Thornwick Village, 1203
War had a way of stealing color from the world.By late autumn, Thornwick lay washed in shades of gray—ashen skies, frost-burned fields, smoke drifting from distant clashes between kingdoms that had forgotten why they fought.
Ariella Hawthorne walked the narrow path between her family's fields, basket of herbs against her hip and cloak pulled tight against the cold. Her mother's lessons echoed the rhythm of her steps:
Find what heals. Avoid what harms.Life is fragile—handle it with reverence.
But war did not care for healers or their reverence.
A raven's cry cut through the quiet, sharp enough to raise the hair on Ariella's arms. She paused. Ravenspire Woods was still this morning—too still. No wind. No rustling leaves. Even the river beyond the ridge seemed to be holding its breath.
Then she heard it.
A groan—low, ragged, unmistakably human.
Ariella stiffened. Her first instinct was fear. Soldiers sometimes crept into the woods after battles, and not all sought help. Some sought plunder. Some sought worse.
But the groan came again, weaker this time.
A wounded man.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up, pushing aside branches until she reached a fallen log half-covered in frost. And there—crumpled at its base—was a man.
A soldier.
Armor dented, cloak torn, blood soaking the earth beneath him.
He was unconscious, his chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths. His hair—dark and tangled—matched the mud streaking his jaw. But it was the insignia on his vambrace that made Ariella's heart lurch.
The mark of Ravenhold.
Thornwick's enemy.
Ariella staggered back. Every instinct screamed at her to leave him. This was the kind of man her village feared, the kind her brother had fought against for months.
But she was a healer's daughter.
And he was dying.
Ariella knelt slowly, her breath clouding. "Can you hear me?" she whispered.
The man's eyelids twitched. Then, with visible effort, they lifted—revealing eyes the color of storm clouds rolling in from the northern sea.
She froze.
Those eyes, dazed and unfocused, locked onto hers. Pain carved deep lines along his brow, but behind them—faint, flickering—was something startlingly human.
Fear.Resolve.And something else she could not name.
"Don't… run," he rasped.
Her voice was barely a breath. "Why would I?"
His lips tried to form a smile, but failed. "Because… of this." Weakly, he lifted his arm, the Ravenhold insignia catching a dim ray of light.
Ariella hesitated only a moment before she tore her shawl and pressed it to his bleeding side.
"I should leave you," she said, breath trembling, "but I won't."
His gaze softened—even in agony. "You're… foolish."
"Perhaps." She swallowed. "But you'll die out here."
His eyes fluttered. "Then let me die."
"No."
The word surprised even her.
Ariella stood and slid her arms beneath his shoulders, bracing herself. He was heavy—too heavy for her alone—but she heaved anyway. He managed a hoarse grunt of pain.
"Come on," she muttered. "Just a little farther."
"Why?" His voice was barely audible.
Ariella didn't answer until she had dragged him from the clearing, her breath burning in her chest.
Finally, she whispered,"Because someone should choose compassion, even in times like these."
She half-carried, half-dragged him toward the only place hidden enough to keep him secret: the abandoned barn behind the Hawthorne orchard.
A forbidden act.A dangerous mercy.A choice that would alter centuries of lifetimes.
When she finally collapsed beside him on the barn floor, straw in her hair and sweat on her brow, the soldier's hand brushed her wrist—accidental or intentional, she couldn't tell.
But his eyes met hers again, clearer now despite the pain.
"Name…" he murmured. "Your name."
Ariella hesitated.
Then answered softly,
"Ariella."
The faintest smile ghosted his lips."Kael."
Ariella felt a strange warmth coil in her chest—quiet, startling, and wildly inappropriate.
She had saved the life of an enemy.
And destiny had just shifted.