The wind stirred softly through the Whispering Woods, rustling leaves like secrets passed between unseen mouths. Eira moved carefully along the moss-covered path, her basket brimming with fresh herbs. Twilight had begun its descent, casting streaks of rose gold across the canopy, but she didn't fear the forest—this place had always been kind to her.
Until tonight.
A strange energy tingled along her skin, as if the air itself held its breath. The birds had gone silent. Even the breeze paused, unnaturally still.
Then came the sound—a low groan, human.
Eira froze. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Slowly, she crouched beside a large fern and peeked through the underbrush.
There—barely visible beneath the shadows—lay a man slumped against a tree, blood staining the earth around him. His chest rose and fell shallowly, and one arm hung limp at his side. He wore a dark cloak, torn at the shoulder, and beneath it, worn leather armor etched with strange insignias.
A soldier? No—rebels didn't wear those markings.
Her hand tightened around the strap of her basket. Logic screamed to turn back. This man was trouble. Men like him always were. But the blood... it pooled like spilled ink across the soil, and if she left him now, he wouldn't last the hour.
"Damn it," she whispered.
Eira moved to his side, gently shifting his weight. His face, smudged with dirt and bruises, was handsome even in pain—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips pressed into a grimace. His eyes fluttered open, a stormy grey that locked onto hers with startling intensity.
"You—" His voice was gravel, broken. "You're not… with them…"
She blinked. "With who?"
He didn't answer. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped unconscious.
Definitely trouble.
---
It took everything she had to get him onto her makeshift cart. The narrow trail back to her cottage wound through gnarled roots and uneven terrain, and she had to pause more than once to stop his blood from dripping too freely. She whispered calming spells under her breath—old things her mother had taught her before the purge.
By the time she pushed open the door to her cottage, sweat clung to her brow and her arms trembled.
The cottage was small—just one room, with shelves packed with jars and bundles of herbs drying from the ceiling. She laid the man on her cot and lit a lantern, the warm glow dancing across his pale face. She pulled away his cloak and found the source of the bleeding: a jagged wound across his ribs, clean but deep. Likely a blade.
"Hold on," she murmured, washing her hands and gathering supplies.
She set to work quickly, cleaning the wound and stitching it closed with practiced precision. He didn't stir, even when she touched the edges of the gash. Whatever he'd endured, it had nearly killed him.
Not tonight, she thought grimly. I won't let you die, stranger. Not here.
---
Later that night, when the moon rose high and silver mist curled around the windows, she sat beside him, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of a worn blanket. She'd done all she could with her hands. Now came the part she hated—the part she kept hidden.
Closing her eyes, Eira placed her palm just above his wound.
"Silent roots and silver rain," she whispered, voice low and ancient, "call the spark that soothes the flame. Let blood still and bones mend."
A faint blue light glimmered at her fingertips, pulsing like a heartbeat. The magic flowed from her—wild and warm—into him. His skin glowed faintly as the wound sealed fully beneath the stitches, the bruises fading like clouds.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her.
She jerked her hand back.
"You used... magic," he said hoarsely.
Eira's stomach dropped. "You were dying. I had no choice."
"You shouldn't be able to do that," he rasped, pushing himself up with effort. "You're not marked."
She said nothing, gripping the edge of the chair so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Magic was restricted to the noble bloodlines. Each was gifted an elemental affinity—fire, water, earth, or air—marked by sigils at birth. Eira had none. No noble crest. No official heritage. She was... no one.
Yet, she could do more than any marked noble ever could.
"Rest," she said firmly. "We'll talk when you're not delirious."
His eyes narrowed but he leaned back. "What's your name?"
She hesitated. "Eira."
"Cass," he muttered. "Thank you, Eira."
---
Over the next few days, Cass's strength returned steadily. He never pried, though she could feel his eyes on her when he thought she wasn't looking. He helped around the cottage when he could—chopping wood, sorting herbs—but always with a sense of watchfulness, like he was waiting for something.
Eira learned little about him. He gave no surname, no hint of why he'd been in the woods bleeding. But there was a soldier's edge to the way he moved, a careful discipline in his silences.
She wasn't stupid. He was dangerous. But so was she.
On the fifth morning, she found him outside, leaning against a tree with a hand pressed to his side.
"You're pushing too hard," she warned, approaching.
He gave her a ghost of a smile. "I heal fast."
"Because of me."
His gaze softened. "I haven't forgotten. Believe me."
A quiet hung between them. The woods murmured in the distance, the breeze picking up just slightly.
"Why were you out there?" she asked finally.
Cass's jaw tensed. "Looking for someone."
"A bounty?"
"Something like that."
She crossed her arms. "You're being vague."
"And you're not?" he countered. "You stitched me up, hid me, and used forbidden magic to do it. Who are you, really?"
She stiffened. For a moment, their eyes locked, tension thick as fog. Then she turned and walked back toward the cottage.
"If you want to stay," she said over her shoulder, "don't ask questions you don't want answers to."
---
That night, Cass sat by the fire, sharpening a short blade. Eira sat at the table, mixing tinctures. Outside, a storm had begun to roll in—lightning flashing distantly through the trees.
"Have you ever been to the capital?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up, surprised. "No. Why?"
"No reason. Just wondering if you ever thought about what it's like."
"Cold," she said, "and cruel. That's what I heard."
Cass smiled faintly. "You're not wrong."
He stared into the fire, the flames flickering in his grey eyes.
"They say the Queen is hunting anyone with unregistered magic," he said. "That she's scared of a prophecy."
Eira's fingers paused. "What prophecy?"
Cass shrugged. "Something about the Moonbound line returning. A bloodline that could wield all four elements."
Her pulse quickened.
"They say the last of them was wiped out decades ago," he continued. "But if someone were alive… someone with that power… she'd do anything to kill them first."
Eira's hands trembled slightly, but she didn't let it show. "Sounds like a myth."
"Maybe."
But when he looked at her again, something in his gaze was sharper—curious. Calculating.
Like he was starting to wonder if the myth was sitting right across from him.