The rooster didn't crow. It never did anymore—Rein had stewed it weeks ago after it tried to peck his eye out.
Instead, he woke to silence and the faint scent of boiled herbs, still hanging in the rafters from last night's tincture batch.
His modest cottage creaked gently as the wind pushed against its mossy shingles, and a lone ray of sunlight filtered through the shutter slats, landing across a stack of half-dried chamomile bundles.
Rein blinked at the ceiling.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
He sat up in his straw bed, stretching slowly, bones popping in places they shouldn't for a 22-year-old.
His shirt was wrinkled, spotted with dirt and pollen.
His pants were one knee away from falling apart.
He scratched absently at his stomach, then frowned as he noticed a familiar smell.
Burning.
"No no no—"
He bolted up, tripping over a bucket of dried roots, stumbled barefoot onto the wooden floor, and flung open the front door.
His field.
His goddamn field.
Smoke was rising from the western patch—the feverleaf section, the rarest thing he grew.
He grabbed his satchel, shovel, and sprinted across the path, muttering curses with every step.
The smoke wasn't fire—it was steam.
Hot, swirling fog rising off crushed stalks and splattered petals.
The plants were twisted, trampled. Something had collapsed through them.
Something—or someone.
There she was.
A figure slumped between the herbs, face-down, cloak soaked in mud and sweat, blood pooling beneath her from a gash across her ribs.
Her breathing was shallow, ragged.
One arm twitched, fingers spasming around the broken stem of a feverleaf blossom.
Rein stared.
Every instinct screamed leave.
Whatever she was—bandit, rogue, cursed—he didn't want it.
Then she coughed.
And said, barely audible:"...help."
He hesitated. Then sighed.
"You better not move when I touch you," he muttered.
She didn't.
He dropped to his knees, rolled her gently onto her side.
She was tall—unusually so for a woman—strongly built beneath the shredded cloak.
Pale skin, soaked in sweat.
Eyes shut. Breathing fast.
"You're a mess," he said softly. "And you're ruining my best patch."
He opened his satchel, pulled out a field salve, and pressed it against her ribs.
She flinched—but didn't strike.
Still alive.
Bleeding, feverish… but stable if treated.
There was no one else.
No doctors here. No priests. Just him, his plants, and a woman bleeding on them.
"Fine," he grumbled. "You get one cup of tea. That's all."
He lifted her gently.
She was heavy—like carrying a statue under soaked cloth.
Her face pressed briefly against his shoulder.
Cold.
Her skin was ice cold.
Rein felt something deep in his gut twist—not in fear.
Not exactly.
Something more like unease… and the smallest trace of awe.
Rein kicked the cottage door open with his heel and staggered inside, the woman limp in his arms.
He laid her across the long wooden bench near the hearth, brushing crushed leaves off her cloak before unfastening it.
He paused.
Underneath the thick, blackened fabric was not leather or armor—but a tight, sleeveless dress of woven crimson silk.
It clung to her figure neatly scorched in places, revealing blood-slick cuts beneath.
Strange sigils lined her side in faded black ink, some half-burned off.
She looked too regal for a mercenary.
Too clean—except for the blood.
"Fancy," he muttered, peeling the fabric back from her wound. "You crash into my feverleaf, bleed on it, and show off cursed runes. You're a guest and a warning sign."
She didn't respond. But her breathing was steadier now.
He opened a cupboard, grabbed a small clay pot, and knelt beside the fire pit.
The coals were still warm.
Good.
He poured water into the pot, added a blend of dried calming herbs, and then—hesitated.
His eyes drifted toward the locked drawer under his counter.
His private stash.
Inside were rare herbs he never sold.
Illegally harvested from borderlands near demon territory.
He'd only used one of them once—and it had stopped a boy from screaming as his legs were crushed by a landslide.
He clicked his tongue.
"You better be worth this."
He opened the drawer.
A faint bitter scent drifted out.
He pulled a single, spiral-dried blossom—glowing faintly violet—and dropped it into the pot.
The liquid hissed.
Turned gold.
Minutes later, he held a steaming wooden cup beneath the woman's lips.
"Careful. It's hot."
She stirred, her lips parting just enough to drink.
He guided the cup forward—then froze as her eyes fluttered open.
Deep red.
Like melted rubies.
They locked on his.