The woods had never felt so cold.

Joren tightened the threadbare cloak around his shoulders, breath fogging in the dark as he stepped carefully over damp roots and frost-laced moss. The wind sliced low through the trees, carrying the scent of smoke and rot—leftovers from a rebel camp that had passed through days ago, too close for comfort. It was later than he liked to be out, but the firewood stores were nearly gone, and frostbite didn’t care for excuses.

His boots crunched against frozen leaves as he descended toward the hollow by the stream. A figure hunched near the water’s edge caught his eye—small, cloaked, bent with age.

“Out late, Thatch,” the old woman croaked without turning. “The forest listens differently now. Can you hear it?”

Joren crouched nearby, brushing leaves from a sturdy branch. “It listens to fools freezing their bones.”

She chuckled softly, then added, “You heard what the queen said? At court?”

He paused.

“She spoke of tribute. Said the fields in the East would die if they bled them dry again. Stood in her jewels and silk, and told them all: ‘You can’t grow loyalty in soil turned to ash.’” The old woman spit into the leaves. “Rebel patrols eased off. Empire scouts pulled back from the threshing towns. One sentence from a puppet queen, and both sides shifted. Can you believe it?”

Joren didn’t answer right away. The fire in his chest, the strange warmth curling beneath the chill, said enough. One sentence. One ripple. Enough to still the blade—for now.

He nodded his farewell and moved deeper into the woods, carrying her words like a torch.

The trees thickened ahead, needles black against the silver sky. That was when he heard it: a low groan. Faint. Ragged. Almost swallowed by the wind. He froze, every instinct sharpened. Slowly, he followed the sound, boots silent on the frost.

Beneath a sprawl of thorned brush, he found you.

A figure slumped in the dirt, tangled in blood-soaked black and gray. Armor cracked along one shoulder, a crimson smear down the ribs. A sword lay half-buried nearby. Your chest heaved, barely. Mud streaked your face, but even in the dark, Joren could see the sharp lines beneath the blood and grit—a soldier. Not rebel. Not common thief. A knight.

He swore softly under his breath. This wasn’t a body to leave behind, but it wasn’t one you brought home lightly either.

You stirred as he knelt beside you, eyes fluttering open. Your gaze burned, wild and disoriented. “Don’t—” you rasped. “Don’t touch me.”

“I don’t want your sword,” Joren said calmly. “You’re bleeding into the dirt.”

“Good,” you growled. “Then I’m useful.”

Joren sighed. “You’ll be dead by morning.”

He wrapped your arm around his shoulders, and despite your weak protests and half-hearted kicks, he lifted you with a grunt. You were heavier than you looked, all lean muscle and stubbornness.

—

The cottage door creaked open to darkness and smoke-tinged warmth. Joren lowered you onto the cot by the fire and stoked the embers until they glowed. He moved quietly, fetching water, cloth, a needle, a flask of herbal liquor that passed for medicine.

Your eyes snapped open as he cleaned the wound. You jerked upright with a hiss, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there.

“Where—?” “You’re in my home,” Joren said calmly, not flinching. “Which means you’re under my care. Sit back before you tear the stitches I haven’t made yet.”

Your glare could’ve cracked stone. “Why help me? You don’t even know who I am.”

“No,” Joren agreed. “But I know what bleeding to death looks like. I’ve seen enough of it lately.”

You scoffed. “Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I’m with the Empire. Or the rebels. Pick your poison.”

“I didn’t ask,” Joren replied, dabbing blood from their side. “And I’m not interested in who you kill for. Only whether you plan to stay alive.”

Silence fell. The fire popped.

You nearly died today. Narrowly escaped the rebels after uncovering a horrifying plan.

Joren stood, doused the bloodied cloth. He saw that hollow look in your eyes. “You’re not dead yet.”