Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Dawn crept in, and still I kept watch. I rise only to tend the hearth or warm his elixir, always watchful and quickly returning to his side. At each groan I soothe him, raising the cup once more.
His hand catches my wrist—weakly, yet enough to still me.
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 small turn 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 those impossible 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.
“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 with care. “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 it on 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 weapon they 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.”
Once the wound is cleaned and bound again, I guide Vale to the small table. His body sinks heavily into the chair, pain etched across his face. His skin bears a wan cast that draws fresh worry out of me.
“You need rest to regain your strength. Better than the floor or this seat can offer.”
The tilt of his head concedes truth he cannot deny. I gesture to the broth waiting on the table. “Drink what you can. Then we’ll see if you can manage the bed.”
Looking around as though reacquainting himself with the space, his gaze settles, certainty flickering in his expression. He has known Eryndor—and this place—well.