---
The kettle hissed, and I nearly dropped the ladle into the fire.
"Ah! Hot—hot—hot!" I yelped, fumbling with my sleeve as steam fogged my glasses. Naturally, I tripped on the edge of the rug and landed flat on my backside with a graceless thud.
Brilliant, Liora. Absolutely graceful. If the trees outside were watching, they'd be shaking their branches in laughter.
I scrambled to my feet, dusting off my skirt. No one came this deep into the woods. At least, no one *should* have.
Except… someone had.
He lay in the corner, wrapped in blankets, body tense even in unconsciousness. His chest rose and fell steadily, which at least meant he was alive.
Closer, the presence was overwhelming. Dark hair, damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. Sharp, sculpted features that seemed almost carved from stone, lashes too long for a man, lips set in a faint scowl even in rest.
And the markings.
Black coils along his neck pulsed faintly, like shadows alive, twisting and curling as though breathing.
I had read about such things in forbidden books. The mark of the cursed.
I clutched the ladle tighter, heart hammering. *No. No, it can't be him.* The Shadow Prince was a story parents told misbehaving children. A man born from darkness, cursed to wander beneath the moon forever, hunting the one who carried the Moon Goddess's light.
Yet here he was. In my cottage. On my rug. Bleeding across my quilt.
I paced, ladle trembling in my hand.
"What… do I do with you?" I whispered to the empty room. "You collapse in the forest, nearly die, and expect me to—what? Make soup?"
The silence pressed against me, heavy and watchful.
A twitch of his fingers made me jump.
He groaned—soft, low, alive—and opened his eyes. Violet. Not soft lilac. Not light purple. Sharp, luminous violet, like amethyst shards glinting in moonlight.
I froze.
He didn't speak. He didn't even glance at me properly, just blinked slowly, as if the world beyond the blankets barely existed. His gaze swept the cottage in a detached arc, then returned to nothing in particular.
I tightened my grip on the ladle. "I… could at least make you some soup," I offered nervously.
No reaction.
I swallowed. "It's… food. You might need it."
Still nothing.
The faint pulse of the bond beneath my skin tugged insistently, a thread tightening toward him. He shifted, slowly, one hand brushing the blanket, yet entirely casual—as if my panic, my frantic movements, didn't matter at all.
I nearly dropped the ladle again. "I—I can help you!" I exclaimed, louder than intended. "I—I'm a healer!"
His eyes flicked toward me, just the briefest moment, then back to the ceiling. He made no move to speak, no reaction. It was as though my frantic words were just the wind passing through.
I pressed my lips together, trying to steady my trembling hands. He didn't flinch when I gently pressed a damp cloth to his temple, didn't even murmur at the pain. Nothing. Nonchalant. Completely detached.
My chest tightened. *Who is this man? Why is he here?*
Finally, swallowing my nerves, I stepped closer and said softly, "You're safe… at least for now."
He didn't respond. Not a word. He merely adjusted the blanket slightly, curling inward, a single violet eye observing the fire instead of me.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I had been holding my breath. *Wonderful. You're talking to a brick wall, Liora.*
I turned back to the stove, fumbling with the pot of water for soup. My sleeve caught the edge of the counter, spilling a bit. My hands shook as I poured, trying to ignore the pull of his presence.
And then, quietly, I noticed: the markings on his neck pulsed faintly faster, almost in rhythm with my own heartbeat.
I froze. The bond. It was alive. Whispering, tugging at me.
He didn't care. Not in the slightest. His indifference made my pulse spike, my stomach flutter. He wasn't cruel, but he didn't care about fear or flattery or the frantic fumbling of a young healer in her cottage. He just *was*, and everything else—me, the soup, the cottage, the fire—was secondary.
I ladled the soup carefully, hands trembling, and set it near him. He didn't reach for it. Didn't look at it. He didn't even acknowledge my presence beyond the occasional lazy glance.
I swallowed, forcing a breath. "Eat," I murmured. "If you want… or not."
Still nothing.
I stepped back, wiping my hands, heart racing. I could feel the bond pull tighter. A warning? An invitation? I didn't know. But I knew one thing: my quiet life, the one I had built in the shadows of the forest, was gone.
And he… he didn't give a single F.
Not about my cottage. Not about my frantic movements. Not about my clumsiness. Not even about the fact that he had bled all over my quilt.
He was utterly, impossibly… nonchalant.
And I had no idea what that meant.