The shack was dim save for a thin line of sunlight cutting through a gap in the roof. Dust drifted in the air, and the faint scent of damp wood lingered like a forgotten memory. Yuna knelt beside him once more, rinsing the blood from a strip of cloth she had already stained red.
The man—Cyrus, though she did not yet know his name—watched her with hooded eyes. Even weakened, there was no mistaking the alertness in him. Every movement of hers was measured under his gaze, every sound caught in the net of his suspicion.
"You meddle in things that will destroy you," he said at last, his voice low, raw from pain.
Yuna wrung out the cloth and pressed it gently against his side. He winced, his breath catching, but made no move to stop her. "And you," she answered quietly, "cling to life when death has already reached for you."
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, though it carried no joy. "Better death than charity."
Yuna's pale brows furrowed. "Is that what you think this is? Charity?" She leaned closer, meeting his dark, unyielding eyes. "It is not. It is conscience. A man bleeding in the woods is not something I can ignore, no matter who he might be."
For a moment, silence. Then, unexpectedly, a short breath of laughter escaped him—dry, sharp, almost mocking, but softer than his words had been. "You speak like someone untouched by the world."
Yuna stilled. He was not wrong. Her life within the noble house was gilded but suffocating, sheltered but never free. Perhaps that was why she found herself here, bandaging a stranger in a forgotten shack—seeking truth outside her cage.
"You don't know me," she said simply.
"And you don't know me," he returned, eyes narrowing again.
His hand twitched toward the dagger lying near the bench, though his strength was too faint to grasp it. Yuna noticed, but did not move it away. Instead, she continued her work, her voice even. "Then let us agree on this—for now, we need not know. Only that you live, and I will see to it."
That gave him pause. He studied her again, as though trying to pierce the heart behind her words. His jaw set, and with a reluctant exhale, he leaned back against the wall.
"Very well," he muttered. "But when I can stand again, I walk away. No questions. No debt owed."
Yuna did not answer immediately. She tied the last knot on the makeshift bandage, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin before she pulled away. At last, she rose to her feet, her white hair catching the dim light like strands of silver.
"As you wish," she said softly, though her heart whispered otherwise.
It was not a truce of trust. It was a truce of necessity—fragile, uncertain, yet binding enough to hold them in this quiet, hidden corner of the world.