The forest was quiet that morning, wrapped in a veil of mist. Dew clung to the grass, glimmering faintly in the pale sunlight that filtered through the canopy. Yuna Duvraine walked along the narrow path, her cloak trailing against fallen leaves. Out here, beyond the high walls of her family's estate, the air tasted freer. No watchful eyes, no suffocating expectations — only the sound of her own footsteps.
She came often, though her household never approved. A noble daughter, they said, should not wander alone like a commoner. But solitude was a rare luxury in her world, and she cherished these walks as if they were secret treasures.
Today, however, the forest was not entirely hers.
Half-hidden among the roots of an oak tree, she noticed a dark stain across the ground. At first she thought it mud, until she saw the streaks of crimson cutting through the grass. Her heart tightened. Blood.
Against her better judgment, Yuna followed the trail. Each step carried both dread and curiosity. And then she saw him.
A man lay collapsed by a shallow stream, his back against the rocks. His clothes were torn and filthy, the fabric at his side soaked through with blood. A dagger rested loosely in his hand, though his strength seemed all but gone. Black hair fell across his face, matted with dirt and sweat. Even wounded, there was something arresting about him — sharpness in his features, a coiled tension as though violence clung to him even in sleep.
Yuna froze. Her first instinct screamed for her to leave, to turn back toward safety. This was no lost farmer or weary traveler. He bore the marks of a fighter, perhaps worse.
But then his chest rose shallowly, and a low groan escaped his lips.
Without thinking, she stepped closer. She knelt, her hands trembling as she pressed her fingers near his wound. The heat of fever burned beneath his skin. He was dying.
Her mind raced. To help him was folly. He could be an outlaw, a murderer — perhaps even an enemy of her house. Yet the thought of abandoning him to bleed out beneath the trees tightened something inside her chest.
"Stay still," she whispered, more to steady herself than him. She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her cloak, pressing it firmly against the wound.
Suddenly his hand shot up, gripping her wrist with startling force. Yuna gasped, her eyes meeting his.
They were dark, piercing eyes, filled with suspicion and defiance even as his strength faltered. His voice came rough and ragged, a growl more than a whisper.
"Why… are you helping me?"
Her breath caught, but she did not look away. In that moment, noble heiress and hunted stranger stared into one another, two worlds colliding in silence.
The forest held its breath around them.