The storm had passed by dawn, but the wind still carried the memory of it.
Inside the cottage, everything was still.
Isolde Silvanne stood at the hearth, stirring a pot of willow bark and meadowsweet, the scent of it curling into the air like steam off memory. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing faint scratches from last night's encounter, though most of the blood on her was not her own.
Behind her, the stranger slept.
No—not a stranger.Not truly.
He was too vivid for that.Too... known.
Even now, resting on her old infirmary cot, his presence filled the room like wildfire smoke—felt before seen, smelled before named.
His body was half-turned toward the window, one arm slung loosely over his ribs where she'd packed the gash with salve. His breath came deep and steady, but not peaceful. She could sense the edge beneath it. As if even in sleep, he braced for the next blade.
The linen of his shirt—what was left of it—had been peeled away and set aside. His chest rose and fell slowly, the planes of muscle marked with old scars and newer ones both. And across his left shoulder, barely visible beneath the gauze, was a rune.
Not drawn.Not carved.
Branded.
Isolde's fingers clenched around the wooden spoon.
She knew that mark. Not from books. From dreams.
From stories.
He stirred.
She turned just in time to see his eyes open—silver-pale, clear despite exhaustion, piercing despite pain.
She froze, heart thudding once, hard. So did he.
For a breath, neither of them moved.
Then he blinked. "Where am I?"
"My home," she said quietly. "You were injured. You saved me."
His eyes roamed the space—the shelves of dried herbs, the firelight, the small window with a hanging string of bones and carved moonstones—and then returned to her. "The… thing?"
"Dead," she said. "Because of you."
He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright with a wince.
"You shouldn't move yet," she added, setting the spoon aside and stepping toward him. "You're lucky the claw missed your lung."
"I've been luckier," he muttered, voice rough with sleep and gravel.
"Clearly."
Her tone was dry, but her touch was gentle as she checked the binding at his side. His skin was fever-warm beneath her fingers, but steady.
He watched her while she worked. "You live here alone?"
"Yes."
"You're a healer?"
"I was born with the gift," she said, then added before he could ask, "I don't belong to a pack."
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
"Neither do I," he said.
The silence that followed was not awkward. It was charged. Like the stillness before a storm realizes it's forgotten to pass.
She withdrew her hands and stepped back. "Do you remember your name?"
He hesitated.
Then: "Alaric."
"Alaric," she echoed softly.
Something in the way she said it made him close his eyes, as if it hurt.
When he opened them again, his voice was quieter.
"I've seen you before."
She blinked. "That's not possible."
"Maybe not. But I have."
There was no heat in the words. Just certainty.
Her gaze faltered, trailing to the mark on his shoulder again. "Your brand... it's from the Old Tongue."
"Yes."
"It means 'deathless.'"
"I know."
She met his gaze again. "That's a cruel name to carry."
"I didn't choose it."
"Neither did I," she whispered, more to herself than him.
Outside, the wind shifted.
And far in the distance, deep in the woods where last night's blood had dried into the roots, the same ancient rune began to shimmer faintly again—like breath on cold glass.
The forest remembered.
And so, somewhere deep in their bones, did they.