Chapter 12
Amara
“I appreciate the assistance.”
Urs lets out a deep, satisfied growl that vibrates through the entrance hall as though he had personally accomplished something worthy of great celebration instead of merely carrying one exceptionally reckless human into my home.
“I am fully capable of carrying him myself, you know.”
He turns his enormous head just enough to fix me with a look that somehow manages to communicate precisely how little he believes that statement.
“…Very well. Perhaps considerably less elegantly.”
That appears to satisfy him. He nudges my shoulder one final time before lumbering back toward the entrance, pausing only long enough to glance over it as though making absolutely certain I have no intention of asking him to carry the man back outside again.
“I shall see you tomorrow.”
A quiet huff answers me before he disappears into the forest, leaving the house to settle once more into the familiar silence it has known for centuries.
For a few moments, I simply remain where I am.
It feels… strange. Not unpleasant. Simply unfamiliar. No living soul has crossed the threshold of this house in longer than I care to remember, and certainly none have ever found themselves stretched across my sofa bleeding through perfectly respectable upholstery.
My eyes drift toward the man. He has not moved. That is hardly surprising considering he remains blissfully unconscious, although I suspect he would complain rather enthusiastically about the arrangement were he awake enough to appreciate it.
“You truly are a great deal of work.”
Predictably, he offers no opinion.
I leave him where he is for the moment and cross the room toward the tall windows overlooking the forest. Beyond the glass, the branches sway gently in the breeze, and even from here I can feel the forest’s attention fixed entirely upon the house.
“I know.”
The leaves answer almost immediately.
“I have not forgotten about you.”
The branches stir again.
“No.”
Another rustle follows.
“I cannot divide my attention between you and a dying man, regardless of how determined that dying man appears to be to test the limits of my patience.”
The leaves answer with unmistakable disagreement.
“You may object all you wish, but the conversation will have to wait.”
The branches scrape softly against one another.
“I mean it.”
I reach forward and pull the window closed.
The sound vanishes at once. One by one, I move through the house, closing every remaining window until the last whisper of leaves disappears and the walls reclaim the silence that belongs to them.
The forest and I have shared every thought for centuries. It can survive a couple of hours without commentary. I, on the other hand, find that I cannot. Not today. Not with him here.
The realization settles rather uncomfortably in the back of my mind.
This house has always belonged to me alone.
Every chair, every book, every candle, every carefully chosen object has remained untouched by anyone but myself for generations beyond counting.
Now there is a man lying on my sofa. A man who should never have discovered this place.
A man who should never have survived long enough to be brought here. And yet… Here he is.
When I look at him again, the color draining steadily from his face tells me everything I need to know. His breathing has grown noticeably weaker during the short time my attention was elsewhere, and the blood soaking through his shirt leaves very little room for optimism.
He is running out of time.
I make my way back across the room before lowering myself beside the sofa, my eyes moving carefully over each of his injuries as I begin deciding where to start.
Healing magic has always demanded precision. There is very little room for distraction when flesh must be persuaded to mend itself, and blood reminded that it belongs inside the body rather than all over my furniture.
My hand rises almost without thinking, as I brush a loose strand of dark hair away from his forehead before letting my fingertips rest lightly against his cheek, searching for the warmth that is beginning to fade beneath his skin.
For just a moment, I simply look at him.
“…Well.” A quiet sigh escapes me. “You make it extraordinarily difficult to uphold my better judgment.”
The corners of my mouth threaten the faintest smile.
“It is remarkably unfair.”
He doesn’t answer. That, I suspect, is the only reason I allowed myself to say it aloud.
With another quiet sigh, I rise from the sofa and make my way toward the cabinet standing against the far wall.
Its weathered oak doors open with a familiar creak, revealing shelves lined with bundles of dried herbs hanging from twine, clay jars filled with powders collected over centuries, and rows of carefully labeled bottles containing tinctures whose makers have long since vanished from history.
My hands move instinctively.
Yarrow.
Comfrey.
Willow bark.
A handful of dark green leaves gathered from a plant that grows nowhere beyond the borders of this forest.
I carry everything to the large wooden table before placing the herbs inside a shallow clay bowl.
The stone pestle fits comfortably into my hand, worn smooth by countless years of use, and I begin grinding the mixture together with slow, practiced movements while my thoughts refuse to remain upon the task before me.
“The talisman…” The words leave my lips almost absently.
I have known about its existence for centuries.
Not because anyone chose to tell me. Because when one survives long enough, information has an unfortunate tendency to find its way into one’s hands.
Some secrets are hidden inside forgotten monasteries.
Others lie buried beneath ruined castles alongside the men arrogant enough to believe they could carry them into the grave.
A surprising number pass through collectors who have absolutely no understanding of what they possess.
But eventually… Someone always talks. Someone always writes something down.
Someone always leaves behind another piece of the puzzle.
Over the centuries, I gathered enough of those pieces to learn that there were objects scattered throughout the world capable of interfering with my magic. No one had ever found one. At least… No one had ever been foolish enough to bring one into my forest. Until today.
The rhythmic scraping of stone against clay continues as the herbs slowly surrender beneath the pestle.
“If one has resurfaced, then the others are no longer myths either.”
One relic had been enough to weaken my magic. Enough to let steel reach my skin. Enough to make me bleed. How many more remain hidden? More importantly… How many have already been found?
My gaze drifts toward the closed windows.
“If they ever succeed in killing me, they will congratulate themselves for perhaps five minutes before realizing what they have actually done.”
The curse binding me to this forest has never been one-sided. My life and the forest’s became one more than a century ago, and neither can exist without the other. If I die, the forest dies with me. Not all at once, but slowly enough for the world to watch it happen.
The trees will weaken first.
Then the roots.
Then every creature living beneath these branches.
Once the forest is gone, the curse will not simply disappear. It will spread.
Patiently.
Relentlessly.
As curses always do.
Humanity has spent its entire existence searching for ways to destroy what it does not understand. One day, it may very well succeed.
A sudden, violent gasp tears through the silence before the thought can settle, making my head snap toward the sofa.
The pestle comes to a stop in my hand as Colt’s entire body arches violently, every muscle locking at once while an uncontrollable convulsion tears through him.
I set the pestle down beside the bowl without a second thought and cross the room in two quick strides, reaching him before the shaking has any chance to worsen.
One hand slips beneath his jaw while the other gently lifts his eyelid.
“…Well.”
His pupils struggle to focus, trembling almost as much as the rest of him, yet that is not what captures my attention.
His eyes. They are so… unique. I noticed them in the forest, but seeing them this closely somehow makes the contrast even more striking.
“You are entirely too handsome for someone determined to make my afternoon so unnecessarily complicated.”
Another tremor runs through him, stronger this time.
Without thinking, my hand slips into his hair, brushing the dark strands away from his forehead before my fingers begin moving slowly through them in quiet, absent strokes.
“Shhh…” The sound leaves me so naturally that I scarcely register saying it.
“Easy…”
His breathing catches again as another shudder passes through him.
“There now.”
My fingertips continue gliding through his hair while my thumb traces slow circles against his temple, the same gentle rhythm repeating itself until the violent shaking gradually gives way to smaller tremors before disappearing altogether.
His breathing remains uneven, but at least it is breathing. Only then do I become aware of the hand still resting against his head.
Carefully, I ease him onto his side before making certain his airway remains clear, then straighten and return to the table where the unfinished mixture waits exactly as I left it.
“There is no time left.”
The old dagger lies beside the clay bowl, its worn handle fitting comfortably into my palm as I pick it up. I draw the blade across the center of my hand without hesitation before holding my palm over the crushed herbs, allowing several crimson drops to fall into the mixture below.
The paste darkens almost immediately.
I take up the pestle once more and begin stirring until the scent changes completely, my blood awakening the magic sleeping quietly within the herbs. Only when the mixture reaches the consistency I need do I lift the bowl from the table and make my way back toward the unconscious man.
The bowl comes to rest on the small table beside the sofa before I pick up the dagger once more, turning the worn blade between my fingers for a brief moment as I study the blood-soaked fabric covering his chest.
“I do hope these were not your favorite clothes.”
The unconscious rarely appreciate humor.
Sliding the edge beneath what remains of his shirt, I slice through the fabric with practiced ease before pulling the torn pieces aside. The material falls away to reveal the wound beneath, angry flesh surrounding the bullet still lodged where it came to rest.
“No…”
I shake my head almost imperceptibly.
“You are not ready for that yet.”
Removing the bullet now would accomplish very little besides encouraging him to bleed out on my sofa, and I have already decided I dislike that particular outcome.
The mixture comes first. The magic must convince his body to keep fighting before I ask it to survive something considerably more unpleasant.
Dipping two fingers into the thick, dark paste, I begin spreading it carefully around the wound, taking care not to disturb the bullet buried beneath the flesh.
The herbs react almost immediately, the mixture warming beneath my fingertips as the spell woven into it begins searching for torn muscle, ruptured blood vessels and damaged tissue.
“That should persuade you to remain alive for a little while longer.”
I gather another small amount before brushing it gently across the bridge of his nose where the bone had shifted beneath the impact, then over the split in his lower lip.
“It is not a particularly flattering look.”
The paste will dry within minutes. Once it does, the magic will begin knitting together what it can without demanding more strength from him than he has left to give. Only then do I allow my attention to drift back toward the rest of him.
“…Honestly.”
My hand stills against the warmth of his skin. His chest rises in slow, uneven breaths beneath my fingertips, revealing the defined lines of a body built through strength rather than appearance. Every scar, every hard plane of muscle, speaks of a life spent pushing himself beyond ordinary limits.
It is… unfairly appealing.
A faint shiver slips through me before I have the opportunity to suppress it.
“…This is becoming rather troublesome.”
I withdraw my hand almost immediately, thoroughly unimpressed with myself.
“I should not find your presence nearly as comforting as I do.”
He remains blissfully unaware of the accusation.
“I imagine that is for the best.”
For several long moments, I remain beside the sofa, watching the mixture dry against his skin while his breathing gradually settles into a steadier rhythm. It is still far from where I would like it to be, but at least his body has finally stopped trying quite so enthusiastically to abandon him.
The bowl finds its place upon the table before I cross the room toward the old cedar chest resting beneath the staircase. Folding back the heavy lid, I retrieve one of the thick wool blankets tucked neatly inside and return to the sofa.
There is no reason to move him. The couch will serve well enough until morning, and disturbing him now would only undo the little progress we have managed to make.
I unfold the blanket and drape it carefully over him, taking a moment to tuck it around his shoulders before my hand lingers lightly against the fabric.
For a while, I simply watch him.
“Interfering in a battle that was never yours was an exceptionally foolish thing to do.” The words come quietly. “…But standing between a woman and men who intended her harm is also something I find rather difficult to ignore.”
A faint smile finds me despite every sensible objection.
“So, if you would indulge me…” My fingertips smooth the edge of the blanket one final time. “…do try not to die, you impossibly troublesome little man. I should very much like the opportunity to thank you properly… before informing you precisely how reckless you’ve been.”
Only then do I straighten, extinguishing the remaining candles one by one until the fire is the only light left dancing across the room.
I leave him to rest, though I cannot quite persuade myself to stop looking back before I disappear upstairs.