The journey back felt endless. The night pressed in thick around her, the woods too still, too listening. Every gust of wind sounded like pursuit.
By the time the first shadow of her cottage appeared through the trees, her arms ached and her legs trembled with exhaustion. Frost bit at her lashes, turning her vision to shards of light. She dismounted, half stumbling, and dragged the sled the final stretch towards the workshop, muscles burning.
The wards on the door shimmered faintly as she pressed her hand to the wood. The lock gave way with a reluctant creak.
Inside, the air was bitterly cold, the embers in the hearth long dead. Nyla shoved the table aside, then gripped the sled's edge and pulled, teeth gritted against the strain. The Prince's body slid across the threshold with a heavy thump, scattering snow across the floorboards.
The boards creaked under his weight. One hand flicking frantically to light the candles in the room. Each one burst with a brilliant flame casting shadows over the angular shape of his face.
She pulled open his cloak, began removing his armor plate, her breath catching at the sight beneath - the wound on his chest was blackened around the edges, veins spidering out in a sickly green beneath the skin. The smell of it hit her next - iron and rot, wrong and sharp enough to sting her eyes.
"Nightwalker venom," she breathed, voice thin with disbelief.
A soft sound behind her made her whip her head around.
Alva stood in the doorway, hair tousled, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes widened as they fell on the body sprawled across the floor.
"Nyla-"
Nyla fumbled with the latches of his shoulder pieces, the plate coming away in heavy, blood-slicked plates, revealing more bloodied tunic torn open and beneath it, a body marked with old scars, the history of countless battles carved into his skin.
The wound on his chest oozed a putrid black. "No time," Nyla's voice was low, urgent, but not unkind. "I need you. Get my satchel and boil water - now."
Something in her tone cut through Alva's shock; the girl spun and ran for the chest. Nyla turned back to the man, stripping away cracked leather. No wonder he didn't freeze to death, he was covered in layers of fabric and leather.
Her stomach clenched. The skin around the gash was blackened, veins running black and pulsing erratically.
The man let out a low pained groan and Nyla steadied him with gentle hands.
"Easy," she murmured, half to herself, half to him. "Stay with me."
Alva stumbled back into the room, clutching the satchel. "He's-he's bleeding everywhere - "
"Stay focused, Alva," Nyla said sharply, though her eyes never left the wound. "Light the ember bowl. We need heat."
The girl obeyed, fingers trembling as she worked.
Nyla pressed a cloth to the man's chest; the black fluid soaked through instantly. She pulled it away, tossed it aside, and reached for clean linen. When her fingers brushed something hard lodged deep within the torn flesh, she swore under her breath.
"There's something inside him."
Alva's voice was shaking. "What do you need?"
"Tongs. Heat them until they glow."
The hiss of metal in flame filled the room. Nyla wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, eyes darting between the wound and the glowing ember bowl. When Alva handed her the glowing tongs, Nyla took them without hesitation. Her hands shook as she eased them into the wound, gripping the exposed edge of the claw.
Any other healer would have stopped here. Pulling something lodged this deep between the ribs was how men bled out on the floor. The talon was acting as a plug as much as a weapon.
But this one was poisoning him with every breath he took.
Leaving it in would kill him faster than the bleeding ever could.
Nyla closed her eyes for a heartbeat and whispered a binding charm. Her magic coiled around the torn vessels beneath her fingertips, tightening them, small, invisible force bracing the wound, ready to clamp shut the instant she pulled.
"Hold him steady," she murmured.
Then, with a firm, decisive tug, the long hooked claw slid free.
Blood surged but her magic snapped tight around the wound, slowing the rush.
The Prince's eyes snapped open, wild and he flew into a sitting position, hand snapping around Nyla's throat, knocking the air from her. The strength was staggering, an iron vice crushing her windpipe. Her eyes widened; clawing at his forearms, gasping. His face had changed, eyes open but unfocused, green shot through with gold, wild with panic.
"Stop--" she rasped, throwing her elbow down on his forearm but he was too damn strong.
He didn't hear her. The pressure tightened, black spots flaring in her vision.
Then a blinding flare burst across the room. Alva screamed something incoherent, both hands flung out. The light struck the man square in the chest, a crack of air and heat, and he collapsed, limp, back to the floor.
Nyla dropped forward, coughing violently, one hand braced on the boards. The sound of air rushed back into her lungs raggedly.
Alva stood frozen, both hands shaking, her face streaked with tears. "I-I didn't mean to," she stammered. "He . Mmwas hurting you and I d-"
Nyla reached up, fingers still trembling, and caught the girl's wrist. "Look at me." Her voice was hoarse but steady. "You saved me."
Nyla sat back on her heels, clutching her throat, the bruised skin already throbbing beneath her fingers. Her vision swam for a moment, but there was no time to rest. The man lay sprawled, chest rising in uneven bursts, blood seeping steadily from the torn gash.
She wiped the sweat from her temple and forced her voice steady. "M-my bag" she rasped brokenly, "towels. Water. All of it."
The girl darted off, pale and trembling, but quick. Nyla pressed her ear to the man's chest. The heartbeat was fast, too fast, and the breathing shallow, rasping like torn paper. She peeled away more of the ruined tunic and reached for a small bone-handled knife and cut away the rest of the fabric. The wound was ugly, deep enough to expose the glint of bone beneath. The black veins fanning outward pulsed faintly with each heartbeat.
Alva returned, arms full of cloth's and Nyla's box of tinctures. She nearly dropped the lot onto the floor. Nyla snatched the box, flipping it open with one hand, glass rattling furiously within.
She grabbed a jar by feel alone, soaked a cloth in the hot water Alva had boiled, then sprinkled dried hyssop and coarse salt across it. The sharp scents of iron, herb, and heat filled the room.
"Light, steady as you can," Nyla ordered.
Alva knelt beside her, palms blooming with a soft, trembling glow. The light threw everything into sharp focus, the sweat beading at Barius's temples, the sheen of blood on Nyla's hands, and under his skin, the faint shimmering threads of venom racing along his veins.
Nyla leaned close to his chest, listening. The breaths were shallow and bubbling faintly, air leaking inside the chest cavity. A punctured lung. Not full collapse, not yet.
She rested her hand over his ribs, letting her magic slip beneath her skin like a second set of fingers. Inside, the torn tissue fluttered unevenly. Nyla coaxed the pieces toward stillness, bracing the injured lung with a thin, shimmering hold, just enough to keep it from folding in on itself.
"Breathe," she whispered.
His pulse beat too fast beneath her fingertips, fluttering, panicked, the rhythm of a body sliding toward shock. She pushed a steady, warm current of magic through her hand, guiding his heartbeat into something closer to a regular rhythm. Not perfect. Not safe. But better.
Alva eased his shoulders onto a folded blanket, propping him at a slight incline. If he lay flat, his lung would fight him for air; if she lifted him too high, he'd bleed faster.
The rasp of his breathing made her stomach knot.
Once the lung was stabilized and his breathing smoothed, Nyla opened the jar of Feverbalm. The familiar sting of copper and mint hit her nose. "Fever balm," she murmured to Alva. "Won't cure the venom, but it'll slow the climb."
She smeared the balm around the wound, careful never to seal it over. The venom needed a way out. Then she packed the wound with strips of linen soaked in crushed silverweed and alcohol. The silverweed would burn like fire, but it would drag the venom upward toward the salve instead of letting it sink toward his heart.
The instant it touched his skin, he jolted violently. His muscles locked.
Nyla pressed him down firmly with both hands, not just physically, but with magic sinking into the wound, clamping torn vessels tight, holding back the deep bleeding.
"Easy," she whispered, leaning closer. "Easy. That's it."
The tremor passed slowly, leaving him sprawled and pale against the boards. His breaths rasped, uneven but moving. The black veins along his chest pulsed, still there, but no longer advancing.
Her binding charm held the deeper blood vessels tight. The worst of the bleeding was slowed. His lung still trembled, but it stayed open.
She wiped sweat from her brow and checked his pulse again, still too fast, but steadier. Her magic hovered at the edge of exhaustion, but the wound was stable enough to keep him alive.
For now.
The leg was another story entirely. The break had twisted the bone clean out of line, and the skin along his shin bulged where it pressed up from beneath. Nyla brushed her fingertips along the ridge, feeling for the split.
"Compound," she murmured. "Clean, but it won't set without help."
She pushed her sleeves up past her elbows, wiped the blood from her palms, and began slowly inching his leg into a straight position. The air trembled faintly, silver motes gathering between her fingers.
"Hold his shoulders," she instructed.
Alva obeyed, kneeling opposite her.
Nyla inhaled deeply, focusing on the pulse beneath her palms. She could feel the fracture's edges, sharp and splintered, humming faintly in the weave of his body. Closing her eyes, she coaxed her breath into rhythm with his.
A low, vibrating hum filled the air as pale light bloomed from her hands. The heat came next, sharp and searing, rising through the bones of her forearms. Beneath her touch, the man jerked, a guttural sound breaking from his throat.
"Steady," she murmured, tightening her grip. "It has to be clean."
The light deepened from silver to gold, threads of it sinking beneath the skin, knitting tendon to bone and bone to marrow. The cracking of realignment echoed through the small room, wet and visceral.
Alva winced, cheeks losing any color they had. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"It's supposed to hurt," Nyla said, voice level despite the sweat beading at her temples. "Healing does."
The cracking ended with a final snap and straightened. Nyla released a slow breath, the shimmer fading as she slowly lowered his leg back down. The swelling had already begun to ease. The skin around the wound flushed pink with returning warmth.
"There," she said softly, sitting back. "We'll splint it for now. Use a ginger poultice to draw out inflammation. The rest will mend overnight."
Alva peered down at the leg. "It looks...angry."
"It should," Nyla said, reaching for the jar of willow bark salve. "Magic heals fast, not gentle. The pain's how the body knows it's alive. Hand me that needle," Alva passed it wordlessly. Nyla threaded it with fine gut string, sterilized in alcohol, and began to stitch the wound above his brow. The cut wasn't deep but perilously close to the eye. "He's lucky," she murmured. "Any lower and he'd have lost it."
When the final stitch was tied off, Nyla exhaled hard, her shoulders sagging with fatigue. The cottage reeked of blood, iron, and crushed herbs, the air thick with smoke from the ember bowl. The stranger's breathing had steadied to a slow, ragged rhythm, the fever balm she'd smeared across his chest glinting damply in the firelight.
"Keep an eye on him," she said quietly, wiping her hands on a cloth. Alva nodded, wrapping clean gauze around his head. "If the bandage seeps through, press a clean one on top - don't lift the old." Nyla pushed to her feet, joints aching. "I'll only be a moment."
She gathered the blood-streaked armour piece by piece, wrapping each in old linen until the sharp edges disappeared. The sword she saved for last, binding the hilt in a faded blanket before slipping it under her arm.
The floor creaked as she crossed the yard to the house, the air colder there, tinged with the scent of oil and wood polish crouched beside a storage chest, wedged the bundled metal deep into the shadows behind it, and drew an old sheet over the lot.
Nyla returned from the house, brushing dust and splinters from her skirts. The air inside the workshop felt warmer now, the bitter tang of blood and venom replaced by the gentler smells of smoke and sage. Alva was still kneeling where she'd left her, straightening a bandage that had slipped along the man's ribs.
"Good work," Nyla murmured. "He'll need to be turned before dawn, but that will hold for now."
Alva hovered near the doorway, clutching the edge of her blanket. Her voice was small but steady.
"Who is he? He looks...scary..."
Nyla didn't look up. "A guard, I think. Or something close to it."
Alva's brow furrowed, the way it did when she was trying to solve a problem bigger than her hands. "Then...why help him?"
Nyla paused, just long enough that Alva noticed. She exhaled softly through her nose.
"Because he was alive when I found him," she said. "And I took an oath."
Alva chewed the inside of her cheek, processing that. "Even if he's...dangerous?"
"Especially then," Nyla murmured, tightening the knot in the linen. "Oaths don't mean much if you only keep them when it's easy. I don't have to like it, but I do have a job to do."
Alva nodded, slow and thoughtful in a way only a ten-year-old trying very hard to be brave could. She stepped closer, eyes flicking over the man's pale face, then back to Nyla.
"What do we do now?"
Nyla brushed a strand of hair from her own damp forehead. "We keep him alive. I contact the guard in Eodwyn tomorrow. They will show mercy on our village if they decide to come looking for him and find him alive and well."
That seemed to ease Alva's worries as they began to put the room back in order. Nyla tossed the soiled linens into the wash basin, then poured clean water to rinse her hands. Alva wiped down the table, gathering the scattered jars and scraps of cloth into tidy rows. The simple rhythm of cleaning steadied them both; even the smallest sounds - the scrape of a chair, the clink of glass - felt comforting after the storm of the past few hours.
When the hearth was stoked again, its glow spreading gentle light across the floorboards, Nyla pressed a hand to the small of her back and exhaled. "That's enough for tonight."
Alva nodded, rubbing her eyes. "Should I stay up?"
"No," Nyla said softly. "Go on, sleep. I'll watch him awhile."
The girl hesitated only a moment before curling up under the quilt on the narrow bed. Within minutes, her breathing evened into sleep.
Nyla sank into the old chair beside the hearth, the wood groaning under her weight. The stranger lay only an arm's length away, the firelight flickering across the pale slope of his face and the clean lines of the bandages at his chest. For the first time since dragging him from the snow, she allowed herself to feel the exhaustion rolling through her limbs.
Her gaze drifted to his features - too sharp for a commoner, too still for comfort. The faint pulse at his throat beat steadily beneath skin that looked almost translucent in the light.
"I hope you're worth the trouble," she murmured.
The fire popped, a soft echo in the silence. She folded her arms on the edge of the chair and let her eyes close.
When she woke, the world was different - quieter, colder. The embers had burned low, throwing red veins of light across the floor. Her neck ached from sleeping upright, and her breath fogged faintly in the chill air. For a heartbeat she forgot where she was. Then she saw him.
The man was still there, half-shrouded in shadow, his chest rising in a slow, measured rhythm. But his head had turned slightly toward her in the night, and the faintest sound escaped his throat, a low, rough sigh, like the start of a dream.
Nyla straightened, every sense sharp again. The fever hadn't taken him. He was alive.
Reaching out, she brushed the dark midnight locks of hair from his forehead, feeling the clamminess and sudden heat of his skin. Fever still raged within him. She dipped a cloth in cool water and dabbed at his forehead and neck, trying to ease his discomfort.
She had never seen Northern royalty this far from their marble halls - truthfully, she had never seen one at all. The tales that reached the villages were always half-mad things: too grand, too cruel, too drenched in myth to trust.
Suddenly, his lips moved. "I am dreaming..."
The words, low and rough, startled her, the sound of a voice unused for days. They rolled out in Androsian, that lilting northern tongue she hadn't heard since the war camps. His chest rose with the effort, the faint rumble of it carrying through the floorboards.
Then his eyes opened ever so slightly, the one eye that was visible was green, slit-pupiled, unfocused. He blinked slowly, gaze finding her as though struggling to decide whether she was real.
"You're wounded," Nyla replied. "But you will live."
Another long pause. "I am dead...you've come to take me, Aelir..."
Aelir.
Old tongue. The luminous ones, said to come for the dying, beautiful beyond sense or reason. She knew them, every healer did. Walkers between the breath and the stillness. Midwives whispered prayers to them when mothers lingered too long in the crossing. Soldiers muttered their names when the light began to fade.
"I am not the Aelir, and you are not dead."
"...between?"
"Yes," Nyla answered. "Do you remember your name?"
"Barius..." he trembled, "My name is Barius..."
His calloused fingers tightened around hers, and a flash of pain crossed his face. She squeezed back, then brushed a gentle hand across his forehead, whispering sleeping charms, "Rest, Barius. Just rest."
"T-thank you..." His eyes fluttered and he was lulled back to sleep.
Nyla sat there for a while, watching over him, the silence of the cottage broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional groan of the old wooden beams. That was oddly...sweet...considering he nearly choked the life out of her just mere hours ago.
Barius' condition remained critical but stable. Nyla knew the next few hours were crucial. If he could survive them, his chances of recovery would increase significantly.