The morning light spilled through the narrow shutters, catching dust motes that floated like tiny stars in the air. Elira stirred, her body stiff from the wooden cot she'd been laid upon. The memory of the night before slammed back into her—the blinding light, the stranger's house, the fight she had lost without even scratching him.
She sat up sharply, eyes darting to the door. The air was filled with the faint aroma of smoke and roasting meat. Her stomach twisted in protest, reminding her she hadn't eaten since before she was dragged into this nightmare.
Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade. It was still there, lying on a small table beside the bed. He hadn't even taken it from her. Either he was arrogant enough to believe she couldn't harm him—or confident enough to know she wouldn't succeed.
Her jaw clenched.
Before she could grab the weapon, the door creaked open. Kaelen stepped in, silver hair catching the morning light like spun moonlight. His gray eyes flicked to her blade, then back to her face.
"Try again, if you must," he said quietly, setting down a bundle of firewood. "But you'll only waste your strength."
Elira's hand tightened around the hilt. For a heartbeat, she considered lunging. Then she remembered the effortless way he had dodged her blows, the calm certainty in his movements. Instead, she forced her hand to relax.
"I'll find a way," she muttered.
Kaelen gave no reply. He moved to the hearth and crouched, stacking wood and coaxing the flames back to life. He moved with the steady assurance of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
The silence stretched until it was unbearable. Finally, she snapped, "So when do we start the training?"
Kaelen didn't even glance her way. His focus remained fixed on the blade he was sharpening, each slow scrape of metal against stone like a deliberate refusal to acknowledge her impatience.
"When I say so," he murmured, his tone calm but carrying a quiet finality that left no room for argument.
Her jaw clenched. Heat prickled under her skin, a cocktail of anger and humiliation rising in her chest. She wanted to snap back, to demand respect, to remind him she wasn't some child to be ordered around. But the steady scrape of his blade carried a warning—patience, or be cut by it.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay still. Fine. Let him play the master of silence and shadows. But when training did begin, she swore she'd make him see she wasn't the one who needed to be controlled.
"Come with me."
She hesitated, then pushed to her feet. Her pride wouldn't allow her to back down. If training meant learning his weaknesses, so be it.
Outside, the clearing stretched wide, hemmed in by towering pines. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and earth. Kaelen stood at the center, wooden practice swords already laid out on the grass.
Elira eyed them with suspicion. "Why not real blades?"
"Because I don't plan to kill you this morning," Kaelen said dryly.
She bristled at the calmness in his tone, but snatched up one of the practice swords. The weight was lighter than her blade, but balanced. Kaelen picked up the other and stepped into a loose stance.
"Show me what you know," he said.
Elira lunged without hesitation, striking with the same fury as the night before. Kaelen moved like water, sidestepping, deflecting, turning her strength against her. Each failed strike stoked her frustration.
"Too wild," he said calmly, parrying her swing and sending her stumbling forward. "You waste energy."
She whirled, teeth bared. "Shut up!"
He blocked her next blow with a sharp crack of wood against wood. "Your anger blinds you. Precision wins battles, not fury."
"I don't need your lectures!" she snarled, swinging again.
But this time, Kaelen's counter came faster. With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed her, sending the practice sword flying into the grass. His free hand pressed lightly against her chest, holding her back without effort.
Elira froze, breath ragged, her pride burning hotter than her muscles.
"You'll never beat me like this," Kaelen said softly. "But you could learn."
His words lingered in the morning air. For the first time, Elira didn't lash back immediately. Her chest heaved, her pride demanding she spit in his face, but… another voice whispered that perhaps he wasn't wrong.
Kaelen stepped back, lowering his practice sword. "Again," he said simply.
And so she did.
Hour after hour, he drove her through drills. Stances, footwork, strikes, blocks. He corrected her with a steady hand, sometimes sharp, sometimes patient. At first, she resisted every word, but as her body began to move with new efficiency, she felt the faintest flicker of progress.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, her arms trembled with exhaustion. Sweat dampened her tunic. She collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.
Kaelen remained standing, barely winded, as if the hours had been nothing more than a mild exercise. He looked down at her with that same maddening calm.
"You have spirit," he said. "But spirit without control is a storm that destroys everything—including itself."
Elira glared up at him, but something in her chest shifted. A storm, yes—but perhaps storms could be harnessed.
Before she could answer, her stomach growled again. Loudly.
Kaelen's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Come. You've earned food."
The forest swallowed them in a hush of leaves and shadows. Birds stirred in the canopy, wings flashing between shafts of sunlight. Elira trailed behind Kaelen, her legs heavy from training, but her pride refusing to limp.
"Where are we going?" she demanded, adjusting her grip on her sword.
Kaelen's stride was measured, effortless, as though the terrain bent to his will. "Food. You'll learn to hunt what you eat. Strength alone won't keep you alive."
Her brow furrowed. "You think I don't know how to survive?"
"You know how to fight," he corrected. "Survival requires more."
The words stung, though she pretended otherwise. She tightened her jaw and followed, forcing her eyes to scan the forest the way his did. Every snapped twig, every rustle of undergrowth, he seemed to notice before she did.
Kaelen stopped suddenly, raising a hand. Elira froze. His gray eyes narrowed toward a thicket where the leaves trembled. Slowly, he unslung the bow from his back, string taut with practiced ease.
She watched, hardly breathing, as he drew an arrow and released it in one smooth motion. The thrum of the string was soft, deadly. A heartbeat later, a hare tumbled from the brush, struck clean through.
Elira blinked. The precision had been flawless.
"Dinner," Kaelen said simply, retrieving the animal.
"That's it?" she asked, incredulous. "One hare between us?"
"Patience," he replied, eyes scanning the trees. "The forest always provides more, if you respect it."
They pressed on. Over the next hour, Elira witnessed a quiet mastery she hadn't expected. Kaelen moved like a shadow, bow in hand, tracking sign she could barely read—the faint imprint of a hoof, the angle of broken grass, the hush of silence when prey was near. By the time they returned to the clearing, Kaelen carried a hare and a pair of pheasants.
Her stomach clenched in anticipation, betraying her again.
Kaelen crouched by the fire pit and began preparing the meal. He moved with the same precision he had in battle, every cut of his knife efficient, deliberate. The hare was skinned, cleaned, and set over the fire in minutes. Herbs from a small pouch he carried dusted the meat, filling the air with an earthy aroma.
Elira sat cross-legged across from him, watching with wary eyes. "So this is what immortals do? Hunt rabbits and cook stew?"
He didn't look up. "Better than starving."
She snorted. "I thought men cursed with immortality brooded in towers or collected treasure."
That earned her a flicker of amusement. "You've read too many tales."
The fire crackled between them, filling the silence. The savory smell thickened, making Elira's mouth water despite herself. She hated how her hunger softened the edge of her anger.
Finally, Kaelen passed her a portion of roasted meat on a wooden plate. "Eat."
She eyed it suspiciously. "How do I know you didn't poison it?"
"If I wanted you dead," Kaelen said calmly, "you would be."
Her pride bristled, but hunger won. She bit into the meat, and the flavor stunned her—smoky, tender, rich with herbs. Her eyes widened despite herself. She had expected bland survival fare, not this.
"Not bad?" he asked, watching her reaction.
She swallowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of praise. "I've had worse."
Kaelen allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. "High praise, then."
They ate in silence for a time, the crackle of fire and the calls of distant owls filling the air. The tension between them had softened, if only by a fraction. Elira found herself studying him again—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the firelight touched the silver in his hair, the stillness in his movements.
Finally, she broke the silence. "You fight like no man I've ever met. You hunt like the forest itself bends for you. Who were you, before all this?"
Kaelen's eyes darkened, the question striking somewhere deep. He set aside his plate, gaze fixed on the flames.
"A soldier," he said at last, voice low. "Once. Long ago."
Her brow arched. "A soldier? You look barely older than thirty."
His gray eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "I was born eighty years ago."
Elira froze, spoon halfway to her lips. Her laugh came sharp, defensive. "You're lying."
"I don't lie." His voice carried the weight of a grave. "I fought in the Great War when your grandparents were children. I killed more men than I can count. And in the end, I killed the wrong enemy."
The fire popped, sending sparks into the night.
Elira's pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"
Kaelen looked back into the flames, his expression carved from stone. "A witch. Her dying curse bound me to life itself. Since that day, no blade has pierced me, no poison touched me. I walk through years as others walk through days."
Silence swallowed the clearing.
Elira stared, torn between disbelief and the strange, gnawing sense that he wasn't lying. There was a weight in his words, an ancient sorrow that no young man could forge.
At last, she found her voice. "So you're saying you can't die?"
Kaelen's lips thinned. "Death has abandoned me. And I've wished for it more times than you can imagine."
The firelight flickered across his face, and for the first time, Elira saw not the aloof stranger, but a man hollowed by years unending.
And against every instinct screaming at her, she felt the faintest pang of sympathy.
Elira couldn't sleep that night. The words he had spoken clung to her like smoke—born eighty years ago… a witch's curse… death abandoned me.
She lay awake on the cot, staring at the wooden beams above her, the fire in the hearth crackling low. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his expression when he spoke of the curse—steady, but shadowed with a sorrow too vast for her to measure.
If it's true… if he really cannot die…
Her mind reeled at the thought. It sounded like a tale meant for children, but nothing about Kaelen had felt like a lie. There was a heaviness in his voice, in his presence, that no youth could fake.
And yet, she refused to be lulled by his mystery. He was still a stranger. Still her captor.
When morning came, Kaelen was already outside, splitting wood with swift, precise strikes. The sound of each chop echoed into the trees.
"Get up," he called, not bothering to look back. "Training waits for no one."
Elira groaned, dragging herself upright. Muscles she hadn't known existed ached from yesterday's drills. Her pride burned hotter than the pain, though, and she forced herself to her feet.
The morning passed in a blur of sparring, footwork, and discipline. Each strike, each block, carved away at her anger and forced her to focus. She hated to admit it, but she was improving—her movements sharper, her stance firmer. Kaelen rarely praised her, but the slight nods of approval he gave were almost worse; they made her want more.
By midday, sweat clung to her skin and her lungs heaved for air. Kaelen finally lowered his wooden blade. "Enough. You'll break before you learn if I push you harder."
She collapsed onto the grass, glaring up at him. "You don't break, do you?"
His gaze flicked toward the horizon, distant. "I've broken many times. I just don't stay broken."
Before she could press him, he added, "I'm going into the village. Supplies are low."
Elira sat up sharply. "Village?"
"Yes. A few miles north." He picked up a leather satchel and slung it across his shoulder. "You'll stay here."
Her eyes narrowed. "And if I don't?"
His lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained cold. "Then you'll find the forest less forgiving than me."
And with that, he turned and walked into the trees, leaving her alone.
---
At first, she paced the house, restless. The silence pressed in, broken only by the wind sighing through the trees. Her gaze kept drifting to the shelves, to the cupboards, to the closed doors she hadn't dared open the night before.
Finally, curiosity won.
She started with the shelves by the hearth. Old books lined them, their spines cracked and faded. She ran her fingers across the titles—histories of the Great War, maps of kingdoms she only half recognized, journals filled with handwriting so precise it seemed carved.
Her eyes caught on a small box tucked into the corner. She hesitated, then flipped the lid. Inside lay a tarnished medal, its ribbon frayed with age. She picked it up carefully.
The weight of it surprised her. A soldier's honor. Proof of service.
So it's true… she thought, unsettled. He really did fight in a war.
She set the medal back and moved deeper. A trunk by the wall sat partially covered by a cloth. Elira knelt, pulling it open. The scent of leather and steel hit her immediately. Inside lay weapons unlike any she had seen—an ancient longsword with runes etched into its blade, a dagger with a handle worn smooth from decades of use, a bow strung with something that shimmered faintly in the light.
But what drew her most was the small stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon. She picked them up, heart quickening. The handwriting was the same as in the journals, but softer, warmer. The first line of the top letter made her breath catch.
"My dearest Kaelen…"
Her fingers trembled as she read, though she forced herself to stop after a few lines. They were love letters. Someone had written to him once, someone who had cared deeply. But the ribbon binding them was worn, the paper brittle. Whoever had written them was long gone.
Elira swallowed hard. For reasons she didn't understand, her chest ached.
She quickly returned the letters and closed the trunk, guilt gnawing at her. Still, the image of Kaelen receiving those words—decades ago—lingered in her mind.
When the door finally creaked open, she jumped, whirling around.
Kaelen entered, a sack of supplies slung over his shoulder. His eyes flicked immediately to the disturbed dust near the trunk, the slightly askew box on the shelf. His gaze narrowed.
"You were snooping."
It wasn't a question.
Elira lifted her chin defiantly. "What do you expect? You drag me here and tell me stories about curses and immortality. You expect me not to look for the truth?"
For a moment, his eyes darkened, the weight of years pressing in on her. Then, to her surprise, he sighed and set the sack down.
"I should be angry," he said quietly. "But perhaps it's time you knew more."
Her pulse quickened as he crossed the room and sat by the fire. He gestured for her to join him.
"Sit," he said.
Reluctantly, she did.
Kaelen took a long breath, his gaze fixed on the flames. "I was seventeen when I first held a blade. A farm boy drafted into the king's army. They said it was for honor, for the kingdom. But war is never about honor. It's about survival."
His voice grew distant, heavy. "I fought battles that turned rivers red. I watched friends die with their hands clutching at nothing. And still we marched, because that's what soldiers do. We march until our bodies give out."
Elira listened, unable to tear her eyes away.
"One night," Kaelen continued, "we were ambushed. Not by men—but by a witch. She cut through us like wheat before the scythe. I faced her, blade against her magic. Somehow, I killed her. But with her last breath, she cursed me. Her blood ran black, and she whispered words that bound me to this world. When the next arrow struck me, I did not fall. When the next sword cut me, I did not bleed."
His hand tightened around his knee. "And I have not since."
Silence pressed in around them. Elira's throat felt dry.
At last, she whispered, "So you've lived… all this time?"
His gray eyes met hers, shadowed with centuries of loss. "Lived? No. Endured."