2. Roan
Roan
I’ve never cared much for old ruins, yet here I am, trudging through the night with only my sword and a nagging sense of regret for company.
The wind howls through broken archways like the place is still mourning whatever civilization left it behind. Dust skitters across cracked stones, stirred up like restless ghosts. A smarter woman would be in a tavern right now, boots off, meal in hand, maybe a little buzzed on cheap ale and even cheaper company. But no—I’m out here, alone, freezing my ass off in the armpit of nowhere, because of a job that slipped through my fingers.
I grunt and run a hand through my short-cropped hair. Should’ve seen it coming.
I had a good deal lined up—decent coin for escorting a wagon of silks from one side of the valley to the other. Easy ride, I thought. Guard the goods, keep my blade clean. But then the merchant got nervous, said he didn’t like the idea of relying on “just one sellsword,” especially not a woman. Said it’d be safer to hire a pack of local guards instead.
Coward.
He gave me a quarter of the promised coin, mumbled something about appreciating my time, and that was that.
I’d have told him to shove his silks where the sun never shines, but I needed at least a portion of that payment, and that stings worse than the dismissal.
There went my job. My ride to the next town. My damn pride.
Now I’ve got enough silver to last a week if I ration hard—no ale, no hot meals, and no inn unless I’m desperate. I’ve pinned my hopes on the border town of Elden Hollow, a few day’s journey from here if I don’t collapse halfway. It’s not glamorous, but it’s busy—positioned right between three hostile territories. To the south and west, vampire clans dig in like ticks. Up north, there’s a cluster of gold-hungry towns itching to spill blood over coin. And further north still, the werewolves stalk the frost fields, answering to no one but their own hunger.
In other words, Elden Hollow is exactly the kind of place a merc like me thrives. Plenty of threats. Plenty of frightened people with coin to spare.
But first, I have to get there.
I can either camp under the stars or brave some tumble-down relic that might offer shelter from the wind. Between an open field and a battered ruin, the choice isn’t hard.
My boots crunch over loose stones as I step forward, scanning the remains of what might’ve been a temple once, or a manor. Hard to tell—age and decay have wiped most of the details clean.
Better not to get curious, I remind myself.
Curiosity doesn’t pay. Contracts do. And right now, I’ve got none.
Still, I move carefully, scanning for signs of trouble. Bandits sometimes use these places for hideouts. I’ve learned the hard way that “empty” corridors can hide a lot more than old pottery shards. My sword-hand flexes in a reflexive test of readiness. The hilt is as familiar as my own skin—my truest companion on the road.
At least the sky’s clear. The moon's doing me a favor tonight. Its light drapes over the broken stone like a half-hearted blessing, just enough for me to pick my way through the rubble without tripping. But the cold? The cold bites deep. It’s in my joints, my jaw, my spine—wrapping around my bones like it wants to root there.
I’d kill for a hot fire.
No, scratch that. I’d fight for it, not kill—although the night is young, and you never know what you might have to do out here.
My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since dawn. Rations are slim: a heel of stale bread, a scrap of dried venison. I push away the gnawing emptiness.
If I can find a decent corner to hole up for the night, maybe I’ll hunt at first light. Rabbits don’t usually stray too far from places like this—too many hiding spots. And I’m fast when I need to be.
Wind kicks up again, sharper this time. It whistles through the shattered stone like a warning, sending a chill across my neck. My cloak snaps around my calves, but I keep walking, stepping over a slab of stone that might’ve been part of a grand doorway centuries ago.
The place is eerily quiet, except for the wind. If there were bandits squatting here, they’d have made themselves known by now. Thrown a rock, rattled a blade, something to mark their territory. No one hides this long unless they’re planning something, and somehow I don’t think this ruin’s hiding a trap. No warmth in the air. No scent of cookfire or stale sweat.
So maybe—for once—I’m actually alone.
Still doesn’t mean safe.
I work my way deeper into what appears to be the remains of a small courtyard—stone columns, some intact, most just jagged stumps. The ground slopes here, scattered with loose stones and creeping ivy. By the faint moonlight, I see a curved wall still standing at the far end, half-swallowed by vines. Perfect spot for shelter. I can tuck my back to it, keep watch, and maybe get a few hours’ rest.
That’s all I need. Then I’ll move on, find work in Elden Hollow, and forget all about the night I spent in the bones of a forgotten place.
Except… something prickles at the back of my neck.
A shiver—not from cold this time, but instinct.
I freeze.
Because suddenly, I’m not sure I’m alone after all.
At first, I think it’s a trick of the shadows—a bundle of fallen cloth or twisted ivy at the base of the wall. But no, there’s a shape slumped against the stone, human-sized. Small. Still.
Not a bandit. Too slight for that. A traveler, maybe. Or a body.
I curse silently, pulse kicking up hard and fast. My stance shifts without thought, weight rolling to the balls of my feet. Sword-hand inches toward the hilt. Ready for a fight.
But the figure doesn’t move.
Which somehow feels worse.
The smart move would be to walk away. Keep my distance. I’ve seen too many sob stories turn into knife wounds. Still, something tugs at my gut, stubborn and low. Not quite guilt, not quite instinct—just that sick, sour churn that says if you leave them and they die, you’ll carry it.
And gods, when was the last time I felt that?
I contemplate the figure a moment longer, then decide that if it’s a trap, well…I’m armed. I can handle a trap.
Slowly, carefully, I edge closer.
Gravel crunches beneath my boots—loud in the quiet ruins, louder in my ears. My sword’s already half-drawn from its scabbard. I keep to the edge of the moonlight, moving slow, careful, each step deliberate. My eyes scan the wreckage around me for movement, signs of life, ambush. Nothing. Just stones and silence.
Closer now.
And I see her.
My breath catches in my throat before I can stop it.
She’s slumped against the stone, limbs splayed awkwardly, hair matted across her face. My stomach lurches—it’s definitely a woman, and she looks… bad . Pale. The kind of pale that drains the color from the world around her. Her shoulder’s soaked in blood—dark and dried now, but still too much, and her dress is torn.
Dead?
I pause a yard away, heart thudding against my ribs hard enough to hurt. The air feels tight, like it’s holding its breath with me.
I’ve seen plenty of corpses. Buried more than a few. But this doesn’t feel like death. Not exactly. There’s something about her posture—slumped, but not slack. Like she was fighting to stay upright. Like she didn’t want to go down.
Gods. Is she breathing?
The glimmer of moonlight on her face reveals an almost ethereal pallor, and for a moment I wonder if she’s some wraith from an old story.
Don’t be foolish, Roan. She’s flesh and blood.
All the same, I can’t just stride up without caution. I’ve heard the stories—bait left out for mercs like me, waiting for the soft-hearted to lean in close.
But this… this doesn’t feel like bait.
I scan the ruins one last time for signs of an ambush—a blade glinting in the shadows, or another figure lying in wait. Nothing. Just the wind, the hush of ancient stones, and a wave of unease that makes my palms sweat.
The mercenary in me screams caution—leave her, walk away.
I let out a quiet, muttered curse and move forward. My sword eases back into its sheath with a click.
Stupid, maybe. But there's something about her. I can’t walk away now. Not if she’s dying.
And gods help me, she looks like she’s dying.
A breeze stirs the tangle of her dark hair, and there’s an odd pallor to her lips that I don’t often see in the living. I crouch beside her, and swing my pack off one shoulder. She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t flinch. Not even when I brush a few strands of hair from her face.
I reach into my bag, fingers fumbling through bandages, water flask, whatever half-crushed salve I’ve got left.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. No sense startling her. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter—barely a twitch at first. Then they crack open, and her gaze snags mine.
Panic.
It hits her face like a lightning strike—wild, unfiltered, immediate. I see her flinch before she even moves, and then she’s scrabbling to press herself deeper into the crumbled wall behind her. Her body’s trembling, half-frozen, half-fighting.
My hands fly up, palms open. I stay low, crouched and nonthreatening, sword untouched.
“Easy,” I murmur. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just…just hold on.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, eyes wide and glassy, lips slightly parted like she’s still catching up to where she is and who I am. The kind of fear she’s carrying—it’s not the usual bandit jumpiness or traveler’s suspicion. This is something deeper. Like she’s seen hell and it chased her here.
I shift carefully, reach for my pack without breaking eye contact, and pull out my canteen. The water inside sloshes quietly. Still some left. Good. I fish out the rest—dried meat, a broken bit of hard bread. Nothing fancy, but it might be enough to ground her.
“I’ve got water,” I say, holding the canteen out. I keep my voice gentle, low. “You look like you need this.”
She stares at it, doesn’t move. Her breathing’s shallow, chest rising in short, fast bursts. Her skin’s too pale, almost luminous in the moonlight—and gods, the gash across her shoulder is bad. Ugly. Deep enough that even I, used to gore and worse, feel my gut clench.
“You’re hurt,” I add, shifting closer. “I—I can help, but you have to let me. Here, I have a bit of water left.” I hold the canteen out to her again, fingers outstretched like she might snap if I get too close.
Her eyes flick to mine, then to the canteen, before she closes them and shakes her head weakly. It’s not a refusal, exactly, more like resignation.
Shit.
I glance at the blood soaking her cloak, at the way she’s curled into herself.
Something about the color of her blood—no, maybe it’s the dim light, but it seems different. Thick. Rich. I push that thought aside, a nagging sense of unease blooming in my chest.
She tries to sit up. I move forward instinctively, pressing a hand to her good shoulder to steady her. “Whoa, careful.”
Her gaze snaps to where my palm rests, and I realize I’m in her space. Too close for someone who looks like a trapped animal.
Too much.
Shit, Roan, back off.
I pull my hand away quickly, holding it up again.
I fumble for words. “I—I’m Roan,” I say, voice a little rough. “Just passing through. I can leave, if that’s what you want. But that wound… it’s not going to heal on its own.”
She swallows, and I can’t help but notice just how sharp her cheekbones are, how those amber eyes nearly glow in the waning light. Gods, I don’t know what’s going on with her. Hunger, fear, maybe both.
“I’m…fine,” she manages. Her voice cracks halfway through the word.
“Alright,” I say, exhaling slowly. “If you say so.” But she’s clearly not fine. Her hand trembles on the ground, fingers curling in pain.
I look at her—really look this time. Not just at the wound or the blood, but the woman underneath all that fear. And something about her makes my chest feel tight. She looks like she’s been hunted. Like she’s still being hunted.
And I can’t turn my back on that.
“Look,” I say again, quieter now. “I’ve got food. Water. I can patch you up, if you let me. Might even keep you breathing until morning. I don’t want anything from you.”
She looks torn.
Her eyes flick between the canteen in my hand and my face, back and forth like she’s trying to measure something behind my expression. Like she’s waiting for the catch. Her jaw tightens, the muscle twitching just once before she stills again. Pain’s got a grip on her, no question—but there’s something else there too. A war behind her eyes. Pride, maybe. Mistrust. Or maybe she’s just too used to suffering alone.
I know that look. I’ve worn it myself.
Then—finally—she gives a small, jerky nod. Barely there, but enough. Relief breathes out of me before I can stop it. My shoulders loosen. I inch a little closer, slow and careful, like she’s a wounded animal who might bolt or bite. Neither would surprise me right now.
I unstop the canteen, fingers brushing the metal lip, and a familiar thought returns like a distant echo: What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Roan?
Another stray. Another lost soul bleeding in the dirt. Another damn complication.
I don’t take in strays anymore. Learned that lesson the hard way—years ago, when getting involved cost me more than I care to remember.
But here I am.
And gods help me, I can’t walk away. Not from this one. Not yet.
“Here,” I murmur, holding the canteen toward her lips, angling it gently. “Drink.”
She hesitates again—just long enough for me to wonder if she’ll change her mind. But then she leans forward, lips brushing the canteen’s edge, and takes a slow, cautious sip. I watch her throat work as she swallows, and for a moment everything else fades. The wind, the ruins, the risk of ambush… it all narrows to the sound of her breath and the feel of her exhale brushing my fingers.
She lifts a shaky hand to grip the canteen herself, and I let go, watching her fingers tremble around the metal. Strong hands, but fragile now. Like the strength’s still there, just buried under too much hurt.
She lowers the canteen with a shaky breath, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. And then I see it—a glint of something behind her lips. Sharp. Clean. Fangs?
I blink. Just a trick of the light, maybe. Or exhaustion catching up to me.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
Quiet. Careful. Like the words are precious and rare, something she’s not used to giving. But even soft like that, there’s steel buried beneath. Something sharp and fierce that doesn’t quite match the way she looks—pale, spent, barely upright.
She should sound as wrecked as she looks, but there’s still fire in her, even if it’s dimmed to embers.
My hands go to my pack again, searching for the strip of cloth I know I packed. Something to staunch the bleeding, at least. Something to give her a fighting chance.
I should ask questions. Who she is? What she’s running from? Why am I getting involved when I damn well know better?
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I don’t think she’d answer anyway.
Instead, I find the cloth and tear a strip with my teeth, fingers already moving on muscle memory. When I glance back, she’s watching me. Warily. Like she doesn’t quite believe what I’m doing is real.
“Alright,” I say quietly, ignoring the twist of anxiety in my gut, “let’s see about that wound.”
As I reach for her shoulder, she tenses, a tremor shivering through her frame. I steady her with one hand, gentle as I can manage, and kneel beside her so I can get a better look in the moonlight. Her shirt’s torn and dark with blood—thick, black-red, pooling against pale skin. Too thick. I try not to let the unease show in my face, but it settles in my gut like a stone.
I peel the fabric away. She hisses through her teeth, eyes squeezing shut, but she doesn’t pull back. I admire the hell out of her for that.
“Sorry,” I murmur, fingers brushing her skin. “I just need to see how bad it is.”
She nods, lips pressed into a hard, bloodless line. Her breath comes shallow. Controlled. Every part of her is wound tight, like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
The wound’s deep. Ragged. Like something dragged claws or a serrated blade across her flesh. It’s not clean. It’s not recent. And judging by the half-dried edges, she’s been running on it for hours.
Not good.
I run my tongue over the back of my teeth, thinking. I’ve seen wounds like this before, in battlefields and back alley brawls, but this one feels different. Feels personal. Like whoever gave it to her wanted her to suffer, not just bleed.
She winces as I dab the cloth around the edges, and I have to steady my hand, jaw clenched. I don’t know what it is about her, this stranger in the ruins, but something about the way she’s trying so hard not to flinch makes me want to tear apart whatever monster did this to her.
Careful, Roan.
Don’t get attached.
But for some godsdamned reason, I want her to live.
I press the folded scrap of cloth firmly against the cut, and she hisses—a sharp, tight inhale through clenched teeth
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, easing up on the pressure. My voice goes low, quieter than usual. “I’ll be quick.”
My hands are steady enough to work, but not steady enough to satisfy me. They tremble—just a whisper of movement—but it’s enough to piss me off. I’ve field-dressed worse injuries than this, in worse light. I’ve stitched gashes with nothing but whiskey and spit. But this is different. Maybe it’s her breathing—shallow and strained, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not hurting. Or maybe it’s the way she watches me, those amber eyes sharp despite the pain, like she’s waiting for me to turn on her.
I don’t know why that gets under my skin.
I tighten a strip of bandage around her shoulder, tying it off with a firm knot. She exhales shakily, and I catch a flash of those oddly bright eyes— too bright .
“You got a name?” I ask, an attempt to distract us both from the tension. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
She hesitates, as if the question itself is dangerous. Then, in a near whisper, she says, “Aria.”
“Aria,” I echo, testing the syllables on my tongue. It’s soft, but there’s something sharp beneath it—like the wind through autumn leaves before the frost sets in. And for a reason I can’t explain, I feel the name— Aria —rooting itself somewhere beneath my ribs, where it won’t be easily forgotten.
I shift slightly, easing the tension in my stance. “Roan,” I offer in return. “Like I said before.”
She doesn’t acknowledge it, just watches me, wary. I don’t take it personal. People don’t trust easily when they’re bleeding in the dirt.
I reach into my pack and pull out a scrap of dried venison, holding it up in silent offer. “Hungry?”
She stares at it like I’ve offered her a handful of gravel. “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice trembles at the edges.
I glance at the bandage, where a faint stain of crimson has already started to bloom through the cloth.
“You’re not,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
But I let it go. Pushing her now won’t help. Whatever she’s running from—it’s recent. It’s raw. And it’s got teeth.
I tear off a piece of the venison for myself and chew slowly, eyes flicking her way now and then. She’s trembling again. Subtle, but there. Like a wire strung too tight, ready to snap. And maybe she thinks I don’t see it, but I do.
“Look,” I say, stowing the food back into my pack for now, “I don’t know what happened to you. And I’m not asking, alright? But you’re alone. You’re hurt. We can share this spot for the night. Safety in numbers, yeah?”
Her gaze lifts to the sliver of moon above the trees, like she’s measuring how much longer she has to survive. Then she nods, just once.
My knees protest the cold ground, but I ignore them.
She holds my gaze for a long, tense moment, then turns her face away. I settle down near her, half propping my back against the crumbled stone, sword still strapped to me in case we’re not alone out here. Sleep won’t come easy, but I’ll be damned if I leave her now.
This might be the dumbest thing I’ve done in years.
In fact, it might be my most reckless decision yet. But a flicker of something—compassion, curiosity—keeps me here, heart pounding in time with the slow drip of her blood.