The forest was calm, almost deceptively so.
The wind whispered between the trees, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth.
Marian bent down to pull another bundle of herbs, her basket already half-filled with sprigs of green. Beside her, Rossetta walked silently, her steps light, eyes scanning the canopy as if the forest itself spoke to her.
It should have been an ordinary day. But then—
Clang.
The sound of steel on steel split the stillness. Both sisters froze. Another clash followed, sharper this time, echoing through the trees like a cry of warning. Marian's head snapped up, wide-eyed. Somewhere ahead, hidden by the dense foliage, a battle was unfolding.
"Rossetta—" Marian whispered, reaching instinctively for her sister's arm.
But Rossetta was already turning, gaze narrowed.
Through the shifting leaves, they caught a glimpse: a lone swordsman, his blade gleaming as it cut through the air, surrounded by ten masked figures. The man's stance was solid, his strikes precise, but no matter how skilled he was, the sheer number pressed down on him like an inevitable tide.
Marian's heart lurched.
"He's outnumbered—we need to go before—"
And then it happened.
The stranger's sword arm was cut, a shallow but bleeding gash. The moment the blade bit his flesh, Rossetta staggered. A hot sting seared across her own arm, identical in placement.
She froze. Their eyes met—Marian's terrified, Rossetta's hardened with realization.
It was him. The same boy from fifteen years ago, the one fate had bound her to with a curse she had never wanted.
For a breath, Rossetta stood still, chest rising and falling. She had buried this connection for years, locked it away like a rusted chain. But now, fate dragged it back into the open with brutal clarity.
Marian tugged at her.
"Let's leave before they see us! Please, Rossetta—"
But her sister wasn't listening anymore. She bent down, fingers curling around a fallen branch. To anyone else it was nothing more than wood, but Rossetta whispered a subtle enchantment under her breath. The bark shivered, glowing faintly, until the stick hummed with hidden strength.
When she stepped out from behind the trees, the world seemed to still.
The masked men laughed the moment they saw her—one frail woman holding a branch, daring to interrupt their hunt.
"What's this? A bird wandered into the wolf's den?" one sneered.
"Pretty thing thinks she can fight with a twig!" another jeered, spinning his dagger.
Rossetta didn't answer. Her eyes were ice, sharp and merciless.
And then she moved.
The first man lunged. Rossetta sidestepped and swung. The branch cracked against his ribs with the force of tempered steel, sending him sprawling to the ground gasping for air. Before the others could react, she pivoted, her makeshift weapon whistling through the air to block a descending blade. Sparks flew where wood met steel—but the branch held.
The fight erupted in full force.
It was not the wild, flailing struggle the masked men expected. Rossetta's movements were precise, calculated, like someone who had once known the dance of battle and abandoned it only to pick it up again with terrifying ease. Her body remembered. Every slash she had dodged in the past, every blade she had crossed—it was all there, etched deep into her bones.
One by one, they fell.
She cracked the jaw of one with a swift backhand. She swept another's legs, slamming the branch into his temple before he hit the ground. She ducked beneath a spear thrust, spinning low, the branch slicing the air like a predator's claw.
Her hair whipped around her face, sweat glistening at her temple, but her expression remained cold. This was not rage. This was not desperation. It was instinct—raw, merciless instinct.
The lone swordsman, bleeding but still fighting, paused mid-strike. His enemy lay stunned at his feet, but he could not move. His gaze was locked on her—the woman who had emerged from nowhere, wielding a branch as if it were a blade forged by gods.
His chest tightened. Every swing, every step of hers—it was flawless. Too flawless.
She was no ordinary woman.
Meanwhile, Marian crouched at his side, her hands already pressing herbs against his wound. Her touch was gentle yet quick, born of years of tending her sister. The man flinched at first, then blinked at her calm smile.
"You'll live," Marian whispered, as though soothing a child.
"Just hold still."
The stranger opened his mouth, but words failed. His attention was dragged back again and again to the battlefield where Rossetta fought, her figure cutting through the masked men like a storm.
By the time the last assailant collapsed, groaning and unconscious, silence returned to the forest. Rossetta stood in the middle, chest rising and falling, her branch still intact though scarred from the fight.
The surviving swordsman stepped forward, eyes never leaving her. For a long heartbeat, their gazes locked. She remembered him now—though grown, scarred, and changed by years, the bond of the curse made recognition unavoidable.
He opened his mouth to speak. To thank her, to ask who she was.
But before he could, Rossetta turned away, gripping her branch tighter.
Marian stood quickly, tugging at her sister's sleeve.
"Let's go."
Rossetta gave no reply, only walked. Marian bowed slightly to the stranger before following.
And just like that, they vanished into the trees as if they had never been there.
The swordsman stood among the fallen men, his hand still pressed to his bandaged arm. His chest rose and fell with something unfamiliar—not pain, not exhaustion, but awe.
That woman… She was unlike anyone he had ever seen.
He clenched his fist.
From this day forward, he vowed silently, she would be his knight.