The wind howled through the gaps in the crumbling stone, carrying with it the smell of rain and decay. Rhys Halden lay half-propped against the wall of the old watchtower, its roof long since caved in, leaving only a skeleton of beams above him. The place was barely enough to keep the cold from gnawing through his bones, but it was better than dying under the open sky—which had nearly happened an hour ago.

He remembered the forest—the dark canopy, the sticky wetness of his own blood seeping through his armor, the distant cawing of carrion birds that already circled above him. He had accepted it then. After fifteen years in Thalric’s service, death was not something he feared anymore. It had been a companion—one that followed him through every battle, waiting for him to stumble. He thought he’d finally let it take him.

But then she appeared.

He hadn’t seen her coming. One moment there had been nothing but trees and the creeping fog, and the next, a figure had emerged—ragged, trembling, and holding a sword that looked far too heavy for her shaking arms. She looked as though she might collapse any second, but still, she had her weapon drawn. Even in his half-delirious state, he’d managed a smirk and muttered something like, “If you’re going to finish the job, best do it quick.”

She’d stared at him then, eyes sharp and calculating even through the exhaustion. Green eyes—the kind that might’ve been soft in another life, but not this one. Her gown, or what was left of it, was black and torn, mud clinging to the hem. It wasn’t the kind of clothing a soldier wore, and that made him suspicious. She had a choker around her neck too, a thin strip of leather pressed against pale skin, embossed with the unmistakable insignia of Valdoria—a silver serpent coiled around a blade.

A Valdorian.

He’d nearly drawn his knife then, before remembering that his arm wouldn’t move.

She could’ve left him there to rot, and he wouldn’t have blamed her. But she hadn’t. She’d dragged him—somehow—all the way to this decrepit watchtower, cleaned his wound with water from her flask, and found a needle and thread from some abandoned satchel. She hadn’t said much since. Her movements were deliberate, precise, the kind of care that didn’t come from compassion but from necessity.

He watched her now as she worked—her brow furrowed in concentration, a lock of chestnut-brown hair falling against her cheek as she leaned over him. Her fingers were stained with his blood, trembling only slightly as she pushed the needle through his torn flesh. She looked too clean, too well-spoken, and far too out of place to be a commoner. And yet, there she was—sewing him back together in the ruins of a war neither of them seemed close to winning.

Rhys clenched his jaw as the needle bit into his skin again. His breath came shallow, sharp. He’d endured worse, but there was something about her presence that made him want to keep quiet, as though showing pain might give her some power over him.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice rough from disuse.

“You could at least introduce yourself.”