Something in his stomach dropped.
Not only because of fear.
But because something in her gaze looked ancient.
Wounded. Violent.
But her voice was soft.
"...what is your name?"
Rein blinked. "You're conscious?"
"Your name," she repeated.
He swallowed. "...Rein."
A long pause.
Then she smiled.
"Thank you for the tea, Rein."
She closed her eyes again and leaned back—but her lips curled, just barely, as if she'd just remembered a secret.
He sat back on his heels.
Watched her chest rise and fall slowly.
What had he just done?
Was she a war criminal? A noble? A cursed maiden?
Her skin was too perfect, her hair too long, too smooth for someone who lived in this world.
And that aura—that impossible presence—how had he not noticed it earlier?
He stood. Opened a cabinet.
Pulled out a thick roll of bandages.
"I'll patch you up, let you sleep, and then you're out of here by sundown," he said aloud.
He didn't want her lingering around here longer than she had to.
Behind him, the woman stirred again. But this time, her voice wasn't weak.
It was melodic. Smooth. Like a razor hidden in silk.
"You have beautiful hands… Rein."
He froze. Slowly turned.
She was still lying there.
But her eyes were open again.
Watching him.
Not like a patient.
Like a predator waiting for him to look away.
The tea was still warm in her cup.
She held it delicately in both hands now, back straight, eyes fixed on him as if every syllable he breathed was a verse from scripture.
Her voice no longer rasped.
It flowed—low, resonant, dangerous.
Rein stood across the room, awkwardly holding a bandage roll like a man trying to fend off a lion with gauze.
She took a slow sip.
"Mmm," she said, licking her lips. "Earthy. Floral. Infused with wildheart stem… and something rare."
Her crimson eyes gleamed.
"You used voidbloom, didn't you?"
Rein stiffened.
"That's… illegal."
She smiled, tilting her head slightly. "So is harboring fugitives. Yet here we are."
He narrowed his eyes. "What are you?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she set the cup down with exaggerated grace and looked around the cottage—the hanging herbs, the carefully labeled jars, the stacks of dried bark and roots.
"This place is… charming," she said. "Simple. Humble. Quiet. I imagine your life is the same."
Rein said nothing.
Her gaze slid back to him, and her voice dropped into a near-whisper.
"I envy you."
That threw him off. He stared. "What?"
"I haven't been offered tea in three hundred years," she murmured. "No one's ever brewed it for me. Not even when I bled for them. Not when I gave them kingdoms."
"…Okay," Rein said. "You're definitely insane."
She laughed—softly. No menace, just amusement.
"You're not afraid of me."
"I'm afraid," he said flatly. "I'm just used to hiding it better than most."
She smiled wider.
Then slowly—too slowly—she reached for the edge of her cloak and pulled it aside. Her wound had vanished.
Not scabbed, not healing.
Gone.
Her skin was pristine.
"Your tea," she said, "was divine."
"No, it wasn't."
"Yes, it was." She stood up in a single, fluid motion.
Rein stepped back instinctively.
Her height was unnatural.
Nearly a head taller than him.
Her presence was suffocating now—like the walls were shrinking, and the ceiling was bowing in reverence.
A faint pulse of heat filled the air, subtle at first… then rising.
Her eyes glowed faintly.
Her lips parted.
"You know," she said gently, "in the old days, a man who gave a lady tea… was deemed as... proposing."
Rein's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
"And if she accepted," she continued, taking a step closer, "she would drink. And if she finished the cup…"
Another step.
"…it meant she said yes."