Rising from her crouched position by the hearth, Amriel groaned as she stretched, her muscles stiff from her day's exertion. The warmth licked at her back as she made her way to the wall of bookshelves beside the door.
The hour was late, but while her body demanded rest, her mind remained restless.
Her gaze drifted over the shelves where her books stood like familiar companions, their spines worn from years of handling. Each title whispered the promise of an adventure or a comforting return to stories she'd read countless times before. Among them, wedged between herbal guides and village histories, sat her father's leather-bound collection of folktales—stories he'd read to her countless times during storms like this one.
Perhaps tonight she needed that comfort. Something to distract her and remind her of a time when everything made sense.
A smile tugged at her lips as she plucked the worn, leather bound book from its place and
settled into her armchair by the hearth. Holding it now, she felt the familiar weight settle in her hands, a bittersweet comfort that carried echoes of his warm laughter and patient storytelling.
Meeko, still sprawled near the fire's warmth, opened one silver eye to observe her before resuming his contented dozing. The storm's fury seemed distant now, held at bay by stone walls and the simple ritual of reading.
She tucked herself into the worn cushions, pulling a scratchy woolen blanket tightly around her shoulders. The fire crackled and danced, casting flickering golden patterns across the cottage walls. Its warmth seeped into her, chasing away the last remnants of the storm's chill.
Beyond the cottage walls, the storm continued its assault on her cottage, wind howling through the eaves like a creature in pain—but inside, all was safe, warm, and wonderfully still.
Amriel exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders loosen as the weight of the day faded into the background. Flipping open the worn pages of her father's tome, she let herself sink into the familiar comfort of a tale older than time itself.
Just as Amriel's mind began to sink into the familiar cadence of the ancient tale, a sound cut through the storm's chaos.
CRACK!
The sound wasn't thunder.
Amriel's head snapped up, heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. Meeko was already on his feet, fur bristling along his spine, transforming from lazy companion to predator in an instant. The deep growl building in his chest wasn't the rumbling purr of contentment, but a warning that vibrated through the flagstones.
She froze, straining to hear beyond the storm's howl and the blood rushing in her ears.
CRACK! It came again—louder, more insistent.
A knock. Someone was at her door.
Her mind raced. Simon and Niamh never knocked; they simply called her name and entered. No one else from the village would venture out in weather like this. A lost traveler, perhaps?
Or something worse.
The door rattled violently on its hinges, and her gaze snapped to the belt hanging beside the entryway where her blade waited in its worn leather sheath.
The reports from outer villages reeled through her mind. Lately the news had grown more troubling over recent months leading up to the royal engagement ceremonies. All areas of the capital had seen an increase in crime of all sorts.
Calm yourself, she thought, setting the book aside with careful deliberation.
"Who's there?" she called, keeping her voice steady despite the fear coiling in her stomach.
No answer came—only the wail of the wind and the ceaseless drumming of rain.
Meeko's growl deepened as he positioned himself between Amriel and the door. Thick black fur bristled along his arched back, and a guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest—a sound that cut through the storm's chaos like a blade. His sharp silver eyes gleamed in the firelight, fixed intently on the trembling wood door. Claws gleamed wickedly as they flexed against the floorboards.
A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but she swallowed it down. After the strange events of the past few days, the idea of a Fallen Angel knocking politely on her door didn't seem quite so absurd anymore.
Her mother's voice echoed in her mind—sharp, commanding, unyielding.
Never hesitate. Be ready for the unexpected, Amriel. The forest respects neither the weak nor the unprepared.
She could almost feel Nythia's hand guiding her through relentless drills, the sting of bruises earned during countless lessons in combat. Lessons she had hated at the time but clung to now with desperate gratitude.
Throwing aside the blanket, she darted across the room, heart pounding against her ribs. Her fingers closed around the familiar bone hilt of her blade as she pulled it from its sheath. The cold weight settled into her grip, grounding her in its undeniable purpose.
This wasn't just a weapon—it was a reminder of promises made, of survival fought for. The polished steel reflected the flicker of firelight like a living oath: Never powerless again.
The door rattled again, a sharp jolt that reverberated through the small space, shaking the beams overhead.
Her thoughts raced through grim possibilities.
Another slam against the door. Wood groaned under the force, the hinges rattling with ominous protest. Whoever—or whatever—stood out there clearly had no intention of leaving quietly.
Her grip tightened on the blade as she took a measured breath, forcing the chaos within her to still.
Jaw clenched, Amriel hesitated at the threshold, her fingers hovering over the latch.
But hesitation was weakness. You fight on your terms, Amriel. Always. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, resolute as ever.
Taking a steadying breath, she threw the latch free and leaped back as the door flung open, unleashing a howling fury of wind and rain into her sanctuary. The flames in the hearth danced wildly, nearly guttering out before rising higher, casting frantic shadows across the walls.
Amriel took her stance in the center of the room, muscles taut, blade gleaming in the flickering light. Her free hand curled into a fist and raised slightly, ready to block if need be, steady despite the thundering rhythm of her heart. Beside her, Meeko prowled closer, his growl a steady, primal threat.
A figure staggered through the doorway—tall, hunched, wrapped in a sodden cloak that clung to a frame too substantial to be anything but human. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating features beneath the hood: a man's face, bronze-skinned and sharp-angled, with eyes the color of spring leaves after rain.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other across the threshold between storm and shelter. His gaze held no malice, only a desperate intensity that struck her like a physical blow.
"Fha'Lear," he rasped, the single word barely audible above the storm.
Something about the word resonated deep within her, as if it had brushed against a memory she didn't know she carried. It wasn't any language she recognized—and her mother had insisted she learn many of them—yet it felt oddly familiar.
The wind shifted, lifting the edge of his cloak, and her eyes caught the dark stain spreading across his side. Not mud or rainwater—the unmistakable slick sheen of blood.
Amriel remained motionless, knife still poised. Compassion and caution warred within her. She'd seen enough of the world to know that vulnerability could be the most effective mask of all.
Her healer's instincts cataloged the signs instantly: the pallor beneath his bronze skin, the slight tremble in his limbs, the way his breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. Significant blood loss. Shock setting in. Without intervention, he wouldn't last until dawn.
Still, she held her ground. "Who are you?" she demanded, voice cutting through the storm's chaos.
He swayed, one hand braced against the doorframe. "Fha'Leaer," he repeated, the strange word falling between them like a stone into still water as his emerald eyes held onto hers with a ferocity she hardly understood.
Before she could question him further, his legs gave way. He crumpled forward, knees striking the floor with a dull thud that sent vibrations through the flagstones. His body followed, collapsing in a graceless heap just inside her doorway.
Silence descended, broken only by the persistent rush of rain and the soft crackling of the hearth. Even Meeko had gone quiet, his growl fading to watchful tension as he crept forward to investigate the fallen stranger.
Amriel remained still, knife still ready. This could be a trap—a ploy to lower her guard. But if it wasn't...
The man didn't move. Blood pooled slowly beneath him, seeping onto the flagstones.
If I do nothing, he dies. If I help him and he means harm...
She'd seen death before. She found her father after the life faded from his eyes. Had assisted Nythia with patients too far gone for even the most skilled healer to save. Death didn't frighten her.
But unnecessary death—that was different.
Meeko circled the prone figure, silver eyes unblinking as he sniffed cautiously at the stranger's cloak. The forest cat's ears were still flattened against his skull, but the deadly tension had eased from his powerful frame.
That, more than anything, tipped the scales of her decision.
Amriel lowered her knife, though she didn't sheathe it.
"Well," she muttered, moving cautiously toward the fallen figure, "I suppose if you were going to kill me, you'd have made a better attempt than bleeding all over my floor."
Meeko glanced up at her, his expression somehow managing to convey both agreement and judgment.
"Don't give me that look," she told him, "If he tries anything, you can still eat him."
Meeko chirped softly, as if the deal was acceptable to him.
The bone blade in her hand wavered, then lowered. Her breath escaped in a ragged exhale.
"Not quite how I imagined my night going," she muttered, voice rough.