The rain fell on the roof of the small clinic like a thousand tiny drums. Inside, the air smelled of wet herbs and clean linen. Hua Qian's hands moved with a practice born of years, her fingers deftly grinding dried roots into a fine powder. It was late, and the world outside her little window was a blur of grey and green.
She was a healer. It was all she had ever wanted to be. In her small village at the edge of the great woods, she was needed. She mended broken bones, brewed medicines for fevers, and soothed the pains of the old. Her life was simple, and she liked it that way.
The wind howled, shaking the wooden shutters. It was a wild night, the kind that kept even the bravest woodsmen indoors. Hua Qian was just thinking of locking the door when she heard it.
Not a knock. A thud.
A heavy, wet sound from the edge of the clearing where her clinic stood. It was the kind of sound a falling tree makes, but shorter. Softer. And it was followed by a silence that was louder than the storm.
Her heart beat a little faster. It could be a lost traveler, or an animal hurt by a hunter's trap. Her duty was clear. She took a thick cloak from its hook, lit a paper lantern, and pushed open the door.
The wind nearly tore the door from her hands. Rain lashed at her face, cold and sharp. The lantern's light was a small, brave circle in the overwhelming dark. She followed the path, her boots sinking into the mud. The thud had come from just inside the tree line, where the woods began their dark and tangled dance.
At first, she saw nothing but mud and leaves. Then her light caught on something dark. A splash of red on green leaves. Blood.
Her breath caught in her throat. She moved the lantern higher, and the light fell upon a man.
He was lying half-hidden under a bush, as if he had been thrown there. He was dressed in black, a color so deep it seemed to drink the light. His clothes were torn, and his long, dark hair was plastered to his face with rain and blood. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, his shoulders broad, his frame powerful even in stillness.
For a moment, she thought he was dead. But then she saw it. A faint, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
He was alive.
Healing was her purpose. Without a second thought, she put her lantern down and knelt in the mud. She reached out to check for a pulse, her fingers brushing against the cold skin of his neck.
The moment her skin touched his, a strange feeling shot up her arm. It wasn't a shock, not exactly. It was a deep, bone-deep cold, a feeling of empty space, of a winter that never ends. It was a feeling so sad and so lonely that it made her own heart ache.
She pulled her hand back, startled. It was just the cold, she told herself. The man was dying.
She could not leave him here. With a strength she didn't know she had, she managed to get his arm over her shoulders. He was impossibly heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone. She half-dragged, half-carried him back to the clinic, her small body straining with every step.
Inside, she laid him down on the only spare cot. The lantern light revealed the full extent of his injuries. There was a deep gash on his side, and a strange, black wound on his chest that seemed to pulse with a faint, dark light. It wasn't bleeding. It looked… burned.
She worked quickly. She cleaned the gash on his side, her touch gentle and sure. But when she tried to clean the wound on his chest, she felt that same cold emptiness again. The herbs she put on it seemed to shrivel and die. The water she used turned to ice in her bowl.
It was like nothing she had ever seen. It was not a normal wound. It was… wrong.
She sat back on her heels, her mind racing. This was no ordinary traveler. This was something else. Something from the old stories her grandmother used to tell, stories of demons and spirits that lived in the deepest parts of the woods.
She should be afraid. She should throw him out and let the storm have him. But she looked at his face. His features were sharp and proud, even in sleep. And his eyes… they were closed now, but she remembered them from a brief glance as she dragged him inside. One was the color of gold, bright like a captured sun. The other was the color of silver, cool like the moon.
A man with eyes like that could not be evil. She hoped.
She pulled a blanket over him, tucking it around his large frame. She would not let him die. That was her promise.
Days passed. The storm raged for another night, then cleared. The man did not wake. He just breathed, his breath shallow and weak. Hua Qian stayed by his side, feeding him broth drop by drop, talking to him even though he could not hear. She told him about her village, about the silly arguments her neighbors had, about the way the sun looked when it rose over the mountains.
She was surprised to find that she was not afraid of him anymore. She felt a strange connection to this silent, wounded man. She felt the need to protect him.
On the third night, she was dozing in her chair when she heard a sound.
A low groan.
Her eyes flew open. He was moving. His silver and gold eyes were open now, and they were looking right at her. They were filled with a pain so deep it seemed to stretch back for a thousand years.
"Water," he whispered. His voice was rough, like stones grinding together.
She rushed to his side with a cup. He tried to sit up, but a sharp cry of pain escaped his lips and he fell back against the pillow, his hand clutching the black wound on his chest.
"Don't move," she said softly. "You are badly hurt."
He looked at her, his gaze sharp and intelligent. He looked around the small clinic, a flicker of something like disgust in his golden eye. He was a king in a pauper's house, and he knew it.
"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice stronger now.
"You are in my clinic. At the edge of the Whispering Woods. I found you in the storm."
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the rain that had started to fall again.
"You saved me," he said. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.
"It is my duty to help those who are hurt," she replied.
A small, bitter smile touched his lips. "Your duty? Little healer, you have no idea what you have done. You have not saved a man. You have saved a monster."
He pushed himself up, his strength shocking her. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, his tall frame towering over her even in the small room. The black wound on his chest seemed to pulse with a darker light, and she felt that cold, empty feeling wash over the room.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice low and commanding. It was not a request. It was an order.
"Hua Qian," she whispered, unable to look away from his strange, beautiful eyes.
He took a step closer. The air grew colder. He reached out a hand, not to touch her, but to hold it in the space between them. As he did, the room seemed to darken, the lantern light shrinking away from him.
"I am Di Jun," he said, his voice echoing with a power that made her soul tremble. "And you, Hua Qian, are going to heal me. You will bind your soul to mine, or I will burn this entire world to ash."