“You’re awake.” Gratitude rushes through me. Not only is he alive, but he is also aware. The fear draped over me since the moment I saw the broken door begins, at last, to ease.
He raises a hand toward his shoulder, the one I so carefully tended. I cross quickly to his side. “Here—let me help.” I lift the bandage withcare. “I’ll fetch water to clean and redress the wound if you’re strong enough.”
He gives a single nod. Silent, yet in that silence I feel the weight of command, as though he could marshal legions even from the floor. Perhaps he has. I dare not think too much of what legends an immortal might have lived through as I step outside for water.
The horse remains where it first appeared—untethered, yet grazing close by, unwilling to leave its rider. Blood mats its coat. It leans into my touch as I stroke its flank. “He’s all right,” I murmur, as though the creature might understand.
It’s only a moment before I am back in the cottage, water ready to be heated in the hearth. Grounded by the task at hand, I am only dimly aware of him trying to rise to his elbow, resisting the urge to rush back to his side with every groan. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it,” I say, lost in the fire as I stoke it back to life. I linger for what seems like an eternity. “I don’t even know your name…” I say aloud, but mostly to myself and the flame.
“Vale,” his voice reaches me through the trance. I glance at him, those impossibly deep eyes fixed on me. “My name is Vale,” softer this time, welcoming.
With water boiled and fresh linen ready, I unwrap the bandages. Slowly, carefully, so as not to cause him more pain. Beneath the cloth, the smears of blood and poultice give way beneath my hand. I gasp.
“Your wound…” What had been torn flesh and muscle now lies knit in raw pink, the kind of healing I might expect after weeks, not days. “It’s remarkable.”
“My kind heal quickly,” he says, his eyes steady beneath the veil of dark hair. Quiet confirmation of what my heart already knew.
One by one I check the other wounds. Smaller cuts and gashes have vanished altogether, leaving no trace that harm ever touched him.
At last, I turn to the deepest cut. The bandage clings stubbornly, my haste betraying me. His wince reminds me to be more cautious. Fresh crimson wells at the seams of my stitches.
I press a cloth to it at once. His hand closes over mine. The heat of his touch startles me, sending my fingers slipping back.
“This… this is why I knew I would not make iton my own.” His gaze shifts—from the wound, to the cottage, to me. “I came seeking sanctuary. Seeking an old friend.”
“Eryndor,” I breathe.
“Yes.” One brow arches questioningly. How had a mortal woman, frail by comparison, come to sit in Eryndor’s home?
I swallow, my hand hovering above the cloth as though torn between duty and reverence. “You knew him well?”
Vale’s jaw tightens, a shadow cutting across his features. “Well enough that when the blade pierced my armor in a strike too grave to withstand, his name was the only place my thoughts could crawl.” His breath hitches as I ease the bandage free. “And well enough to wonder why you, a mortal, tend his hearth.”
I steady my hand despite its tremor. “Because he offered me haven when no other would. Because this place—” my gaze sweeps the humble walls, the shelves lined with herbs and worn tomes—“is the only peace I have ever known.”
His eyes soften, dark but searching. “Then you’ve more in common with him than I thought.”
Silence lingers. Only the crackle of the fire and the faint rasp of cloth against skin fill the space between us. My stitches gleam red in the lamplight, yet even while bleeding, the wound knits faster than logic allows.
I dare another question, low, almost a whisper. “Why were you alone in such peril?”
Vale’s gaze holds mine, heavy with vow. “In part because during the ambush my men and I were scattered wide, each taking on the enemy. But more truly, because what hunts me would have followed. And because I trust no one with this place.”
His fingers brush the back of my hand. “Until now.”
I lift the cloth from his side, both of us examining—me my handiwork, him the state of his healing. “It’s rough, I know.”
“You did more for me than you realize,” he says, eyes meeting mine at last. “A wound like this—it was no accident. Someone struck with clear intent to kill. I pray my men fared better than I.”
“Piercing armor, immortal flesh…” I frown, the thought twisting in me. “This really could have killed you?”
Vale’s gaze drifts, rifling through memory. “The weaponthey used—some cursed blade, by magic or its making—tore at my flesh in a way no ordinary sword could. Yes, it could have killed me. Likely would have, if not for you.”
He lifts his hand, tilting my chin. Gentle, yet with a strength that commands I not look away. “You truly did save me.”
The gratitude in his eyes threatens to undo me. I rise quickly, seeking refuge in busywork. “Then perhaps my debt to Eryndor is repaid,” I murmur, forcing a smile as I fetch more water. Why does this man’s quiet presence stir me more than the chaos of that first night?
When I glance back, his brow furrows with silent question. A sigh escapes me—half laugh, half confession. “When he sent me here, to this… home”—my eyes sweep the shelves, the hearth, the room that has become the greatest blessing I’ve ever known—“all he asked was that I repay the kindness to another, given the chance. I suppose… in that way, he came to your aid after all.”
