The stranger had begun to sweat profusely as the Horissa Vharia worked through his system. His eyelids fluttered, revealing slivers of emerald irises that seemed too bright, too vivid to be natural. She'd never seen eyes that color before.
The stopper on Simon's flask of scotch popped loose with a soft thup, releasing a sharp aroma that stung her nose.
Pouring a measure into her empty teacup, she eyed it warily before steeling herself and knocking it back in one swift gulp. The liquid burned, nothing like the smooth apple brandy her father distilled back home.
Fire seared down her throat, leaving a smoky burn in its wake. She coughed, her eyes watering as heat bloomed in her chest and spread outward to her limbs.
"Gods, how the hell does Simon drink this swill?" she rasped, shaking her head and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The warmth seeped through her, dulling the edge of her nerves, steadying her hands just enough. Not enough to cloud judgement, just enough to quiet the voice whispering she wasn't enough.
Next, she poured some of the flask's contents over her hands, grimacing as the liquor slicked across her skin, stinging faint cuts she hadn't realized were there—remnants from gathering herbs in the thorny undergrowth at dawn. She tilted the flask again, letting the amber liquid wash over the man's wounds.
Simon's gonna kill me when he finds out. But that was a worry for another time.
The stranger didn't stir. His breathing remained shallow but steady, the Horissa Vharia holding him under its gentle thrall.
Amriel let out a slow breath of relief. If he stayed under, she could get through this without wrestling a thrashing giant. The man was easily a head taller than her, with shoulders that spoke of strength even in his weakened state.
Carefully, she probed the wounds, wincing as her fingers traced the jagged edges. The arrows hadn't gone deep—thank the gods. There was a chance they missed anything vital, and she should be able to extract these on her own. Of course, that would be the least of their issues if she couldn't stop the bleeding or keep any infections at bay.
Amriel picked up her pliers, the metal cool against her palm despite its time in the flames. Her hands were steady now, instinct overriding fear as she clamped onto the first arrowhead. One slow, deliberate tug, and it slid free with a slick, wet sound that turned her stomach. Blood welled immediately.
And that was when she sensed it.
Magic rippled against her awareness, raising the fine hairs along her forearms—a sensation like the air before a lightning strike. The arrow. It pulsed with Power.
Enchanted. These arrowheads were imbued with Power.
Caught between the tips of her pliers, the metallic arrowhead gleamed darkly, slick with blood. But beneath the crimson coating, something blue shimmered through the metal, an unnatural light that didn't belong.
Amriel's pulse quickened, and her throat tightened as her gaze flickered to his face once more.
Setting the arrowhead aside for later inspection, she set about extracting the second one. This time, she was prepared for the unsettling pulse of magic.
Grabbing a clean cloth, she pressed down hard on the wounds, whispering a silent plea to the gods that the bleeding would stop. Her mind raced. If these arrows were enchanted, they could be poisoned as well—magical toxins that might already be coursing through his veins, ones her simple herbs couldn't counteract.
To her surprise—and unease—the blood clotted faster than she'd expected.
Strange, she thought, her brows knitting together. But she wasn't in a position to question blessings right now.
Following her training, she knew it was better not to stitch these kinds of puncture wounds closed. If there ended up being an infection, it would need to drain. Instead, she cleaned the wounds thoroughly with water she'd boiled earlier, applying a poultice of crushed garlic and thyme—nature's allies against festering—before bandaging him with more clean cloth.
Finally, she leaned back, her muscles aching from the tension she'd held for what must have been hours. The man remained deeply asleep, his breathing evening out into a steady rhythm. Color was already returning to his face—a sign, perhaps, that they'd bought a reprieve.
Her gaze drifted back to the arrowheads she had just dug out from the man's body. They sat innocuously on the small table beside her, but even from here, she could feel their wrongness, a disturbance in the natural order that made her skin crawl.
Amriel hesitated, then picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. The metal was cold—oddly so, given how it had come from his body and then lay before the fireplace. It should have been warm, but instead felt like ice against her skin, as though it pulled heat from her rather than accepting it.
Turning it over, she narrowed her eyes. Beneath the coating of blood, veins of shimmering blue twisted through the surface, like tiny rivers caught in perpetual motion. They pulsed with a faint, mesmerizing light that made her head swim if she looked too long. No ordinary craft had made this weapon. This was a Powerful Enchantment.
Enchantments such as this came with a hefty cost. Sometimes even a blood price.
"Why did they feel the need to use enchanted arrows on you?" she murmured softly, a knot tightening in her stomach.
Her grandmother's tales surfaced unbidden—stories of creatures that walked like men but were something Other. Veil-walkers. Fae-touched. Fallen. The stuff of winter nights and hearth fires.
Amriel examined the stranger again. No burns marred his bronzed skin, no marks of fallen grace. No brands upon his flesh as the old stories described. Just a man—beautiful, yes, but not unnaturally so. And yet...
If he were truly human, those arrows would have killed him.
In sleep, with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his expression peaceful, he looked almost vulnerable. The incongruity of it unsettled her more than his strange healing or the enchanted arrows.
Setting the arrowhead down carefully, as though it might bite, she rose to wash the blood from her hands and tools before reassessing the situation. The basin water turned pink, then red as she scrubbed, watching the evidence of her work swirl away.
Sleep wasn't an option tonight. Not for her anyways.
Gently, she stoked the fire, adding another log from the rapidly diminishing pile. The flames leapt higher, casting dancing shadows across the walls of the small cottage. She settled into her chair under her own blanket, drawing her knees up close to her chest.
The storm outside howled like a wounded beast, wind tearing through the ancient Vhengal forest and slamming rain against the windows with relentless fury. Tree branches scraped against the roof like skeletal fingers seeking entry, and somewhere in the distance, a shutter banged rhythmically, marking time in this endless night.
Each gust rattled the shutters, threatening to tear the roof clean off, yet amidst the chaos, she strained to hear his breaths—raspy but persistent, a fragile reminder that life still lingered within him.
What next? she wondered, resting her chin on her knees, exhaustion making her thoughts sluggish. What else could the world throw at me now?
The storm raged on through the night, a constant drumbeat against her senses. Sleep pulled at the edges of her awareness, but Amriel fought it off, keeping vigil as dawn crept in slow and tentative.
Finally, in the early morning hours, the tempestuous rain subsided, leaving behind a lingering dampness.
The dawn crept in gently, unfurling across the horizon like a delicate tapestry, streaked with bands of vibrant yellow and deep crimson that filled the once-dark sky.
Amriel sat curled in her chair, knees drawn close, a threadbare blanket draped over her shoulders. Her limbs ached from holding the same position for hours, and her eyes burned from lack of sleep.
The fire had burned low in the night, but its embers still pulsed like dying stars, casting a dim, flickering glow across the room. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the damp earthiness of rain-soaked air creeping through the cracks in the cottage walls.
Her eyes flickered to the man lying on the bedroll beside her. His breathing was steady now, no longer the ragged, uncertain struggle it had been hours before. The pale, waxen hue of his skin had given way to something warmer, something living. The furrow of pain between his brows had smoothed out, giving his face a peaceful quality that made him look younger, more vulnerable.
He had survived the night.
Rising from her chair, muscles protesting the movement, she carefully reached over and placed another small log on the fire. The iron poker rested beside the hearth, its handle warm in her grip as she prodded the smoldering logs beneath the new one. Flames curled to life, licking at the dry wood, casting wavering shadows against the walls. The warmth rolled outward, pushing back the morning chill.
Satisfied, she turned back to him. The bandages she'd wrapped with meticulous care the night before should have been stained through by now—seeping red, soaking into the cloth. But they weren't.
A prickle ran down her spine, a warning from instincts older than rational thought.
She had spent the night braced for the worst, expecting fever to take hold, for his body to rebel against the trauma. But his wounds…
They weren't behaving like normal wounds at all.
Kneeling beside him, she hesitated, then carefully peeled away the cloth bandages, her heart hammering against her ribs. What she found beneath stole her breath entirely.
The gashes where the arrows had pierced him were no longer raw and jagged. There was no sign of infection, no angry red swelling, no heat radiating from damaged tissue. In fact, the torn flesh was already knitting together, taking on the appearance of injuries weeks old rather than hours.
This isn't possible, she thought, her medical training rebelling against what her eyes were showing her. No one heals like this. Not even the strongest mages can accelerate healing to this degree without paying a terrible price.
Amriel swallowed, her fingers hovering over his skin, not quite daring to touch. "What in all the hells...?" she murmured, barely aware she'd spoken aloud.
A soft chirp sounded beside her, and she glanced over to find Meeko crouched close, his thick black tail flicking lazily. His silver eyes were fixed on the man—not with fear or wariness, but something more like curiosity.
Amriel exhaled sharply through her nose. "I don't know either," she muttered, running a hand through her tangled hair.
Her gaze drifted upward, studying his face with new wariness. His expression was... serene. Peaceful. As though he weren't a man who had been at death's door mere hours ago, but merely someone enjoying a pleasant dream.
She pressed the back of her fingers lightly against his forehead. No fever. His body was warm, but not unnaturally so. No sign of distress, no hint of the delirium she'd expected. She then checked his pupils, gently lifting one eyelid and then the other. They were responsive, contracting in the growing light—no sign of trauma, no pressure behind the eyes that might indicate bleeding in the brain.
First the enchanted arrows. Now the impossibly fast healing.
"Who," she whispered, fingers curling into her palms, "or what are you?"