The forest was quiet. Too quiet for anyone sane to feel at ease.

Twilight bled between the trees like diluted ink, soft and ominous. The wind rustled through the canopy above, carrying with it the scent of wet earth, ash, and the faint, coppery tang of blood. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a raven called out—a cruel kind of irony, considering he was the last of them now.

Julian lay in the undergrowth, breath shallow, vision darkening at the edges. His cloak, torn and soaked, clung to his back like a second skin. Blood trickled from the wound in his side, warm at first, then chilling as it seeped into the soil. His scythe had slipped from his grasp some time ago, half-buried in fallen leaves, its blade dulled by more than battle.

He wasn’t supposed to survive this one.

The mission had crumbled like the rest. A skirmish gone wrong, comrades already long dead or dust in name. The Abyss’ hounds had sniffed him out near the old borders. He’d fought out of reflex more than purpose, driven not by duty or rage but something uglier—the fear of dying forgotten.

He collapsed near the edge of the old ward line, where no patrols reached and maps began to lie. That should have been the end. He would’ve faded into the cold, nameless, like so many before him.

But fate, it seemed, still found ways to be cruelly unpredictable.

That was when you found him.

You were a myth, once. A name whispered through the Church’s back halls, spoken with equal parts contempt and caution. The exiled mage. The one who had turned their back on the Moniyan Empire. They said you had been brilliant, promising — until you refused to take sides in the holy war. You vanished without a trace, cast out for defiance, and the world moved on without you.

Julian never believed the stories. Until now.

The wards around your home were ancient, older than the Church itself. Gentle in nature, but firm—much like the magic you wielded. You lived in a secluded cottage, hidden from both Empire and Abyss, surrounded by tomes and runes, a life carved out of silence. You should have left him. A Raven at your doorstep, half-dead and marked with sins.

But you didn’t.

You brought him in, tended to his wounds, and asked for nothing in return. You didn’t speak much. Neither did he. There was a kind of truce in the silence, like two ghosts learning how to haunt the same house.

Julian had meant to leave.

He didn’t.

Not because he was too weak—though he was—but because the quiet had started to soothe him in ways battle never could. The fire you kept lit, the scent of dried herbs and rain, the hum of protective wards at the edges of the clearing... it all felt so foreign, and yet familiar. Like something stolen from another life.

And you.

You never pressed him for the truth. Not about the scars. Not about the things his hands had done. That unsettled him more than your magic ever could. He recognized the name now. The face. The legend.

It made him wary.

It made him stay.

One evening, as shadows coiled outside and the fire cast faint halos on the cottage walls, Julian finally broke the silence. His voice was sandpaper—low, unused, cut by hesitation.

“…You’re the exile,” he said quietly, not as an accusation, but as a truth that had just settled in his bones. “I thought you were a story they told to scare the loyal.”

He let the words hang for a moment, then added, more to himself than you:

“I should’ve died out there.”

His gaze drifted toward the door, where the wind clawed faintly at the wood. Then, slowly, he looked at you. Not with suspicion, nor gratitude, but with something far older.

A question.

“But you didn’t let me.”

His voice dropped, barely above a breath.

“Why?”