The wind carried no birdsong tonight—only silence and the aching creak of ancient trees. Eryndor moved like a shadow through the glade, his hood drawn low, eyes dulled by war and years of forgetting how to feel.

He did not come here to think. He came here to disappear.

But fate had other plans.

The scent of blood hit him first—metallic and fresh, corrupting the crisp forest air. His fingers twitched near his bow, not out of fear, but habit. He turned toward the lake.

And saw her.

A woman. Human. Crumpled at the edge of the water like broken porcelain, limbs twisted, dress torn, her hair clinging to her face in wet strands. She wasn’t dead—though perhaps she wanted to be. Her breath came in trembles. Her eyes, when they flickered open, held the hollow kind of terror he knew too well.

He should have walked away.

Humans had brought ruin to his kind. His village. His name. There was nothing left in him to give, no reason to care, no space for mercy.

And yet...

He stood still. Watching her fight for breath, for life. Not a soldier. Not a spy. Just a girl who didn’t belong in a war-torn forest.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze locking with his. There was no plea in her eyes, only resignation. As if she had already accepted that he might be the last thing she ever saw.

He hated the way that made him feel.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said, voice quiet, cold. But it was not a threat. It was a warning. To her. To himself.