Something cool touched her skin.
Gentle. Careful.
Like a whisper brushing through fog.
Zelene stirred, caught between waking and dreaming. Her body ached with every breath — her muscles stiff, her head pounding, her throat dry. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The scent of ash lingered faintly in her memory, but here it was… earth. Damp wood. Pine. Smoke from a hearth.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The first thing she saw was light — soft gold filtering through uneven wooden slats, cutting across the room in thin beams. Dust floated in the air, shifting slowly like snow.
Then came the sound — water dripping into a wooden basin. A cloth being wrung out.
And hands — gentle ones — pressing lightly against her arm, wrapping something rough and cool around the wound.
Her breath hitched.
The person froze.
He was close — kneeling by her side, shoulders hunched slightly as though trying not to startle her. His hair fell in messy strands of pale blond, so light it caught the faint sunlight and glowed faintly. It was long enough to hide his eyes completely, the rest of his face sharp but calm — the kind of calm that came not from peace, but practice.
His clothes were plain. A loose brown tunic, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric frayed from work and travel. A commoner's attire.
Yet something about him — the stillness, the care in his touch — didn't feel ordinary.
Zelene's breath quickened. With what strength she could gather, she reached out — her hand trembling — and gripped his wrist.
It wasn't even half the force she thought she could manage, but it was enough to stop him.
"Who…" her voice cracked, weak and dry, "…are you?"
The man froze for a heartbeat, then slowly loosened her grip with his free hand — not prying, just reassuring.
His touch was gentle, as if afraid she might break.
"Easy," he said softly. His voice was smooth, almost melodic — too kind for the world she'd just escaped. "You're safe here."
Zelene's vision steadied. Her eyes darted around the room.
It was small — barely enough space for a bed and a table. The walls were made of rough timber, patched in places with uneven boards. A small window let in shards of morning light, revealing shelves lined with jars of herbs and a few rusted tools. Near the corner sat a metal basin half-filled with pinkish water — blood diluted in it, proof that someone had been cleaning wounds.
Her wounds.
And beyond that — her gaze caught on another shape.
Ray.
He lay on a mat near the far wall, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow rhythm. His arms and torso were wrapped in clean bandages, and someone had laid a folded cloth over his forehead. His sword — dulled and bloodstained — rested nearby, leaning against the wall.
Zelene's heart stuttered.
What happened… to us?
The memory came back in fragments — the arrows, the cliff, the fall, the cold.
Her fingers curled weakly against the blanket. She looked at the man again — the stranger kneeling beside her — but still couldn't see his eyes. Just that pale, untamed hair, falling over his face like a curtain.
He noticed her staring and hesitated. Then, in that same soft tone that sounded almost… angelic, he said,
"I don't mean you harm."
He set the damp cloth aside and sat back on his heels, giving her space. The light caught his hair again — strands glowing like threads of spun sunlight.
Zelene tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her mind screamed for questions — Where are we? How did we get here? Who are you? — but her body had no strength left to voice them.
Outside, wind brushed through the leaves — a quiet song of the forest.
Inside, the only sound was the steady rhythm of water dripping from the soaked cloth into the basin.
For the first time since the night her world burned, Zelene realized she wasn't running anymore.
She was alive.
And a stranger had saved her.