sylus lowered himself into one of the chairs, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He meant to sit still, to simply wait, but his heel began to tap against the floorboards of its own accord, setting a restless rhythm that made the table faintly tremble.

From behind the closed door, muffled sounds reached him. The shift of water, the delicate splash of it against a basin. You were bathing.

Sylus closed his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. His thoughts threatened to wander somewhere they shouldn’t, painting images he had no right to. He forced them back, forced himself to think instead of the fire, of the smell of bread and honey, of anything but the soft sounds of you just beyond that door.

Still, his leg bounced, the nervous energy betraying him. He wasn’t sure why his chest felt tight, why the quiet ticked at his nerves. He had stared down battlefields, blades, and death itself without flinching—yet here he was, anxious over nothing more than the thought of you stepping out of that room.

His crimson eyes flicked to the food laid out on the table, to the cups waiting for tea. It should’ve calmed him, this small act of preparation. Instead, it only made him realize how much he wanted you to sit there across from him.

Sylus curled his fingers into a fist and let it rest on the tabletop. He wasn’t sure if the heat in his chest came from the fire or from something far less familiar, and far more dangerous.

Finally, the latch clicked and the door creaked open. Sylus’ head snapped up before he could stop himself.

You stepped out into the glow of the firelight, dressed in a thin nightgown with a pale robe draped loosely over your shoulders. Your hair, damp from the bath, was pulled into a loose braid, strands clinging to your flushed cheeks. For a moment, Sylus forgot to breathe. His chest seized, his heart thudding once, twice, like it meant to break through his ribs.

He had never seen you like this. Always skirts, layers, and vests, always buttoned and laced, always the healer with steady hands and calm orders. But now—barefoot, soft, undone—you looked nothing like the version of you he thought he had known. And it unsettled him more than any blade ever had.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, forcing words through lips that had gone suddenly dry. 

“Come. Eat,” he said, his voice rougher, lower than he intended.

Your gaze lifted to his, catching the weight of his stare before slipping toward the table. Your features softened at the sight of the food he’d laid out.

“Thank you,” you murmured as you padded across the floor, your bare feet whispering against the wood.

Sylus nodded once, curt, and shut his eyes as if that would help. But it didn’t. It only made the smell of you stronger—the lingering lavender and jasmine, the warm trace of soap and skin that wrapped around him more potently than the honey or the tea. He knew, with sudden clarity, that if he leaned close enough to press his face against the hollow of your throat, he’d find that scent stronger still, unyieldingly yours.

When he opened his eyes, you were already eating. The same way you always did—quickly, hungrily, like you were fighting time itself. He found himself staring again, half in wonder, half in something else entirely, as though watching you devour the food put his own hunger—of a different sort—into sharper relief.

And the longer he sat across from you, the more dangerous that hunger began to feel.

Sylus knew getting attached to you was not a good idea, that distance would be better. Yet he found himself wanting to know more about you. 

“So,” Sylus cleared his throat after taking a careful sip of tea, the warmth barely reaching the chill in his fingers. “Tell me… how did you know Genevieve?”

He asked cautiously, careful not to betray that he had gone snooping through your things. He wanted you to tell him on your own.

“I met her as I was passing through the village,” you said simply, popping a grape into your mouth and chewing slowly, deliberately.

“And you ended up living with her. Why?” Sylus pressed, leaning forward, the light catching the angles of his sharp jaw, the shadows under his eyes making him look older than he was. He had the sense you were holding something back.

You swallowed, the movement of your throat catching his attention for a heartbeat too long. 

“Well… I had to stop in the village, you see,” you said, your gaze flickering down to your reflection in the dark tea. “I hadn’t been feeling well for some time. Dizziness, loss of appetite, weakness… a whole host of strange symptoms.”

“Genevieve saw you?” he asked, watching the way your fingers toyed with a loose string on the cuff of your robe.

“Yes,” you said softly. “She pressed a hand to my forehead, said I had a fever, and insisted on treating me immediately.” You leaned onto the table slightly, your arms brushing against the wood. “It wasn’t just a fever… Do you remember the disease that plagued the nation a few years back? Morosa?”

Sylus shifted in his chair at the mention, the name pulling memories of comrades lost to it. He’d seen men wither slowly from it, their deaths silent and agonizing.

“I do,” he murmured, his red eyes narrowing slightly.

“Well, I had that,” you said quietly. “And I didn’t even know. Genevieve… she recognized it just by watching me move around for a few minutes. I was lucky she did. Lucky she was able to nurse me back to health here.” You gestured vaguely at the cottage around you, the familiar warmth of it now seeming like a shield against a past you didn’t like remembering.

“The hallucinations, the delirium, the fever that made every bite of food come back up… it was like fighting against my own body every day.”

Sylus’ brow furrowed involuntarily.

“But,” you continued, softer now, "Genevieve healed me. And to repay her, I stayed. Hunted for her, cooked, cleaned—I had hardly any money, and it was the only way I could give back what she had done for me.”

“Did you intend to leave?” Sylus asked, his voice low, and his gaze sharp, taking in the way your eyes shifted slightly when you thought he wasn’t watching.

You nodded. “I did.”

“What made you stay?”

You drew a slow breath, and for a moment Sylus could see the faintest catch in it. “Genevieve got sick herself,” you whispered. “I realized… I couldn’t leave until she got better. So she taught me. While she coughed through the nights, I learned. I learned to heal so I could help others, as she had helped me.”

Sylus set his cup down, the quiet clink loud in the small kitchen. He watched you, taking in the subtle slump of your shoulders now that the story was over, the way your fingers drummed absentmindedly against the table. He knew—he knew—you were exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t just disappear with a bath or a meal.

He should probably leave you be. He shouldn’t be prying into your life, or pushing you to speak about things that clearly weighed on you. And yet… he couldn’t. Not entirely.

“Now that you’ve finished eating,” he said finally, voice low and steady, as if testing the waters. He gestured toward the chair by the fire, the one he had been practically living in. “Sit. Sit down. Relax for a bit.”

You paused, brushing at the hem of your robe, eyes flicking up to his. “I should—”

“No,” he cut you off gently, the tip of his thumb brushing over the rim of the cup as he leaned slightly forward, the crimson of his eyes catching the flicker of firelight. “Sit. I want to… read you something.”

Your brow lifted. “Read to me…?”

“Yes,” Sylus said, rising from his chair with slow, deliberate movements, careful of his still-healing wounds. He picked up the book from the table, feeling the weight of it in his hands as if it mattered more than it really did. “While you were away, I read a passage I thought might… interest you.”

You pursed your lips but allowed yourself to rise, padding over to the chair by the fire. You curled up in it, knees drawn close, still wrapped in the faint warmth of your bath and robe. Sylus retrieved the rattan stool, moving it close enough to sit beside you, close but not crowding, and watched as you shifted to get comfortable.

He opened the book, though the truth was, there was no passage he had planned to read—he had only remembered one story that had reminded him of you. That was enough.

“That’s a book of children’s stories,” you said, a stifled yawn betraying your exhaustion.

Sylus chuckled, a low, resonant sound that pressed softly against the back of your ears and made a small shiver run down your spine. “I know,” he said, letting the sound linger, “but that doesn’t make it any less interesting.”

He glanced at you then, catching the way the firelight danced over your features, the way your lashes rested against your cheeks. For a moment, the story didn’t matter. All that mattered was the quiet between you, the steady rise and fall of your chest, and the strange tension that had settled like smoke in the room.

Sylus cleared his throat softly, the book resting in his hands. “Very well,” he said, voice low but deliberate, letting each word carry across the small space between you. “There was once a tiny kitten, not bigger than a loaf of bread, who lived in a village. Its fur was the color of fresh cream, and its eyes shone like polished amber.”

You shifted slightly, trying not to yawn, but the story’s gentle cadence and Sylus’ rumbling tugged at your attention.

“This little kitten,” Sylus continued, “was very small, but it had the courage of ten lions. Every day, it would scurry through the village streets, leaping over barrels and dodging the clumsy feet of the villagers, all in search of adventure. One day, the village baker’s prized loaf of bread was stolen by a sneaky crow. The villagers despaired, for the loaf was meant for the mayor’s feast.”

He paused, glancing at you to see if you were still listening, and the sight of your half-closed eyes and the faint rise and fall of your chest made his chest tighten.

“But the tiny kitten,” he said, leaning in just a fraction, “though small, was clever. It climbed the tallest fence, swatted the loaf from the crow’s talons, and returned it to the baker’s counter.”

Sylus let the story linger in the quiet warmth of the cottage, his voice deep and steady, rolling over the words like a gentle tide. 

“The villagers cheered, and the baker gave the kitten a treat of warm milk and the tiniest piece of honeyed bread, declaring it the mightiest hero of the village. And from that day forth, the kitten was never underestimated again.”

You shifted again in the chair, your body curling tighter into the cushions, the warmth of the fire and the softness of the chair wrapping around you like a cocoon. Your eyelids grew heavier with every word, the rhythm of Sylus’ voice a steady, irresistible pull.

“And the tiny kitten,” Sylus continued, his words measured and soft, “slept that night beneath the stars, purring so loud that the villagers smiled in their dreams, knowing that courage often comes in the smallest of packages.”

Your breathing slowed, deepening with each sentence, your fingers slackening in your lap. Sylus’ eyes flicked to yours, noting the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the faint flush from the bath still lingering. 

The steady timbre of his voice, low and rich, seemed to press against the tension in your shoulders, loosening it, coaxing you toward rest.

“Even when the days are long, and the night is cold,” he murmured, almost to himself now, “sometimes the smallest heart can shine the brightest, if only it dares to try.”

By then, your head had tipped slightly to the side, chin resting against the curve of the chair, lips parting ever so slightly. Your eyelids fluttered once, then twice, and finally, you were asleep, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with the fire and Sylus’ soft narration.

He closed the book gently, careful not to disturb you, and sat for a long moment in the flickering light, watching over you. The warmth of your presence, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to your hair, and the soft steadiness of your breathing drew something protective out of him. For the first time in a long while, Sylus allowed himself to simply be there, near someone he cared for, letting the quiet intimacy fill the room like a balm.

He grabbed a thick quilt from the wicker basket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Rest well,” Sylus whispered, his crimson eyes fond as he looked down at you. “Kitten.”