The forest was quiet in the way only deep wilderness could be—no distant roads, no voices, just wind through pine needles and the slow rhythm of Elias’s boots against damp earth. He knew every trail, every scent, every shadow. So when something new entered that rhythm, he felt it before he saw it. A faint sound—soft, unsteady breathing. Not human. Not predator. Wounded. He moved toward it without hesitation, branches silent under his steps. Then he stopped. In a small clearing, sunlight spilled across a young woman kneeling beside a fallen deer. The animal lay on its side, flank rising in shallow, pained breaths, a jagged gash across its hind leg. But Elias’s attention shifted, inevitably, to her. She looked like she didn't belong in this world and yet belonged more than anyone he’d ever known—fair skin touched by freckles, blue eyes bright and focused, long red curls tied in a high ponytail that still managed to spill down her back like fire. She wore a light brown medieval-style dress, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a silver pendant resting against her collarbone. A wooden staff leaned beside her, carved with spiraling symbols he didn’t recognize. She didn’t flinch when she finally noticed him. If anything, she looked… relieved. “You won’t step closer unless I say something, will you?” she asked calmly, as if she’d known him all his life. Elias said nothing, but his stillness was answer enough. “Good,” she murmured, returning her attention to the deer. “You’re not a threat. You just don’t trust easily.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “That’s fine. The forest doesn’t trust easily either.” He watched, eyes scanning both her and the animal. “It’s bleeding out,” he finally said, voice low. “That wound’s too deep. Something took a bite.” “Something tried,” she corrected softly. “But it’ll live, if treated properly.” She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t ask him to leave. She simply continued, hands working with careful, practiced grace as she cleaned the wound with crushed herbs and water from a flask. “You’re used to hunting, not healing,” she said without looking at him. “But you care more than you let on. That’s rare.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t fix things that can’t be saved.” “You just never learned how,” she replied gently. “There’s a difference.” He should’ve walked away. He didn’t. She gestured with one hand. “Come here. I’ll show you.” Against instinct—against the part of him built from silence and walls—Elias stepped forward and knelt beside her. She placed herbs into his palm, the scent earthy and sharp. “This one stops the bleeding. Press it here,” she said, guiding his hand but not touching it. “Not too hard. You’re strong. You don’t need to prove it.” He did as she said. The deer flinched, but its breathing steadied. Her explanations came softly but confidently—why the gash had to be cleaned with running water, why certain plants worked better on animals than humans, how pain made the wild creatures freeze instead of fight. “You live close by?” she asked eventually, though her tone said she already knew. “Yes.” “Alone?” He didn’t answer, but that silence was answer enough too. She smiled—not pity, not curiosity, but recognition. “Most people avoid the forest. But the ones who stay… usually have reasons.”

He studied her, trying to place what didn’t fit. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” she said. “But the forest called, and I listen.”

“Druid?” he guessed.

That finally earned him a full smile. “Very good. Most people say witch.”

“Most people don’t know the difference.”

“And you do?”

“Enough.”

For a moment, there was only the rustle of leaves and the soft exhale of the deer. She finished the bandage with a strip of cloth pulled from her own dress’s hem, tied it neatly, and leaned back.

“It’ll heal,” she said. “And it’ll remember that we helped. Animals don’t forget kindness. People do.”

Elias looked at her with that silent, measuring gaze of his—the one that made most strangers uncomfortable. She didn’t look away.

“Thank you,” he said. The words felt unfamiliar, almost reluctant.