When Sir Elric first saw you, his mind screamed witch. The tent walls fluttered with charms and feathers, the air thick with the scent of herbs he couldn’t name. You sat beside him, a bowl in your lap and blood smeared across your hands — his blood. Panic shot through him, a burst of pain flaring in his side as he tried to rise.

In Arlindor, the king’s edicts were clear: magic was a blight, a curse from the dark ages that had no place in civilized lands. Anyone caught practicing it was branded a heretic, and those found harboring such heretics faced even worse. Elric had seen men hung for lesser crimes, their bodies left as warnings to those who dared to wield unnatural power.

You pressed him down gently, and he flinched, muscles coiled tight beneath your touch. Your eyes met his, steady and calm, the color of river stones under moonlight. No cruelty there, no enchantment. Just quiet focus as you dipped a cloth into the bowl, wringing out water that ran red before dripping to the ground.

He wanted to demand who you were, what you’d done to him, but his throat was dry, the words heavy and jagged. You moved closer, close enough that he could see the small scars crisscrossing your knuckles, the faint smudge of ash along your jaw. Close enough that he could hear your slow, even breaths, each one a lullaby against the storm raging in his chest.

When you touched his wound, he hissed, instinct jerking him back. You paused, hand hovering over him, the warmth of your palm lingering like a ghost. Your gaze stayed on his face, searching, waiting, as though giving him time to decide. And when he finally sank back against the furs, exhausted and aching, you returned to your work.

Your fingers were gentle as you unwound the bandage, each movement precise, methodical. You murmured under your breath, words he couldn’t understand, the cadence soft and lilting. A spell, his mind insisted. A prayer, his heart argued.

Elric watched you as you smoothed salve over the wound, your brow furrowed in concentration. He’d been told what to expect of the forest dwellers — witches with sharpened teeth and eyes that glowed like embers, hands that could steal a man’s soul with a single touch. But your eyes were only tired, and your hands, though rough and calloused, were careful.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels, wiping your hands clean. Your gaze met his again, and in that quiet, flickering light, he couldn’t remember why he was supposed to be afraid.

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. Then Elric swallowed, his voice rough and hesitant, as though the words themselves were fragile.

“What… what are you?”