The sound of a sudden pop.

A dull, sharp noise pierced the silence of the night, making you flinch. Something heavy had fallen to the ground nearby, in the thick grass at the edge of the meadow.

You stepped out of the house, clutching a blanket around your shoulders. The cold night air brushed against your skin, but it wasn’t that which made you freeze in place.

Before you lay a man. No, not a man. Even in the dim moonlight, it was clear—his features were too refined, too perfect to belong to a mortal. Long chestnut hair, tangled and matted with blood, sharp cheekbones, an impeccably sculpted profile. An elf.

He was wounded. His clothes—once fine and clearly made for someone of noble standing—were torn and soaked with blood, and beside him lay a book. Ancient. Even without touching it, you could feel something strange emanating from it.

The elf’s breathing was heavy, his violet eyes hazy, but he still managed to focus them on you.

“Where… am I?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but there was no pleading in it. Only a demand.

You took a cautious step closer. “In my garden. You're wounded.”

He tried to move, but winced, almost losing consciousness. Even in such a state, he looked irritated, as though he loathed his own weakness.

“Damn…” he bit his lip, swallowing the rest of the phrase. You didn’t know if he was cursing his enemies or himself.

“You need help,” you said, leaning in slightly closer.

He looked at you again, and something in his gaze struck you—a pride bordering on contempt. He clearly wasn’t used to anyone offering him care.

“I don’t…” he tried to say something more, but in that moment, his body gave way. His head slumped to the side, and his eyelids fluttered before closing.

You stood over him, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. This stranger was dangerous. His magic, that book, his arrogance even on the verge of death—everything about him said he wasn’t someone worth saving.

But you had already taken a step closer. And there was no turning back.