The sea had always been Elira's first teacher.
It taught her patience when the tide receded, leaving the sand barren, only to return with treasures of shell and driftwood. It taught her humility when storms roared against the cliffs, sweeping away boats and homes with equal hunger. And it taught her healing, for the sea's salt drew poison from wounds and its herbs, stubborn in the rocky soil, carried remedies stronger than any grown inland.
Elira walked the familiar cliffside path that morning, a basket hooked at her arm. The dawn was overcast, clouds low and heavy, the horizon blurred in shades of pewter and violet. Wind tugged at her dark braid and nipped at the edge of her shawl. She bent to pluck a sprig of sea-lavender from a crack in the stone and tucked it into her pouch beside comfrey leaves.
Below, the waves foamed white against the sand. The gulls cried overhead, but not their usual lazy squawks. These were sharp, frantic circles, the kind they made when the sea had delivered something unusual.
Elira's steps faltered. Her gaze followed the gulls, and there — a dark shape sprawled where the tide met the sand.
Her pulse quickened.
At first, she thought it a log, thrown up by last night's storm. But driftwood did not glint silver, and the gulls did not circle driftwood.
Her basket slipped from her arm, spilling herbs across the wet grass, forgotten. She scrambled down the narrow goat trail, her boots skidding against loose shale, hands scraping raw against stone. She slid the last stretch, landing hard on the damp sand, and ran to the figure.
A man.
He lay half-buried in wet sand, cloak torn and clinging like seaweed to his body. Blood streaked the fabric, dark against waterlogged wool. His sword — gods, a sword unlike any she had seen in this village of fishers and net-menders — gleamed silver even dulled with salt.
Elira dropped to her knees beside him, fingers trembling as she pressed them to his throat. A beat answered her, faint but steady. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Relief surged through her.
"Spirits, keep him," she whispered, brushing wet hair from his brow.
The wound at his side was deep, a gash that had bled freely until the cold had slowed it. He would not live long without aid. Elira's healer's instincts surged to the front, banishing fear. She tugged at the hem of her shawl, tearing it into strips with her teeth, and pressed one against the wound.
The man groaned. His eyes flickered open.
Storm-gray. That was the first thought that struck her — gray, fierce as the sea in winter, locking onto hers with startling clarity despite the haze of pain.
"You're alive," she breathed.
His lips parted, cracked and pale. "Not… for long… if you press like that."
Elira blinked at the audacity. Even half-dead, he was trying to jest? She scowled, though her hands softened against his shoulder. "You've lost enough blood to fell an ox. Lie still if you value your life."
He tried to push himself up, stubbornness flashing in those eyes. She pressed him back firmly, surprised at her own boldness.
"Stranger," she said sharply, "your pride will kill you faster than your wound."
His mouth twitched, the shadow of a smile. "Not… stranger. Kael."
She hesitated. A false name? The hilt of that sword whispered of nobility, of a world far from this humble shore. But now was not the time to pry.
"Kael, then," she said. "If you wish to live, you'll trust me."
She fumbled at the pouch tied to her belt, pulling out dried herbs — comfrey to knit flesh, willow bark to dull pain, sea moss for strength. With practiced hands, she chewed the comfrey into a paste, mixing it with water from her flask, and pressed it gently to his wound. He hissed, his hand curling into the sand, but did not push her away.
"Breathe," she murmured. "The sea gives and the sea takes. Today, it has given you a healer."
When she bound the poultice with the torn strips of her shawl, his eyes closed, his chest rising steadier now. She sat back, brushing damp hair from her forehead, and studied him.
He was not like the men of Nareth. His features were too sharp, too fine, his skin paler than one who worked nets and boats. His cloak, though torn, bore embroidery of a kind no villager could afford. His sword — gods above — was silver-forged, its pommel etched with a sigil she did not recognize.
Who was he?
As if sensing her thoughts, his hand shot out, weak but urgent, grasping her wrist. She startled, nearly dropping her flask.
"No one… must know I'm here," he rasped.
Elira met his gaze. His storm-gray eyes burned with a secret he would not name, but the plea in them was undeniable. She hesitated only a breath before nodding. "Then you have my silence. But I cannot carry you alone. You'll have to let me try."
Relief softened his expression before unconsciousness pulled him under.
---
It took every scrap of her strength to drag him from the sand, up the path, and into her small cottage on the cliff. By the time she pushed open the door, her arms shook, her back screamed, and her lungs fought for air. She lowered him onto her cot, breathless, and stoked the hearth until flames crackled.
As the firelight licked across his features, she saw him more clearly — the noble cut of his jaw, the strength in his frame, the jeweled clasp still clinging stubbornly to his ruined cloak. No wandering sellsword, this. No common man.
And yet, here he was, broken and bleeding on her cot.
Elira heated water, mixed more herbs, and cleaned the wound. She worked in silence, the crackle of fire and lash of rain against the shutters the only sounds.
At one point, he stirred, muttering words she barely caught — "Father… crown… shadows…"
Crown.
Her heart stuttered.
She dared not dwell on the thought. Instead, she wiped the sweat from his brow, whispering a prayer to the spirits of sea and flame.
"You'll live," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I'll see to it."
Still, as she sat beside him, her hand lingering on the cloth wrapped at his side, she felt something she could not explain — a warmth that coiled low in her chest, strange and fierce. Not from the fire. Not from the labor of healing. From him.
From the storm-gray eyes that had locked on hers at the shore.
Elira shook herself. Foolishness. She was a healer, nothing more. Attraction had no place in her world. And yet, as the storm raged outside, as the sea hurled its fury against the cliffs, she knew something had shifted.
The sea had delivered her a wounded man. But fate had delivered her something far greater.
And deep within her chest, something stirred, a spark she did not yet understand — a spark that would one day set the world aflame.