Nyra woke to the sound of wind whispering through trees. The air was damp and still. Her body ached like something half-dead, barely stitched to this world.
Her arm was the first thing she noticed.
It didn't bleed anymore but it was swollen, hot, and pulsing with pain. The flesh around the gash had turned a sickly purple, the skin stretched taut like it might burst. Infection.
Her leg throbbed too. Her head spun.
She should've been dead. Maybe she still was.
But her stomach growled, and her lungs burned when she breathed, and her pain still felt real enough to scream.
So she got up.
Somehow, she stood. Wobbled like a drunk, braced herself against a tree. Her tunic clung to her body with dried blood, and every step dragged lightning through her bones.
Still, she walked.
The forest was thick and green, foreign to her eyes. The trees didn't burn here. The sky didn't bleed. Birds sang. Wind carried leaves instead of ash.
She was far from Netheros. Too far.
She limped through underbrush and roots, staggering toward something, anything, that felt like shelter. The trees parted to reveal a grassy hill and below it, a small clearing.
Voices.
Children.
Nyra staggered closer, heart hammering. She stopped behind a bush, peering through the branches.
Five Varnathi boys were swinging wooden swords at each other, laughing, playing. They wore patched tunics and boots caked in dirt. One of them stood taller, broader, with messy blond hair and a sharp jaw for his age. His voice was louder, his swings more precise.
Siegfried.
She didn't know his name yet, but she would never forget his face.
The boys shouted and ran around the clearing, pretending to be knights of old. One raised a stick and called himself King Varron. Another demanded trial by combat. They laughed, wild and free.
Then one of them saw her.
"Hey! Look!"
Nyra flinched.
Heads turned.
"What the hell is that?"
"Her skin, she's black! Like, black black."
"She's a demon!"
They started picking up stones.
The first one struck her in the side.
She stumbled.
Another hit her shoulder.
Pain flashed white across her vision.
"Go back to your hole, freak!"
"Monster!"
"Rot in the dark, shadow bitch!"
She didn't speak. Couldn't. She just kept walking, slow and shaking.
More rocks. More laughter. Hatred from children, clean faces twisted by fear and stories.
Then Siegfried stepped forward.
"Stop!" he barked.
The others paused, surprised.
He walked closer, sneering. His eyes were a cruel shade of sky blue.
"What's the matter? Lost your cave?"
She said nothing.
He circled her, staring at the cuts, the filth, the torn clothes, the way she swayed like a tree about to fall.
"You don't even look like a real demon. Just some dirty little rat."
Nyra kept walking.
"You deaf or just dumb?"
"We should tell the village," one boy muttered.
"No," Siegfried said quickly. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
The others hesitated, then started running, muttering about curses and guards.
Siegfried stayed behind.
He watched her, his face unreadable.
Then he saw the blood.
Her arm. Her leg. Her ribs. Her face.
She was barely alive.
She vanished into the trees.
He hesitated, then followed.
Nyra found a small cave nestled in the hillside, barely wide enough for her to crawl through. She collapsed inside.
Dark. Safe. Cold.
She curled up against the wall, shaking.
The fever came quickly.
Sweat soaked her skin. Her thoughts slipped like water through her fingers. She mumbled names, Tyren, Enric, Mama. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her wounds throbbed like molten metal.
The world melted around her.
She dreamed of fire. Of footsteps crunching ash. Of Enric's laughter. Of her mother's voice calling her name, just out of reach.
Then... a sound.
Footsteps.
She tried to move. Tried to run.
A shadow filled the cave's entrance.
She whimpered, dragging herself backward, clawing at the stone with trembling hands.
"Don't," a voice said.
She froze.
Siegfried.
"I'm not here to kill you."
He stepped inside slowly, holding something in his hands, a small pouch and a bundle of herbs wrapped in cloth. A canteen sloshed at his side.
"I brought stuff. For the wounds. My uncle taught me. He's the village healer."
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
He crouched near her, careful not to touch.
"You're really burning up. You'll die like this."
He opened the pouch. Pulled out dried leaves, a small knife and a roll of bandages.
"This'll sting. Sorry."
He poured water on a rag and cleaned her arm. Her body flinched at the touch, but she didn't stop him. Her eyes fluttered.
Then came the herbs, crushed between stones and packed into the wound. Bandages followed, tight but not cruel.
He repeated the process for her thigh, biting his lip as he worked.
Last, he held a small wooden bowl to her lips.
"Drink. It's bitter, but it helps the fever."
She looked at him, confused.
Why?
Why help her?
But she was too tired to question it. Too tired to fight.
She drank.
The world swam.
She slumped against him, barely conscious.
He caught her gently.
Her head rested on his shoulder.
"Stupid demon," he muttered. But there was no venom in it.
Just confusion.
Just fear.
Just... something else.
He stayed until night fell.
And she didn't let go.