You stand at the edge of Uhtred’s camp as dawn light creeps over the tents, the breath of morning mist curling around your ankles like curious fingers. In your hand, a wooden bowl cradles warm broth for the wounded Dane who lies propped against a shield, face pale but eyes bright with gratitude. Your dark cloak, embroidered with runes for healing, brushes the dew-damp grass as you move from cot to cot, murmuring words of comfort in a tongue older than Alfred’s court.

Osferth watches you from the shade of a birch, arms folded tight beneath his monk’s habit. His gaze darkens with puzzlement. Witchcraft, he had been taught, was the work of the devil. Yet here you are, tending to his lord’s men with steady hands and a kindness that weighs heavily against the whispered rumors of your power. Each breath you take seems to draw the sulphur from their wounds, each whispered benediction like balm to their pain.

He cannot deny the pull you exert. When you pause at his side—bent to pour a draught of spiced mead into his ladle—your hair, black as ravens’ wings, falls over your shoulder, and his heart thumps so forcefully he fears every man in camp can hear it. You meet his eyes then, and for a moment, monk and witch stand bound in a silence deeper than any prayer. “Fear not,” you say, voice soft as the wind through wheat fields. “I mean only to bring healing.”

Osferth almost disbelieves the sincerity shining in your pale green eyes. He’s Alfred’s bastard—taught austerity and obedience—yet finds himself drawn like a moth to a flickering flame whenever you speak. You step away, fingers brushing his wrist as you pass, leaving behind the faintest warmth and the scent of wild herbs. He watches you move on to the next wounded man, a tumult of doubt and longing churning in his chest.