Onyx hair, matted with dirt and blood, clings to his temple and matches the dark beard shadowing a jaw cut in quiet defiance—strong, unyielding even in unconsciousness. There is something about that face, though: its stillness. Not deathly, but unnatural, as if the line between breath and silence does not quite apply to him.
Once the wounds are cleaned, I set to mixing a poultice: herbs I know from my own foraging, scraps of knowledge pieced together from stolen texts, and the new learning I find in this cottage.
The wealth of it is a treasure, and tonight it becomes a guide.
He winces as I press the paste to his wounds. “This will help the healing,” I murmur, my voice meant as much to steady me as to soothe him.
I work from lesser cuts to greater. The long slash across his chest eases slightly beneath the salve, though I doubt any balm can mend such damage. Still, I press on until at last I look at his face—now lit by lantern and hearth together. Even broken by pain, his features hold strength. In a fleeting moment I see it. Beauty shadowed by devastation.
Urgency surges again. The wound in his side is the worst, torn too deep for balm or bandage. My mind races back to the fire atthe mill, to the hurried stitching of flesh. No time to hesitate. I rush to the small basket of needles and thread meant for mending clothes. My hands shake as I choose the sturdiest, thickest strand.
“This may be as painful for me as it is for you,” I whisper, a poor attempt at humor as I brace myself.
The roar that tears from him proves me wrong.
Blood wells anew as I drive the needle through, but my hand stays steady—more steady than I ever believed it could. Stitch by stitch I pull torn flesh together, his screams dwindling to whimpers as I work. By the time I tie the final knot, silence hangs heavy but alive.
I lean back on my heels, my breath ragged. This man… what has been done to him?
His uneven breaths draw me back. Pain radiates from him still. Even if he lives, there’s no reason he should suffer so.
I search the shelves again, not for healing but for mercy. Pulling a book of remedies from the shelf I scan the pages to confirm my instincts. Poppy—yes. I remember its gift. It dulls agony, though some lose themselves to its lure.
I turn, measuring him from across the room. The frenzy slows, and with distance, I see him more clearly.
He is not merely a man.
No—something more.
The air itself seems to bend toward him, charged and listening.
I move closer, clutching the book against my chest as if it might shield me. My gaze catches small wounds I only just cleaned—skin pale beneath the drying blood—and for the briefest moment, lines seem to pulse with faint light, a thread of gold vanishing as quickly as it appears. I blink, certain exhaustion and firelight have tricked me. Yet the skin there already looks changed, the edges drawing tighter, healing faster than should be possible.
“No,” I breathe. “Not mortal.”
Whatever he is, he is still suffering. Still human enough to die.
Another groan snaps me back. I rifle through a worn text once more, its margins inked with warnings. My eyes catch the name that haunts me in the glade:moonflower.
For mortals, poison. Bliss or madness in the wrong hands. But here, scrawled in careful script:
For immortals, a draught to dull pain. Seeds ground to dust, steeped in water. Dangerous—yet effective.
I look on him again. Even in ruin, there is something unearthly in him, beauty woven through suffering.
Carefully, I draw the jar forward, measuring each scoop as if a breath too much might end me. I turn my face away as the dust lifts, then temper it with dried jasmine to hide its foulness. Steam curls, metallic on my tongue, sharp in my throat.
I return to him with the cup and lift his head into my lap. “Drink,” I plead, pressing the rim to his lips. He summons enough strength to obey. The moment his head falls back, tension eases from his body.
Without thinking, my hand comes to rest against his chest. Beneath my palm, the frantic thrum begins to slow—each beat finding rhythm against my own. Strong. Steady. Until our hearts move in quiet accord.
“I cannot promise you’ll live,” I whisper, stroking damp hair from his brow. “But I swear I will not leave your side.”Gods, help him.
Chapter Four
Dawn crept in, and still I kept watch. I rise only to tend the hearth or warm his elixir, always watchful and quickly returning to his side. At each groan I soothe him, raising the cup once more.
His hand catches my wrist—weakly, yet enough to still me.
