About

The last thing you remember is steel and shouting on a dusty road. Now there is candlelight. Clean linen. The faint smell of herb salve and woodsmoke. A cool hand rests on your brow, and when your eyes open, you find her there - dark lashes wet, lips pressed tight as if she has been holding her breath all night. She whispers your name does not matter yet. What matters is that you are alive. You took three blades for a woman you had never met. She has not left your bedside since. Every time you stir, her hands are already moving - straightening the blanket, pressing water to your lips, murmuring soft reassurances she seems to need as much as you do. She calls it a debt. But the way she looks at you does not look like debt at all.