The next morning, Aurelia found him trying to sharpen a stick with a butter knife.
She blinked.
"What exactly are you doing?"
Andres looked up, all serious determination and absolutely no logic.
"I need a weapon."
"That's… a spoon."
He held it up. "Not anymore."
"…It still is."
He ignored her skepticism and kept working, tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth like a five-year-old determined to make art from mud.
She crouched next to him, smirking. "Planning to fight bandits or stir their soup to death?"
"If it comes to it, both."
Aurelia snorted and grabbed the stick from him. "Give me that before you injure yourself with cutlery."
He let her take it without argument, watching as she pulled out a real knife from a belt beneath her coat and began whittling smoothly.
"Where'd you learn that?" he asked, fascinated.
She shrugged. "I was taught."
"Who by?"
A pause.
Then, almost too lightly: "Someone who expected me to survive."
His gaze lingered on her hands, steady, scarred, efficient.
Andres Morn wasn't a fool.
This woman had seen battle. Had trained for it. Yet she chose to live in a sleepy village tending plants and mocking strangers.
That didn't make sense.
But then, neither did his own situation.
He changed the subject. "Can I at least keep the spoon?"
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But you name it."
He looked genuinely thoughtful. "I'll call it... Destiny."
"Your butter knife?"
"Yes. It's poetic."
She chuckled. "Sure it is, Destiny Wielder."
---
Later, they walked the village path together, checking the foraging traps she'd set earlier that week. He walked slowly, but no longer needed to lean on her fence posts for support. His strength was returning bit by bit.
"I still don't understand how you live out here alone," he said, ducking beneath a thorned branch.
"I don't. The village lives together."
"You know what I mean. You, specifically. You're capable, trained. You're not just a gardener with good reflexes."
Aurelia tilted her head. "Maybe I'm just a really skilled gardener."
He gave her a look.
She gave him a grin.
"Fine," she said at last. "Let's just say I used to live a very different kind of life. One that wasn't really mine to begin with."
His voice softened. "And now?"
"Now I'm… figuring it out. On my own terms."
Andres was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "That's rare."
"What is?"
"Getting to choose."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. It is."
----
That evening was like most evenings, with Andres being absolutely, maddeningly stubborn.
"I'm fine," he insisted, puffing up like a half-drowned rooster as he limped between rows of herbs, half-pulling weeds and half-trampling them. "See? Fully recovered."
Aurelia raised a brow from where she crouched, trimming fever-thistle with practiced precision. "You're wheezing like an asthmatic boar."
"Masculine wheezing," he corrected, straightening with a pained grin. "Comes with the pride of manual labor."
She rolled her eyes. "Congratulations. You're a one-man gardening hazard."
By the time they returned to the hut, rain had begun to pelt down in thick, freezing sheets. The wind howled like something unearthly. The sky had turned an unsettling shade of blue-gray, the kind that made even seasoned survivors uneasy.
Inside, the fire crackled. Aurelia wrapped herself in a heavy wool cloak and sat near the hearth, sipping a hot cup of ginger root broth.
Andres, naturally, refused one.
"I'm not cold," he declared proudly, sitting with arms crossed, shivering beside the fire like a wet cat. "Storms are good for the soul. Builds character."
She glanced at him over her mug. "So does frostbite."
"I'm fine," he insisted again, scooting closer to the flames.
Suddenly something happened, his body became still, stiff, then he hunched forward, suddenly and violently, nearly toppling into the fire.
"Andres?"
A choked sound escaped him not quite a word, more like a groan dragged through gravel. He clutched at his side, breath stuttering. His face drained of color, and a wet cough wracked his body. Red sprayed the floor.
Aurelia was already beside him, catching his arm before he collapsed.
"Hey. No. No, no, no, what is this?"
His eyes were wide with pain, unfocused. He tried to speak but only coughed again, blood dribbling down his chin.
"Shit. Shit," she muttered, easing him to the floor, fingers probing gently around his ribs. "Internal bleeding? Fuck! Why didn't I see this before?"
He shivered violently. His skin had gone cold. The rain lashed against the windows as if trying to get in.
"Andres, stay with me. You hear me?" she snapped, voice cracking. "You do not get to die, not after everything."
He didn't answer. His breathing was getting slower, shallow, painful.
Aurelia scrambled. Herbs, compresses, tinctures, she poured everything she had into stabilizing him, nothing was enough.
"I didn't drag your half-dead ass out of death's door just for you to bleed out in my hut. That wasn't a favor, it was an investment," she growled, hands trembling. "You still owe me rent!"
There was no response, his body had gone slack.
She slapped him, hard. "You hear me, Andres? You die, and I'll bring you back just to kill you again, you arrogant, shirtless, pride-swollen idiot!"
Still nothing.
Her panic bloomed into something sharp and frantic. She bolted through the storm, feet pounding mud and stone, running feverishly for the village healer.
By the time they returned, he was gone.
The healer knelt beside the body, checked for a pulse, then shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry. It's too late."
---
Midnight came with silence. The storm had passed, the world outside was still, soaked and broken.
Aurelia sat by the wall, staring at nothing. She didn't cry. Didn't scream.
Just sat there numb, hollow.
The fire had burned low, the only sound was the occasional crack of wood.
Finally, she stood. Her feet carried her to his body before she even thought about it. He looked peaceful, which was stupid, Andres was never peaceful.
She folded her arms and stared down at him.
"Well," she said quietly. "Guess this is how you pay people back for saving your life. With… death. Very poetic."
She swallowed thickly.
"I told you not to die on me. I told you."
No response.
"You arrogant bastard," she whispered, voice shaking. "You were getting better, we thought you were fine. You heard internal injuries, there must have been some sign, some pain, but you didn't say anything, you were too proud to say it still hurt, too proud to rest. So congratulations. You won. You're dead."
Her eyes caught some movement, his body had twitched. Her breath caught.
She dropped to her knees beside him.
"...Andres?"
There was breathing! Shallow, tiny, barely there, but still, there was still life in him!
"Oh gods," she gasped, fumbling to touch his face. His skin was still cold but he was alive.
"Hey, hey, stay with me, don't you dare go again," she said, voice cracking as tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "You bastard. You absolute bastard. How dare you scare me like that?"
She pressed her hand over his chest, closed her eyes, and reached for the quiet, glowing power in her core.
She searched his body with her energy. It was broken. His life was a thread, faint and fraying, his core was shattered.
No time, any more hesitation and he would be gone for good. She didn't have time to think.
There was no guarantees this would work but maybe, maybe…
"I don't know if this will work," she whispered, pressing her palm to his heart. "But I'm going to try. So if you live, you better owe me really big."
Aurelia took a deep breath, and for the second time in her life, she did something reckless not for survival, not for herself, for him.
She poured her essence into him, all of it. Her strength, her fire, her power, the force that once made her more than ordinary.
It hurt, it burned, but slowly, his core pulled itself together, fragile and flickering.
Her own faded to nothing, and then, as his chest rose with steady breath, hers stilled.
"Don't make me regret this" she thought. "I hope you're worth it. Be worth it"
She slumped into unconsciousness.