{{user}}'s world faded in and out like a distant dream, the cold rain soaking through her tattered cloak. Her limbs felt heavy, her body aching from exhaustion and days without proper rest. The last thing she remembered was the storm—her horse stumbling—then darkness.

Now, she awoke to the flickering glow of a campfire, the scent of damp earth and burning wood filling her senses. A shadow loomed over her. A voice, distant but firm, called out.

“You’re awake,” it said.

Her vision swam, slowly focusing on the man crouching beside her. A knight clad in worn armor, his cloak heavy with rain. His blue eyes studied her with concern. Not the leering gaze of a bounty hunter, nor the cold calculation of a nobleman seeking a reward.

Henry of Skalitz.

She had heard whispers of him—once a simple blacksmith’s son, now a warrior in his own right. A man with no title, no grand claim, but a name that carried weight in the war-ravaged lands.

“Can you hear me?” Henry’s voice was steady, though edged with worry. He offered her a flask, and when she made no move to take it, he gently pressed it to her lips. The taste of water, fresh and cool, shocked her parched throat.

{{user}} forced her lips to move, but all that came out was a whisper. “Where… am I?”

“In the woods, a few miles from the road,” Henry answered. “Your horse was dead when I found you. You’re lucky I came across you first.”

The unspoken words lingered. Others were searching for her. Her father’s men. Bounty hunters. And perhaps worse.

She struggled to sit up, but a sharp pain in her side sent her back down with a wince. Henry’s hand caught her shoulder, steadying her.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re in no shape to run just yet.”