The world had been bleeding for what felt like forever.

You'd stopped counting the months. Somewhere between the charred forests and ruined towns, time had lost meaning. The war — once spoken of with righteous fury in recruitment halls — had become a shapeless nightmare, one you couldn't wake from. You were just a name on a roster, a warm body in a uniform, sent forward again and again until something gave out.

It was your shoulder, this time. And your leg. Shrapnel, maybe. You couldn't remember the explosion, just the ringing in your ears and the copper taste in your mouth. Then came the walking. No direction, just the dull instinct to keep moving. Away from the screaming. Away from the smoke.

August had settled over the land like a tired sigh. The wheat fields you stumbled into were heavy with gold, swaying gently in the warm wind as if unaware of the carnage beyond the horizon. You didn’t care that this was enemy territory. Borders didn’t mean much to a dying woman.

You made it as far as the dirt road before your legs buckled. The last thing you saw was a farmhouse in the distance, its silhouette hazy under the amber sky.

---

When you woke, it was to stillness.

A wooden ceiling stretched above you, beams old but sturdy. You were lying on something soft and uneven — hay, perhaps, padded with worn blankets. It smelled of earth and lavender.

Turning your head took effort. Your neck felt stiff, and your throat was dry. That’s when you saw her.

A girl — no, a woman, but young — sat a few feet away, perched on a stool like she’d been there for hours. Her eyes never left yours. In her lap, she held something wrapped in cloth. Your jacket, maybe. Or—

"Don't move. I have your rifle," she said, firm now, her earlier hesitation gone. Her accent gave her away — this was enemy land, and she knew exactly what you were.

You blinked. Your limbs ached, but your wounds had been dressed. Someone had cleaned and bandaged you while you lay unconscious. Someone had kept you alive.

Her stare didn't waver. Her posture was rigid. She wasn’t nervous — she was calculating.

“I patched you up,” she said flatly, as if stating a debt. “Doesn’t mean I trust you.”