Snow fell steadily, muting the forest beneath a pale hush.
Twenty-six riders moved at a slow walk between the trees, armour darkened with drying blood, cloaks stiff with frost. Lanterns swung low at their sides. A blue banner rode among them, its horn emblem half-obscured by snow and grime.
At the front, a man on a black horse rode without speaking, his posture rigid with fatigue.
No one spoke.
They were already past exhaustion. Horses stepped carefully, breath steaming in the cold.
"There," someone said at the front. "Someone ahead."
The column slowed.
"A drunk man?" another voice offered.
The man on the black horse did not answer.
Impossible, came the immediate thought.
No town nearby. No road. Not at this hour.
They drew closer.
The figure lay half-buried in snow. The clothing caught his attention at once.
Wrong cut. Wrong fastening. Too light for this winter.
A traitor?
He dismounted without hesitation.
"My Grace," someone murmured behind him.
He reached out and took the lantern from the nearest rider, lifting it just enough to cut through the falling snow.
Light spilled down the stranger's features—pale, unmoving.
---
Warmth came first.
Not heat—just the echo of it. The kind that lingered in the air after a fire had burned low and gone out, leaving behind only embers and the sense that someone had tried to keep the cold away.
He stirred.
Light pressed faintly against his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes, dawn greeted him—thin and pale, slipping through a narrow window veiled by cloth. The room was still, suspended between night and morning.
Morning…?
That felt wrong.
He lay still, listening.
The air carried the smell of old smoke, faint but unmistakable, mixed with bitter herbs and something metallic he did not want to name. Whatever fire had warmed the room through the night was gone now. The hearth nearby was dark, stones blackened, ash settled and undisturbed.
Cold crept patiently back in.
He shifted beneath the blankets.
They were heavy. Rough. Not hospital sheets. His fingers brushed coarse fabric, unfamiliar and too real to ignore.
His chest tightened.
He turned his head.
Wooden beams crossed the ceiling overhead, aged and smoke-stained. The walls were stone, close-set and bare. No machines. No hum of electricity. No soft beeping to mark time.
Okay.
That's… not good.
Movement outside the window caught his attention.
Shadows passed beyond the glassless opening, boots crunching faintly against frozen ground. More than one. Slow. Deliberate.
Guards.
The certainty settled without panic—just a quiet tightening in his gut.
He swallowed, throat dry, and tried to sit up.
Pain answered immediately. A sharp warning from his shoulder. A deeper ache along his side that told him not to try again. He sank back against the mattress, breath shallow.
Memory surfaced then, fractured but vivid.
Trees. Endless and dark.
Snow swallowing sound.
Cold so deep it had stopped hurting.
And light—
Yellow. Swinging.
A lantern.
He stared at the ceiling.
"That wasn't a dream," he murmured.
His voice sounded thin in the stillness, swallowed by stone and space.
He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled.
Not a sigh—just a measured breath, drawn in through his nose and released with care, as if grounding himself before standing too quickly.
Alright.
He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Cold stone met his bare feet, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze of sleep. He paused there, palms resting briefly against the mattress, making sure the room did not tilt.
It held.
Good.
He stood, testing his weight with care. Pain flared along his side—manageable—and his shoulder protested enough that he adjusted instinctively, favouring it without thinking.
Someone had treated him properly.
That, at least, was reassuring.
He crossed the room slowly.
The infirmary was small and functional. One bed. A darkened hearth with ash long settled, tools arranged neatly nearby. Everything was placed with intention, not convenience. Not temporary.
He stopped before the door.
For a brief moment, he simply studied it.
Then he reached out and turned the handle.
It did not move.
He tried again—slower this time, listening for the give of metal or warped wood.
Nothing.
Locked.
He stepped back, letting his hand fall.
His pulse picked up slightly—not panic, just awareness. He stood there in silence, letting the meaning of it settle.
Okay.
Locked door. Guards outside. Treated injuries. A warm room.
Concern. Containment. Caution.
Not execution.
His attention drifted to the narrow window beside the bed.
Beyond it, the opposite building came into clearer focus in the growing light of dawn. Stone walls. Narrow walkways. Timber supports darkened by age and smoke. No glass panes—just shutters, some open, some closed. Banners hung along the inner yard, their colours muted in the pale morning air.
This was not a hospital.
Not any kind he recognised.
More importantly—
It was not modern.
The realisation did not strike like a blow. It settled quietly, firmly, as undeniable as the locked door behind him.
He stayed where he was, gaze drifting back to the window.
Stonework. Timber supports. The way the buildings leaned inward, efficient rather than ornamental. No glass. No signage. No wires. No straight lines meant for machines. Even the banners outside were stitched, not printed—their colours uneven in a way dye always was.
It looked old.
Not ancient. Not primitive. Functional.
Purpose-built. Something between memory and assumption.
He searched his mind for a reference point and came up with several at once—none of them solid. History lessons half-remembered. Museum displays. Games he had played late at night, worlds stitched together from research and guesswork, never meant to be accurate so long as they felt convincing.
Don't tell me…
The thought did not finish. He did not let it.
Guessing wrong was worse than not guessing at all.
A sound reached him then—faint, but distinct. Voices. Many of them. Overlapping, rhythmic. Wood against stone. The clatter of movement beyond the infirmary walls, like a place already awake and busy with its own routines.
A town.
His shoulders tensed.
Almost immediately, he moved back to the bed. Not hurried—just quick enough to be natural. He eased himself down, pulling the blanket up as it had been, settling into the same position as before.
Better to be seen waking than wandering.
The sound of metal shifting came from the door.
Voices murmured outside.
Low. Controlled. More than one.
"…wait here," a man said. Calm, unraised. Final.
Bootsteps shifted. Someone moved away.
The lock turned.
The door opened, and cool air slipped into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of snow and iron. Two figures remained just outside the threshold, armour catching the early light. They did not enter.
Only one man stepped inside.
He was tall—taller than most, judging by the doorway. Broad-shouldered, built in a way that suggested use rather than display. His hair was pale, almost colourless in the dim light, tied back neatly at his nape, catching the dawn like frost rather than white.
Albino.
The real weight of it came when their gazes met.
One eye was green—clear, steady, unmistakably focused.
The other was violet, lighter, its attention fractionally delayed.
Not blind. Just different.
The man wore no armour now, only a fitted tunic beneath a heavy cloak edged in blue. Authority rested on him easily, without stiffness or show.
Not a guard.
Not a healer.
The door closed softly behind him.
"You are awake," he said.
No surprise in his voice. Just confirmation.
"Yes," he replied, throat still rough.
The man's gaze moved briefly—his shoulder, his side, the blankets. Quick. Assessing.
"You were found in the forest," he said. "Collapsed. Cold exposure and exhaustion."
A pause.
"You were dressed for winter. It was not enough."
That rang uncomfortably true.
"My men brought you back before dawn."
So the fire. The warmth. The locked door.
"I see," he said.
The man studied him in silence.
Not weighing his words—measuring him.
"This is a military infirmary," he said at last. "You collapsed within my territory. You will remain here until my people are satisfied you pose no risk."
He inclined his head once. "Understood."
That answer earned him another look—longer this time.
"You were dressed for winter," the man continued. "There were no signs of pursuit. No wounds consistent with an attack." His gaze paused briefly on the bandage at his shoulder. "Which tells me you were not fleeing a battle."
A beat.
"So tell me," he said evenly, "why were you alone in the forest before dawn?"
The question landed cleanly.
He considered it—not hesitation, just care.
"I was walking," he said.
The man's eyes sharpened. Not both—just the green one. The violet remained steady, distant.
"You speak our tongue," he said. "But not like someone born to it."
True.
"What land do you claim?"
This time, the pause was deliberate.
"Far," he said.
It was not the answer the man wanted.
Something in his posture shifted—not impatience, but resolve.
"And your name?"
The question was simple.
Unavoidable.
He met the man's gaze and held it.
"I can tell you," he said slowly, "but it will not help you understand how I ended up here."
A beat.
"It is all I have."
The man regarded him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Then start there."