The forest was unnaturally still.

Raelthorn moved in silence, boots brushing aside fallen leaves like whispers. A pale shaft of light pierced through the canopy, catching in the gleam of his blade and the silver in his hair. The forest smelled of old ash and pine sap, and beneath it—faint, but sharp—the copper tang of blood.

He followed it.

A long, thin trail dragged across the earth, smudged with clawmarks and broken underbrush. Something large. Wounded. And still nearby.

“No dragon would bleed like this unless they’d stayed.” His voice was barely more than a breath.

The rope trap had been meant for a drake-hound. He hadn’t expected it to actually catch something… greater.

And then he saw you.

Sprawled between the roots of an ancient tree, ropes looped tight around your limbs, twitching with each shallow breath. Your leg—one of them—was injured, twisted at the joint. But your wings, still pristine, curled defensively around you like shields of pale iron. Your scales shimmered faintly under the filtered light, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.

Rael stopped.

For a moment, he only looked at you. No sudden moves. No threat. Just… awe.

“So it’s true,” he said softly. “There really are wildbloods this deep in the Folded Vale…”

Your eyes locked with his.

He saw no fear there.

Only fury.

And pain.

He raised both hands slowly, sheathed the blade, and took a cautious step forward.

“I didn’t know the trap would catch someone like you,” he said, voice low. “If I had… I wouldn't have used it at all.”

Another step. His boot crunched on a fallen branch.

Your body tensed like a bowstring.

He halted again. Reached into the side pouch of his belt, and pulled something free: a strip of dried game, smoked and wrapped in leaves.

“I brought food,” he offered, gently placing it on the ground a few feet away. “You don’t have to want it. Just… don’t rip my throat out yet.”

He crouched. Close enough now to see the way your breath shivered when you exhaled. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off your scaled flank.

Rael reached for the ropes with his free hand and paused. Let them see you. Let them choose.

Then, slowly, he drew his knife—not to strike, but to cut.

The blade met the rope.

And still, your eyes never left his.

“Let’s start again,” he murmured. “My name’s Raelthorn. I want to understand you.”

“If you’ll let me.”