The village was small, no more than a few hundred families—but well-guarded. Wooden palisades ringed the perimeter, charm-stones and faintly glowing runes embedded in the mossy gates. It wasn’t grand, but to those who had walked for days through a cursed forest and faced death more than once, it was sanctuary.

 

The moment they crossed the barrier, the lifted weight. The forest’s oppressive silence fell away. Instead came the ordinary sounds of life—blacksmith hammers, dogs barking, children laughing. The smell of bread and smoke filled the air.

 

They should have felt at ease. Instead, they looked like ghosts.

 

Kael led the way, Liz limp in his arms, her breath shallow but steady. His torn sleeve was bloodied, his jaw set in defiance, daring anyone to come too close.

 

Ezryn followed, posture straighter than his dirt-streaked coat suggested. His eyes swept across the murmuring crowd—calculating, cataloguing, already thinking three steps ahead.

 

Lirael closed the rear, her fan closed but faint whispers of wind still curling at her heels. She said nothing, but her poise and scarlet hair made her stand out like a flame in shadow.

 

The villagers whispered—concern, suspicion, curiosity.

 

Ezryn stepped forward before the tension could rise. His voice was calm, precise, practiced.

“We’re travelers. We escaped the forest. We need an inn, near a guild hall if possible. And a healer.”

 

The crowd shifted. A woman with flour on her apron pointed up the road. “The Hearthlight Inn. By the guild outpost. Three houses down.”

 

Ezryn dipped his head in thanks. “We’re grateful.”

 

 

The inn was modest, two stories, wood-smoke curling from its chimney. The sign above the door—faded paint spelling The Hearthlight—felt like the promise of safety.

 

The keeper didn’t ask questions. One looked at Liz unconscious in Kael’s arms, and he called for linens and gave them a key.

 

Upstairs, Kael laid Liz gently on the bed, sunlight striping the wooden floor in gold. He lingered at her side, still holding her hand.

 

Lirael entered, pausing at the sight. “You need your wound treated,” she said, her tone measured. “And… Kael—it’s not proper for you to stay.”

 

Kael didn’t look up. His thumb brushed Liz’s knuckles unconsciously.

 

“She needs someone when she wakes.”

 

“You’re bleeding,” Lirael pressed, sharper this time. “Let me tend her. You can stand outside the door if you must.”

 

A tense silence stretched. At last, Kael released her hand—slow, reluctant. He rose, muttering, “Call me the second she stirs.”

 

Lirael only nodded.

 

When the door shut, she exhaled. Her gaze softened as she turned back to Liz. The girl’s face was pale, her dark hair clinging to her temples. Her breathing was steady, but shallow. Lirael dampened a cloth and began to clean her gently.

 

“You carry sorrow I can’t name,” she whispered. “But I’ll guard you… until you find the strength to guard yourself.”

 

Her own voice startled her. She rarely spoke so openly. But something about Liz—fragile, strange, yet familiar—pulled truths from her she usually kept buried.

 

She brushed damp strands from Liz’s cheek and murmured, “I don’t know why, but I feel like I already owe you. Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s something older. Whatever it is… I won’t let you break alone.”

 

The silence that followed seemed to listen.

 

 

Later, the dining hall glowed with hearthlight, amber shadows playing across worn tables. The smell of roasted herbs lingered, but the three seated in the far corner—Kael, Ezryn, and Lirael—barely touched their food.

 

Lirael arrived late, weary of tending to Liz. She slid into the seat across from Kael.

 

“How is she?” Kael asked immediately, voice raw with restraint.

 

“She sleeps,” Lirael said, taking the cup Ezryn passed her. “Her breathing is steady. She’s safe.”

 

Kael’s shoulders eased, though his jaw still flexed.

 

Ezryn leaned forward slightly. “Did she say anything?”

 

Lirael shook her head. “No words. Just… a weight. Like she’s mourning something we can’t see.”

 

Kael stared into the fire. Its restless flicker mirrored his own chest.

 

Ezryn broke the silence, his tone thoughtful but cool. “Martha said fate bound us. That none of this was chance.”

 

Kael’s reply was harsh. “I don’t believe in fate.”

 

Lirael tilted her head, her emerald gaze steady. “And yet, you’d burn yourself out for her. You call it what you want. I call it binding.”

 

Kael didn’t argue. Instead, he said quietly, “From the moment I saw her… it felt like something I’d lost was suddenly there again. Not just beauty. A pull. A weight. Like… if I let go, I’d lose everything.”

 

The admission landed heavy.

 

Ezryn said nothing, but his lips pressed thin. He had felt it too—the strange familiarity in Liz, the echo of something forgotten. But unlike Kael, he would not name it. Not yet.

 

Lirael looked between them, her voice softer, though tinged with caution. “She’s dangerous, Kael. You feel drawn to her. I pity her. Ezryn questions her. But none of us know what she really is. If she is our fate, then we must walk carefully.”

 

Kael’s hand curled against the table. “Whatever she is, she won’t face it alone.”

 

Ezryn finally spoke again, quieter. “Then we stay. Until the end.”

 

Lirael nodded. “Together.”

 

The fire snapped between them, casting shadows on their faces, three different resolves, bound now by the same girl sleeping above them.