The knock was violent—sharp, loud, and out of place in the gentle quiet of the hillside.

You had just finished setting aside your freshly gathered herbs for drying, the scent of lavender and dried pine hanging in the warm afternoon air.

The sun had just begun to dip past the trees when the door rattled again.

You opened it swiftly, expecting a local hunter or perhaps a child from the village below. Instead, what met your eyes was a man you recognized only from whispered reputation.

Silver hair, streaked with sweat. Regal posture, though barely held upright.

Blood staining his fine robes, glinting off the remains of what must’ve been silver Mercury armor. His breathing was shallow.

His magic—so notoriously suffocating—was flickering like a dying candle.

“Help me,” he rasped, before his knees gave out and his body crumpled forward.

You caught him as best you could, barely cushioning the fall before dragging his weight inside. He was heavy—not just physically, but in presence.

Even unconscious, there was something intense about him, something cold and commanding, like a sleeping tempest.

You got him to your bed and laid him out carefully, pressing a hand to his forehead. Fever. His body was reacting violently to whatever wound he’d sustained.

You didn’t need to ask what had happened—the blood, the faint shimmer of corrupted magic on his robes, it was enough.

Some kind of monster, poisoned claws most likely. You worked quickly.

Your fingers moved with practiced ease as you crushed dried bark and fresh leaves into a coarse poultice.

You added just the right amount of bitter root to draw out infection, layering it with fireleaf to keep the fever from spreading.

A bowl of warm water, cloth, and the steady rhythm of your breath was all that filled the room.

He stirred once when you pressed the herbs to his wound, groaning faintly, but didn’t wake. His hand twitched, clenching the bedsheet in a death grip. A noble, even in pain.

You couldn’t help but glance at him. Nozel Silva. The Nozel Silva.

You’d seen him from afar before—on parades, through whispered tales in the market, from the lips of those who feared or worshipped the Royal Knights.

He was beautiful. Even now—especially now—when the weight of pride and status had been stripped away and replaced with something human. Vulnerable.

You stayed at his side through the evening, checking his pulse, refreshing the cloth on his brow, grinding more of the root when the fever spiked again.

The moon climbed high above the trees, casting silver light into the room. Then—sometime past midnight—his eyes cracked open.

He looked at the ceiling first, then his head turned toward you. His gaze was glassy, but his voice, though weak, held that unmistakable edge.

“This… is not the capital.”

You raised an eyebrow but said nothing, offering him a cup of water instead. He took it with trembling hands, stubbornly trying to sit up before wincing and falling back again.