Home.
A place, yes—but a feeling more than anything.
Even now, that feeling thrums through the floorboards. The hearth glows as the scent of rain-damp wood seeps through the shutters. I close the journal I claim as my own and draw my cloak tight before stepping outside for air.
The setting sun gilds the edges of the forest in burnished gold. I follow the familiar path toward the glade—my quiet ritual when my mind grows restless.
I find myself drawn here often, particularly when the moon is full and high. That place fills me with wonder each time I step into its hollow circle. It is breathtaking by day, but beneath moonlight, it becomes otherworldly. The jasmine turns sweeter. Even the moonflower—which I take care to avoid after reading the warnings scrawled in the hand of the cottage’s former keeper—gleams like starlight made flesh.
I breathe in the raw scent of fresh green, spring waking even in the night. My shawl slips from my shoulders as I let myself relax to the beat of the glade.
Then the wind changes.
My eyes scan the sky, stars peering back through clear night air. No oncoming storm—yet something is amiss. A dark chill threads through the clearing, beckoning my return.
Reluctantly, I turn from the glade, carrying its stillness with me as though it clings to my skin.
The moon has only just claimed the sky, its silver light barely strong enough to guide my way.
By the time I reach the cottage, the forest behind me stirs with the life of night, though the air still holds the softness of fading day. I ready myself for firelight once more, for rest, for the comfort of routine.
Grave unease strikes—sudden and sharp.
The scene before me is wrong. The woods themselves seem to recognize the violation, heavy with stillness. No longer rich with spring’s scent, a subtle omen laced with the bitter trace of copper sharpens my senses. Even at a distance it is clear. The cottage door sags on its frame, and beyond it a horse stands grazing, its saddle still cinched tight across its back.
Warning rips through me. My body coils, tight and ready. I draw my blade, eyes sweeping the darkened dwelling for the slightest flicker of movement. Muscles burn awake, prepared to strike or to flee.
Slowly, I press the door wider.
Crimson blood streaks across the threshold and beyond.
Then it comes.
A guttural groan, dragged from the shadows—pained, suffering.
The night falls into an unnatural hush. My breath fractures in my chest, my heartbeat a drum so loud I fear it will give me away.
Chapter Three
The sound still echoes in my ears as I step inside. The door creaks wider, spilling moonlight across the floor. There, collapsed in its pale glow, lies the shape of a man.
Blood soaks through his cloak, dark and heavy, pooling beneath him. His breath comes raggedly, each exhale a battle.
For one frantic moment I reach for the tinderbox, ready to strike a flame. Then I freeze—what if light draws danger closer? My hand hovers, trembling between fear and need. At last, instinct wins. I spark the match, shield it with my palm, and set a lantern alight.
The glow reveals more than I wish to see. Gashes along his side. A wound still slick and weeping. Too much blood.
I snatch a cloth from the table and press it hard against the deepest cut. His body jolts under my hands, a low groan tearing through him again.
The smell of blood pulls smoke into memory—the crackle of fire, the sting of cinders on my skin. The mill had caught: sparks leapt to timber while men dragged the wounded clear and women and children hauled water in desperate chains. I remember running from one broken body to the next, pressing cloth where others pointed, fetching bowls,doing whatever I could, though I was hardly welcome. Even as an outcast, I could not bear to stand idle.
Many were saved that night. Others weren’t. My father staggered free with the rest, but the smoke left a cough that never truly left him. Whether it was the fire that took him in the end or time itself, I’ll never know.
I force the memory down and lift the cloth as sparingly as I dare, watching the flow slow to a trickle. Then I move swiftly—lighting the hearth, fetching water to boil, and gathering jars and herbs.
Each task draws me back to his side: checking his breath, checking the wounds. His pained groans jar me in a frenzy, but the silence between them terrifies me more.
It isn’t until I kneel beside him, hands trembling as I wash blood from torn flesh, that I truly see him. As crimson clouds the water, his outline emerges—broad chest, powerful shoulders, a body once formidable, now ravaged by violence. I feel small beside him, dwarfed by his presence even in collapse.
