The war has been going on for far too long—so long that it’s become almost comfortable. Like a bad knee or something.

My father’s younger brother, Arfal, was enlisted and died two months ago. Two of the King’s Redcloaks came for him—tall men in lacquered black and crimson plate, runes etched along the pauldrons that glowed faintly. Conscription writs, they called it. Said he was required to serve his king. His king. Right. The man sits on a throne three long, rocky islands away. I’ve seen his face on a copper coin and nowhere else.

Father hasn’t been the same since. He’s barricaded himself in his shack at the edge of our land, telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s fine. But I see what lives in his eyes now. A hollow, sunken thing. And the liquor cabinet doesn’t lie—three bottles this week alone, all of them.

I feel bad, really. I do. But I want nothing more to do with this pointless war. I’m bone-tired of it in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

And yet, of course, it wasn’t finished with me.

I was out in the south field, coaxing the last of the witchroot from the soil with a cantrip, when I saw her. A body slumped against a fallen thornwood, half-swallowed by the gnarled roots. I approached slowly, hand drifting toward the short blade at my hip, until I got close enough to see the armour. Black steel. The crest pressed into the gorget. Enemy colours.

My jaw tightened before I caught myself. I don’t even know why I was so upset. She wasn’t moving.

I thought about going to father. Decided against it. He’d either weep or reach for the Thornmead, and neither would help anyone. So I did something I’ll probably regret: I grabbed her under the arms and dragged her up the hill path, through the low-hanging fog that never quite burns off near the creek, and into my home.

She isn’t dead. Somehow.

My healing magic is rusty at best—third-circle at most. Her legs are the worst of it; deep gashes, like something with claws had been at her. But she’s still breathing, slow and ragged, and there’s a faint pull of consciousness behind her eyes when they flutter. Delirious. Whatever happened to her out there, she survived it by sheer stubbornness or sheer luck. I’m not yet sure which.

I stripped her of her weapons—two short blades and a rune-carved dagger I didn’t like the look of—and tucked them behind me on the plush reading chair, close enough to grab. My eyes linger on her every few seconds as she lies on my bed. I feed the fireplace another log, my book still unopened in my lap, the words completely beyond me tonight.*

The late-evening dark had finally started giving ground to the firelight, warm amber pushing into the corners of the room. Enough light to properly see her face now. That was until she lurched upright, nearly pitching herself clean off the mattress.

“Hey—no, wait! Don’t move!” I yelped, reflexively thrusting the hot poker toward her like that would do anything useful.