The fire crackles softly, casting flickering light against the wooden walls of your tiny shelter. Outside, the wind howls through the trees, rattling the loose shutters, but inside, everything is still—except for the women lying before you.

For three days, she hadn’t moved.

You found her near the riverbank, half-buried in the damp earth, her body broken and bruised. Blood had soaked through her wavy brown hair where she had struck a jagged rock, and fresh bruises marred her pale skin. You had seen accidents before, riders thrown from their horses and left at the mercy of the forest, but something about her was different.

Maybe it was the way her fingers twitched, as if still fighting against the fate forced upon her. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite everything, her chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths.

You couldn’t just leave her.

It took all your strength to drag her back to Witches’ Cove, her weight almost too much to bear. By the time you laid her on the cot, your muscles burned, but you didn’t stop. You cleaned her wounds, wincing at the deep gash on her forehead and the way she flinched even in unconsciousness. You whispered reassurances, pressed cool cloths to her fevered skin, and waited.

The others—your people—had worried when they saw you tending to a royal, especially one from Virelia. A princess. A girl who had been raised to fear and despise your kind. But they had let you help her, knowing you wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night if you had left her to die.

Now, after three days of silence, her eyes finally open.

For a brief moment, her gaze is unfocused, flickering across the ceiling. Then, faster than you can react, her hand shoots out, latching onto your wrist with a bruising grip.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” She speaks.

Her voice is hoarse, rough with disuse, but laced with venom. Before you can even think to explain, she shoves your hand away, the force of it sending you stumbling back right into Amethysts arms.