The following days passed in uneasy rhythm. Each morning, Yuna slipped away from her household under the guise of walks, returning always to the old shack. There, she cleaned wounds, brought food hidden in baskets, and watched as strength slowly crept back into the stranger's frame.
Yet though his body healed, his walls did not. He spoke little, and when he did, his words cut sharp, as if to remind her that compassion would not soften what he was. Still, Yuna remained, her calm persistence wearing at the silence like water against stone.
But secrets, like shadows, never stayed hidden for long.
It was late afternoon when Yuna emerged from the shack, empty bucket in hand, intent on refilling it at the stream. The forest hummed softly with the calls of birds and the rustle of leaves. She had nearly reached the water when the sound of snapping twigs froze her in place.
Not Cyrus. He was inside, still weakened.
She turned her head just enough to glimpse movement through the trees. A figure in dark leathers crouched low, scanning the ground. A man—armed—tracing the faint bloodstains that had not yet been washed away by rain.
Her breath caught. Whoever he was, he hunted.
Yuna moved quickly back toward the shack, her boots soundless against the earth. Inside, Cyrus sat on the bench, bandages at his side, though his eyes sharpened the moment he saw her face.
"What is it?" His tone was low, alert.
"There's someone out there," she whispered, shutting the door softly behind her. "He's following the trail."
Cyrus's jaw tightened. He reached for the dagger that never strayed far from him, his hand steady despite his pallor. "One of mine," he muttered darkly. "They've come to finish it."
Yuna's heart raced. She looked toward the cracks in the wood where daylight filtered in. "What do we do?"
Cyrus studied her for a beat, and in his gaze she saw the shift—from suspicion to decision. "You stay here. Silent. If he finds this place, I'll deal with him."
"You can barely stand," she argued.
"I can still kill," he replied, voice edged with steel.
Yuna's throat tightened. He was right, she realized—he was always ready for violence, even on the brink of collapse. But the thought of him struggling against another attacker, bleeding anew, struck her with sudden dread.
"No," she said firmly, surprising even herself. "We'll hide. Both of us. If you fight now, you'll die."
For the first time since she had met him, his composure faltered. He looked at her—truly looked—as though the very idea of someone placing his survival above their own defied all logic.
The hunter's footsteps grew louder outside. Yuna's breath quickened, but she pressed a hand against Cyrus's arm, guiding him toward the darkest corner of the shack where shadows gathered thickest. Reluctantly, he followed, his movements stiff but quiet.
Together they sank into silence, hearts pounding as the door creaked under a testing hand from outside.
For a long moment, the world shrank to nothing but the space between them—the warmth of her hand still on his arm, his breath uneven yet controlled. Then the intruder moved on, footsteps fading back into the forest.
Only then did Yuna release the air she had been holding. Cyrus's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, but softer than before.
"You're a fool," he whispered at last.
"Perhaps," she murmured, her hand finally slipping away. "But I'll not let you throw your life away while I can still keep you breathing."
For once, he gave no reply.
But in the silence that followed, Yuna felt the first crack form in his armor—small, fragile, but real.