A rasp breaks through his lips, each syllable rough and strained. “Eryndor.”
Could it be? Did he come here seeking him?
“No,” I whisper. “Not Eryndor. A friend.”
I set the cup aside, searching his face for any sign of returning strength or of intent; I cannot tell. He shifts, as though trying to rise, only to yield to the severity of his wounds.
“You have been gravely injured,” I murmur, willing calm into my voice, though my own heart pounds. “I’ve done what I can, but I fear…” My words trail off as he slumps once more, his head finding my lap. His groan this time carries not only pain but defiance.
“Rest. You’re safe here.” I feel his body ease, surrendering into stillness. He does not take another sip of the moonflower. The faintest smile breaks across my lips and the willful defiance in the smallturn as he denies it.
Hours pass. The cottage warms beneath the steady blaze of the hearth. When at last I open the window, the fragrant spring air drifts in, carrying with it a quiet promise I only now realize I longed for.
I drape a blanket across him and place a cushion beneath his head. He lies in uneasy sleep while I move about the space, preparing broth for when his strength returns—if it returns.
The bandages, once crimson and wet, are now only stained ruddy brown. Hope stirs in me where I had nearly let it die.
He spoke to me. Clearly that has to be a good sign. I have seen men on the brink of death, their last words hanging in the air. Yet when he whispered, the strain in his voice felt more like mustering growing strength than bidding farewell in the face of clear defeat.
That strange quality of him—everything that tells me he is not of my kind—rings true with a deep familiarity. Much the way I feel exploring new paths in the wood: new, and yet known.
A heavy breath breaks my thought—a voice low but clearer than before. “What is that smell?”
My heart leaps. From the startle or the hope of it, I dare not say. I draw a slow breath, willing myself not to rush. Forced steadiness in my hand as I ladle broth into a small bowl, lowering myself to sit at his side. When he opens his eyes, I nearly forget to breathe. It’s not the color of them that captivates me. They’re brown—but not plain. Lustrous, alive. Depths that seem to hold the whole of the forest within them. I fear I might be lost if I linger too long.
Slowly he pushes up on one arm, wincing as the movement tears at his wounds. The blanket slips to his waist, exposing the bandages. His gaze finds them, lingering.
“You did this?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “Enough to keep you breathing, I hope.”
His eyes lift to mine, steady despite his weakness. My own lower, voice falling to a whisper. “I couldn’t let you die.”
He gives me a curt nod, quiet approval passing between us. Then his eyes shift toward the bowl in my hands.
I raise it carefully, guiding the broth to his lips. Golden light from the fading sun washes over him, catching in raven-dark hair and thoseimpossible eyes. The sight holds me captive—until his voice breaks the silence once more.
He sips slowly, every swallow a struggle, and for a heartbeat I think it might be too much. But then his eyes find mine again. Even clouded with pain, they hold a quiet command, as though the world itself has always bent to his will.
“Your name,” he rasps, voice raw as torn stone. “Tell me your name.”
“Mira,” I whisper. The sound feels impossibly small between us, yet his gaze pins it in place as though it matters more than anything.
A faint breath shudders from him, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. His strength falters, and he sinks back into the cushion I set beneath his head. It looks as though sleep has claimed him again—until his lips move once more.
“You saved me.”
I shake my head, lowering my eyes to the bowl in my lap. “I kept you breathing. That is all.”
His hand shifts, just barely brushing against the edge of the blanket, as if to reach for something and abandons the effort in the same instant. His eyes close, but his words linger like embers.
“Still… you saved me.”
The night is quiet—mercifully not so quiet as to make me fear the worst. I do not dare retreat to the bed. Even in a cottage so small, the distance feels too great in an hour such as this. Aches pull through my spine; one sleepless night spent kneeling at his head and now wrapped in a blanket on a chair not meant for such weary hours. Still, I will not leave my post.
It is later than I expect when my eyes finally open to greet the day.
“Mira…” His voice carries to me, low and rough, yet threaded with a melody that makes me wonder if I still dream.
