> They said his name with caution.
Some with fear. Some with
---
Liora's eyes blinked open just as the fire let out a soft pop.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her neck, then noticed what had changed — the stranger was no longer unconscious. He was sitting up, back against the wooden wall, one knee bent, hand resting loosely beside him.
And he was watching her.
His expression was unreadable. Not guarded — just… unreadable. Like his face had forgotten how to feel things the way people were supposed to.
"I should have left you there," she muttered without thinking.
His brow lifted, just a little. "Why didn't you?"
Liora stood, brushing her skirt. "Because I'm not like you, apparently."
A pause. He didn't answer.
She reached for the kettle, poured herself a little tea, then looked over her shoulder. "What do I call you?"
Silence.
Then: "Kael."
She turned around fully. "Just Kael?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
But the way his eyes flicked away told her that wasn't the whole truth.
"Right," she said softly, "so you're the kind of man who nearly dies in the forest, bleeds all over my floor, drinks my tea, and won't even give me a surname."
"I didn't drink your tea."
"I noticed."
Another pause.
Kael watched her closely — not like a predator, but like a man used to being in rooms where he was the one who needed to calculate danger. It was instinct for him. Muscle-deep.
But Liora… didn't seem to have that instinct at all.
She walked too easily around him. Her hands moved too close to his sword as she cleared away old bandages. She didn't flinch when his voice dropped lower, colder.
"You should have let me die," he said again, flatly.
She froze, then set the bowl down with care.
"Well," she said, "you didn't seem entirely sure that was what you wanted. You gripped my wrist like your life depended on it."
Kael's jaw tightened.
Liora sat across from him now, folding her hands.
"I don't know who you are. And maybe I don't want to know. But I do know a man who bleeds red still has something left in him. That's enough for me — for now."
For a long time, Kael said nothing.
Then, quietly: "Liora."
She blinked. "Yes?"
"You shouldn't have said my name."
"Why not?"
"Because names are threads," he murmured. "And threads can be pulled."
---
That night, the wind returned.
Hard and howling, it slammed against the shutters like fists.
Liora barely slept. She lay on her side, staring at the wall, heart uneasy. Not from fear — not entirely. More from not knowing. She had brought something — someone — into her home who did not belong in her world.
And yet, she had seen the way his hand trembled when he thought she wasn't looking.
She had seen the blood beneath his ribs and the way his eyes dimmed when he looked at firelight — like it reminded him of something burned long ago.
This was not just a soldier. Not just a runaway.
This was someone the world had lost… and maybe someone it had buried.
---
Meanwhile, Kael didn't sleep at all.
He stared at the rafters, listening to the wind, to the small sounds of her movement in the next room.
And then — faintly — he heard something else.
A voice.
Soft. Familiar. Not in the house.
Outside.
He stood slowly, silently, and crossed to the window.
There, in the mist, just beyond the tree line — something moved.
It wasn't human.
And it was looking directly at the cottage.
Kael's eyes darkened.
"They found me," he whispered.