Warm blood covers my hands, spilling too fast to stop.
"Breathe, Thom," I say, but he doesn't respond. He's barely conscious, his body limp on the table, his leg torn open by something sharper than any farm tool. "Just hang on for a bit longer."
The room smells like iron and lavender. Sweat drips down my neck as I press harder on the wound, my palms coated in red. I can hear my grandmother's voice: Always apply firm pressure first.Don't panic. Stay calm, and the body will respond.
I try to focus on that memory.
The boy's mother kneels beside me, eyes wide, lips quivering.She clutches her apron like it's a life raft. I avoid looking at her. I can't afford to.
The cut is deep, way deeper than a regular accident. The edges are too clean, almost like a blade was used instead of a scythe.
I shake off the cold creeping up my spine and grab the needle and thread.
My braid swings over my shoulder as I bend down, the ends sticky with herbs and sweat. Stray curls stick to my forehead. I should've tied it tighter, but I wasn't expecting a patient this early during the day. But pain never waits for permission.
With each stitch, I whisper. Not words, just sounds. Calming. Rhythmic. The same way my grandmother did when she thought no one was listening.
I always listened.
The last knot is tied nicely, and I press a cool cloth to the boy's forehead. His breathing steadies. Slowly, some color finds its way back to his cheeks. I let out a breath.
"He'll be alright," I say, my throat dry. "Keep him warm. Feed him broth if he's ready by nightfall. Come back if he gets a fever."
The mother reaches for my hands, her fingers trembling as she lays a few silver coins in my palm. "Thank you, Aria," she whispers. "Thank the stars for you."
I nod, unable to talk.
Once they leave, I sit on the floor by my table, resting my back against the rough stone wall.My hands still smell like blood, and my arms ache from pressing down for too long. The wood floor is cool under me, worn smooth from years of work.
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
But I don't sleep. Healers don't get much rest—not in this village, and not this close to the border.
My name is Aria. I'm twenty years old, and I've been healing this village since I was a kid, barely tall enough to reach my grandmother's shelves.
People trust my hands.
They don't trust me, not my amber eyes, which are rare, not the way my wrist glows under the moon, and not the crows that land on my roof whenever the wind changes.
They come to me when they're bleeding. When the fever hits their kids. When their bones won't heal right. They call me gifted, blessed, a miracle.
But as soon as their child is fine, they look away.
Like they're scared of what they might find.
I wash my hands in the basin, watching the water turn pink before it drains away.My skin is sun-kissed, smooth, and scarred from years of accidents, knife slips, and kicks from scared animals. My arms are strong, not soft like most girls in the village. My shoulders are wide from hauling buckets, herbs, and sometimes bodies.
I catch my reflection in the mirror: a girl too sharp for gentleness. Skin the color of honey. High cheekbones. Full lips that rarely smile unless they mean it. Amber eyes, heavy like river stones.
I don't look like a hero.
I look like trouble.
I grab my coat from its hook. The edges are frayed, and one pocket is stitched over and over. Inside, I have little pouches of yarrow, dried calendula, willow bark, and a tiny dagger I promised myself I'd only use if necessary.
I've had to. Twice.
The day wears on, filled with sprains, coughs, and a nasty boil that nearly made me gag to remove. By the time the last patient leaves, the sun is low. I'm cleaning my worktable when I hear them—heavy boots on gravel. Too many.
I step to the door just as someone knocks.
Not bangs—just knocks. Polite. Measured.
I open it, and my stomach drops.
The village chief stands there, his face pale and drawn. Behind him are three figures cloaked in silver and blue. I've never seen anything like them. They don't blink. Don't move. Don't breathe, it seems.
Magic hums around them, making my skin prickle.
"Aria," the chief says, clearing his throat. "We need you in the square. For the treaty.
My heart skips a beat. "The treaty ceremony? That's not until the solstice."
"It's been called early," he replies, his voice tight. "A delegation arrived from the Shadow Kingdom."
I blink. "They crossed the border?"
"They're here to choose the bride."
I feel the blood drain from my face.
"No," I say. "No, no, no. That's a myth. No one's been chosen in over a hundred years."
The silver figure steps forward, his hood low, but I can feel his gaze, cold as ice.
"The Cursed Prince has invoked his right," he says, his voice muffled like a bell in the snow. "A human bride. Tonight."
"I'm not going," I say immediately.
But the envoy lifts a scroll, breaking the wax seal and releasing a faint glow.
"You bear the mark," he says flatly. "You're the one."
My wrist burns as he speaks. I clutch it, breathing hard. The mark—the strange golden pattern that only shows under moonlight—is glowing now, visible like a brand.
"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "There has to be someone else—"
"There isn't," the chief responds quietly. "And you know that."
"You all knew," I breathe. "You knew he'd come for me."
"We hoped he wouldn't," the chief says. "But peace comes with a cost."
A cost. That's all I am to them.
A trade.
By the time they take me to the square, most of the village is gathered there. Torches flicker in the breeze. No one meets my gaze. Mothers pull their daughters close. Fathers stare at the ground.
I expect someone to step up for me. Mara. Tomas. Even old Rhea. Someone to say this isn't right, that I've saved too many lives to be given away like this.
But no one speaks up.
The envoy raises his hand, and the magic pulls at me like a wave. My feet move without my say-so. My throat tightens.
"Do you accept the binding, Aria of the borderlands?" he asks.
"No," I reply.
But the mark flares.
And the magic doesn't care what I want.