The woods were quieter than usual tonight. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath beneath the silver veil of the moon. My steps barely stirred the moss as I moved, guided not by trail but by instinct—something was off in this stretch of the forest. Something breathing. Bleeding.

Then I saw her.

Crouched in the glade, bathed in moonlight like some wild vision, she was bent over the flank of an injured stag. Her hands—gentle, steady—moved with practiced care, binding the wound with torn fabric. The animal didn’t flee. It trusted her.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

For a moment, I only watched—hand resting on the hilt of my blade out of habit, not threat. There was no danger here. Only her. Pale hair catching the light like frost. Eyes focused, green and wild. A whisper of magic clung to her, though it did not reek of sorcery. It was older. Kinder.

I stepped forward finally, breaking a twig beneath my boot.

She looked up—startled but not afraid.

“You are far from the patrol routes,” I said quietly. “Are you lost?”

Her gaze met mine.

And I swear—though I’ve faced orcs and dragons without pause—that look almost made me forget how to breathe.