They had arrived before the first stirrings of dawn—Four riders, still mounted, their silhouettes outlined by the dying moonlight. Hoofbeats slowed to a halt as they stood at the edge of camp, a hush settling over the ground like held breath.

  Renric led, his cloak weathered by the road. Beside him, a woman rode alone—cloaked, poised, graceful even in stillness. Her presence carried something strange and calming, like a lantern in fog. The final mount bore two guards—Garron at the reins, while Alden held a bundle tied with green cord, their faces drawn but watchful.

  For a moment, the camp grew still. But it was not the familiar riders that turned heads.

  It was the woman riding among them.

  No one had expected her to come. They’d heard whispers of a healer in the woods, or worse, a crone twisted by forest magic. But this… this woman looked nothing like the tavern tales. She was real. And she was here.

  They dismounted in turn—Renric first, carrying the worn satchel of healing supplies. He stepped forward and lifted the flap, revealing its contents. “We found her,” he said. “And she came with these.”

  Alden and Garron followed, carefully lowering the bundle tied with green cord—the food she had prepared.

  Then Elise dismounted, with quiet ease. And even that was enough to draw looks. Not fear. Not awe. Just a hush, as though the wind itself had paused to take her in. Her dark hair was tied back in a knot, her eyes calm. She stepped forward beside Renric.

  Renric gestured toward her. “This is Elise. She brought the supplies.”

  Elise bowed her head slightly, her voice was soft as she greeted the camp with a quiet, “Good morning.”

  He handed the satchel to Rheya, who had stepped forward, still watching Elise carefully. “Four greater healing potions,” Renric said. “Bandages. Salves.”

  “She also brought food for everyone,” he added.

  “Where are the wounded?” Elise asked.

  “This way,” Rheya said, leading her past the fire.

  She led her to the wagon, where Derren and Harlen still lay on makeshift bedding. The air around them was heavy with sweat, fever, and blood.

  Elise removed her cloak and knelt beside them, sleeves already drawn back. With a calm, practiced grace, she inspected their wounds. No theatrics. No muttering charms. The salve was already warmed by Elise’s touch as she opened the vial, the scent of crushed bitterroot rising faintly. Her hands moved quickly, but not rushed—removing Derren’s old bandages, wiping away dried blood. She applied the golden salve with deliberate care, its scent warm and earthy.

  Then she uncorked the greater healing potions and held one to Derren’s lips. Rheya supported his head. His body jerked slightly, then stilled, breath slowly deepening. The swelling in his leg began to ease. Harlen stirred next. His eyes fluttered open as the second potion was administered. Rheya supported his shoulders, watching with a furrowed brow.

  Elise cleaned Harlen’s wound, applied the golden salve. She reached for clean bandage and redressed their wounds, her movements sure and fluid, the salve catching faint firelight with every motion.

  Rheya sat beside her, assisting quietly, but watching more than helping. Something about Elise’s stillness made the act feel like more than just healing. There was finesse in her fingers… and something else. A presence.

  Elise then placed a hand gently over his side, just above the fresh dressing. Faint warmth pulsed from her hand. Energy gathered on her palm, she released it to him—not healing magic in the usual sense, no—just… life, drawn from within and passed to another.

  She did not wield white magic. She couldn’t summon divine light or call down miracles. What she gave was drawn from within—her own energy, offered willingly, not to cure, but to mend. To ease pain. To steady the breath and strengthen what remained.

  The same way she had once pressed her hand to scorched earth during Luna’s training—releasing a gentle flow of mana and encouraging the grass to grow again, restoring the ground. Not a spell for display. Just intention. Just presence. The same touch she now offered not to earth, but to flesh.

  Rheya blinked. She saw it—just a faint pulse of energy, like a gentle wave flowing into Harlen’s side, sinking beneath the skin.

  Elise then moved to Derren, placing her hands with care over both wounds—the crushed leg and the bloodied arm. Again, she released her energy, quiet and steady.

  Rheya saw it again. Clearer this time. Without a doubt. The same gentle waves, flowing from Elise’s hands into the broken body beneath them. The pain in his face slackened. His breath steadied.

  “You’re not a healer,” Rheya murmured quietly.

  Elise didn’t look up right away. Her hands remained steady, but there was a brief pause—just enough to betray a flicker of surprise. “No,” she replied at last, her voice softer. “But I’ve had to mend many things.”

  Inwardly, she wondered.

  This knight has something in her. Not power—not exactly—but a quiet strength, a faint aura beneath the surface. Like still water that sees the sky—and remembers the storm.

  Something old flickered in her blood. Faint, but not dormant.

  Rheya said nothing. She only watched. She studied Elise’s face—calm, unreadable, but gentle. There was a softness to her stillness, the kind that didn’t demand attention, but held it all the same.

  Rheya sensed something peculiar about her. She couldn’t see it clearly, couldn’t name it. But there was something in her presence. Something deeper. Something good.

  “She’s not a healer,” Rheya thought, “but she’s more than that.”

  “Elise,” Rheya said quietly, “how are they?”

  “They’re stable now,” Elise replied, brushing a loose lock of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “Much better.”

  Elise touched their forehead. “They’ll rest easier. The fever’s retreating.”

  Rheya nodded, a breath of genuine relief passing through her. “Thank you. For all of it.”

  Elise gave a small nod. “I’m glad I could help.”

  The sky had begun to pale at the edges—soft hues of lavender and gold seeping over the trees. Dawn was coming slowly, but its light was steady, pushing back the night.

  Still seated on the wagon beside Rheya, Elise glanced toward the campfire, where two guards sat close—one cradling a gashed arm against his chest, the other pressing a cloth to the shallow wounds around his arms.

  She then turned to Rheya. “The others—give them the last two potions. Take the bandage and the salve too. They’ll need it.”

  Rheya gave a quick nod and stepped down from the wagon. She crossed the camp, heading toward the firelight, her armor catching the early glow of morning. One of the injured guards looked up as she approached. He gave a faint smile—grateful, but worn. Rheya knelt beside him, uncorked a bottle, and handed it to him. While he drank, she began tending to his wounds, carefully applying the golden salve to the cuts around his arms.

  “Didn’t think I’d see a knight patching up a grunt like me,” he murmured.

  Rheya gave a small shrug. “You’re still breathing. That’s reason enough.”

  “Thank you, Dame Rheya,” he said.

  Then he passed the bottle—still half full—to the guard beside him, who had a mild cut just above his bracer.

  Elise stepped down from the wagon, the hem of her dress brushing softly through the grass as she moved. She made her way through the firelight and knelt beside the guard with the gashed arm—the one who had been trying to hide his discomfort behind a steady gaze. He winced as she gently reached for his sleeve.

  “Let me see,” she said, her voice low, almost soothing.

  The guard offered no protest. He simply looked at her—eyes tired but trusting—and let his arm relax as Elise unwrapped the crude bandage. Her hands moved with the same steady grace she had shown before, applying the golden salve with careful precision, her presence calm and wordless. She handed him a bottle of greater healing potion, then reached for a fresh bandage, replacing the old one with practiced care.

  He looked at her, eyes faintly wide, as if surprised by how little pain remained. “Thank you,” he said, voice low but sincere. “Didn’t think it’d feel this much better.”

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  Not far off, Rheya had turned, eyes sweeping the camp until they landed on Sir Edric—seated on a stone near the wagons, polishing his broadsword with a torn scrap of cloth. His left arm was bound with a strip of linen, faint blood showing through.

  She stepped toward him.

  “You should let me look at that,” she said, her voice even.

  Edric glanced up, one brow raised. “It’s nothing,” he replied, trying not to flex the arm. “Just a scratch. Save the salve for the ones who need it.”

  Rheya crossed her arms. “You’re one of them.”

  He gave her a grin—wry, deflecting. “Afraid I’ll lose my edge if I let someone patch me up?”

  “No,” she said, stepping closer. “But I’d rather not watch you bleed through that stubborn pride.”

  Edric sighed. “You always this persuasive?”

  Rheya knelt beside him. “Only when I’m right.”

  She undid the old wrapping with practiced hands. The cut was shallow but ugly, a dark scrape along the edge of his bicep. He tensed at first, but didn’t pull away as she cleaned it, then applied a thin line of golden salve. Her fingers worked efficiently, but gently.

  “Hold still,” she murmured, beginning to wrap fresh bandage around his arm.

  “You’re good at this,” Edric said quietly. “Didn’t know you had the patience.”

  “I make time when it matters,” Rheya replied, tying the last knot with a firm pull.

  Their eyes met for a breath longer than needed. Then Edric gave a faint nod and looked away, resuming his polishing with his good arm.

  The sun was beginning to crest above the treetops, casting a soft amber hue across the clearing. The fire crackled gently in the center of camp, its light no longer a ward against fear, but a comfort in the morning calm.

  The wounded were resting. The worst of the night had passed.

  Renric and Garron returned from their watch near the edge of camp, their boots damp with morning dew. By the fire, Alden was already waiting, crouched beside the bundle Elise had prepared—tied with green cord and still faintly warm. He began to unwrap it, revealing oatcakes wrapped in cloth and small, tightly sealed jars of dried fruit—clean and neatly arranged.

  “Food’s here,” Alden said, offering a crooked smile as he passed out the bundles. “Courtesy of our quiet guest.”

  Renric and Garron joined the others by the fire, settling into the loose circle that had formed in the quiet of morning. The other guards sat in a loose circle—tired, bruised, but breathing, there was ease in their posture now. Edric took a seat beside Rheya, his freshly bandaged arm resting across his lap.

  He looked across the fire to Elise, who sat with quiet poise, her hands resting lightly on her lap, gaze distant—serene, yet unreadable.

  “Thank you,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “For what you did. For all of it.”

  Elise met his eyes, and for a moment, the firelight caught a softness in hers.

  “I’m glad I came in time,” she said simply.

  There was no weight to it. Just honesty.

  Rheya shifted slightly, catching Renric’s eye from across the circle.

  “We saw something before you arrived,” she said, her tone steady but low. “A creature. Winged. Scarlet and black. It’s frame small, but it radiated a crimson glow. It flew over us before dawn. Heading north. Toward Karmine.”

  Renric’s brow furrowed. “You sure?”

  “It flew high. Too high to strike,” Edric added, “but not so high that we couldn’t feel it. The air changed when it passed.”

  Across the fire, Elise turned toward them.

  “It went toward Karmine?”

  Rheya nodded. “Fast.”

  Earlier—before the first breath of dawn, while the sky remained heavy with night—the quiet town of Karmine slept beneath a low, waning moon.

  The streets were quiet. Still. Lanterns along the walkways burned low, casting soft pools of light across the cobblestone. The night held no sound, save for the occasional creak of a wooden shutter or the faint scuff of wind brushing rooftops.

  The streets lay empty. No footsteps. No whispers. Only quiet.

  On the southwest side of town, in a modest but well-kept home nestled among rows of quiet houses, Luna slept peacefully. The neighborhood was humble but still, and undisturbed beneath the pale moon. Her room was dim, her breathing steady beneath the blanket, untouched by the growing presence slipping through the sky.

  In the adjacent room, Linda stirred in her sleep. Her rest was lighter—uneasy. There was a tension just beneath the surface, something restless pressing against her senses. A sudden chill traced its way across her skin—not the wind, not the night air, but something darker.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She sat up in a breathless instant, heart already pounding, chest tight with a pressure she couldn’t explain. Something was near. She could feel it. A presence that didn’t belong.

  It’s here.

  High above the southern edge of town, a winged creature broke through the clouds—its dark silhouette moving silently across the sky, trailing faint, ember-like sparks. Its body was small, almost lean, with wings of deep scarlet and black that shimmered faintly against the night. It flew low, just above the rooftops, too high for the guards to see, too silent for them to hear. The guards at the southern gate remained still, unaware.

  The patrol guards and the nightwatch didn’t notice. Their lanterns flickered along the streets, but their eyes were fixed on the ground—not the sky.

  Linda rose at once. She grabbed her lantern and lit it, shielding the small flame as it sputtered to life. She pulled on her shawl, stepped outside, and shut the door behind her. The wind was still. The sky pressed down in a strange, breathless silence.

  The street was empty. Cold pressed against the stone beneath her boots as she moved forward, the cobblestones slick with a thin layer of dew. The silence was too deep—like sound itself had been pushed out of the air.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. The presence was stronger now—closer. She could feel it.

  And then, she looked up.

  There it was.

  Perched atop the highest tower in the southern quarter, the creature crouched, wings furled like knives, body still as death. Its head turned slowly, scanning the sleeping town as though searching for something—or someone.

  Linda stood frozen beneath the halo of her lantern. Her breath caught in her chest.

  A moment passed. Then the creature turned its gaze and saw her.

  Golden eyes met hers, glowing in the dark like molten coins. Time seemed to slow. The aura around it pulsed once—red and alive—and in that moment, Linda understood.

  This was no beast. No shadow or stray.

  It was something sent.

  And it was already inside the town.

  The camp was stirring with purpose now. The three knights—Edric, Rheya, and Renric—along with the uninjured guards, moved quickly but efficiently, packing supplies, checking weapons, and preparing the wounded for travel. Horses were saddled. The wagon was hitched. The fire had burned down to glowing embers.

  When all was ready, Renric stepped away from the others and approached Elise, who stood near the edge of the clearing, her expression unreadable in the pale light.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For all of it. Without you, things might have ended very differently.”

  Elise gave a quiet nod.

  He glanced at the wagon, then back at her. “Are you heading home now?”

  “I am,” she said softly.

  Renric then offered, “Let me take you there. It’s the least I can do.”

  But she didn’t move. Instead, she looked past him—toward the wagon, and beyond, that led through the hills. There was a long pause.

  “I can manage,” she added. “You should go.”

  Renric shook his head. “You came all this way and helped us. Let me at least accompany you home.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “I insist.”

  She held his gaze for a moment. Something passed between them. Then, finally, she said, “Then take me with you. I have business in Karmine.”

  Renric blinked, surprised—but only for a second. “Alright,” he said simply.

  A short while later, Elise settled herself at the back of the wagon. Her cloak was now draped over her shoulders, the folds catching the light of the rising sun. She sat in silence, watching the road ahead, but her eyes occasionally drifted to the wounded beside her—Derren and Harlen, still resting, still breathing.

  At the front of the column, Sir Edric led them onward, his silhouette steady in the morning light. Renric and Rheya rode just behind him, their eyes sharp, armor dusted from the road. The wagon followed close, creaking softly as it rolled behind them. Alden sat at the reins—the youngest among them, his usual grin traded for a rare stillness. His hands were steady, his gaze focused, the weight of the past night not lost on him. For once, he rode without a word. The remaining guards rode in formation at the rear, watching the open fields as they passed.

  They rode fast, wind at their backs, as the walls of Karmine rose in the distance—tall and steadfast, catching the first full shine of the sun. The southern gate loomed ahead, unmoving, like a threshold between darkness and safety.

  It felt like victory. Like survival.

  The morning sun crowned their approach in gold—bright and clear, like a new beginning written across the sky.

  But the threat had not passed.

  It moved unseen, its shadow stretching ahead of them, silent and waiting.

  And whatever waited in Karmine…

  they could only hope they were not too late.

  The southern gate of Karmine stood open, as it always did by day—its heavy doors drawn wide to welcome merchants and travelers. The scent of packed earth and the clatter of wheels echoed faintly from the road beyond. As the riders neared, the gate guards straightened, eyes narrowing with recognition. One nudged the other, pointing toward the wagon and the wounded within.

  “It’s them,” he muttered.

  “Sir Edric! Dame Rheya! Sir Renric!” he called, then stood at attention. Others quickly joined him, saluting as the group passed through.

  Relief flickered across the faces of the gate-watch. Their eyes followed the wagon closely—lingering on the two injured men lying motionless in the back, bandaged and pale, and the woman seated beside them. Her cloak was drawn close, dark hair tied in a low bun, its strands catching the morning light.

  They said nothing, but their gazes narrowed with curiosity.

  Inside the walls, the town was already stirring. Market stalls were being uncovered, shop shutters unlatched, and townsfolk moved about their errands. But as the wagon rolled past the south main road, people began to notice.

  Voices rose around them—quiet at first, then quick and full of speculation.

  “They’re back—Look! That’s Sir Edric… Sir Renric, and Dame Rheya too.”

  “From the southern roads, no less.”

  “Look at the wagon… those two—are they dead?”

  “Wounded, I think. But barely.”

  “What happened out there?”

  “They don’t look the same as when they left.”

  “Wasn’t there a wagon attacked yesterday?”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a noble? She looks like one.”

  “She looks like no one I’ve seen before.”

  “Looks like someone important, that’s for sure.”

  “Look how she sits—"

  “Quiet, she’s looking this way—”

  Elise sat quietly at the back of the wagon, unmoved by the attention, her eyes steady. Her expression gave nothing away as murmurs trailed in their wake like wind through leaves.

  As they reached the third street, Elise shifted. She gently rested a hand on the wagon’s edge and looked to Alden.

  “This is me,” she said softly. “I will go now.”

  Alden eased the wagon to a stop. Before he could even ask, Elise stood and stepped down with fluid grace, landing lightly on the cobbled road. The hem of her dress swept just above the dust, her movements graceful and deliberate.

  Renric and the others turned their mounts, pausing.

  “You’re sure?” Renric asked, frowning. “We could see you home. After everything you’ve done…”

  “That’s kind of you… but this is far enough.” Elise looked up at him, her voice calm.

  He hesitated. “You said you had business in Karmine. May I ask—what kind?”

  Her gaze met his, unreadable.

  “Just something I need to tend to,” she said softly. “Nothing worth troubling a knight over.”

  Rheya offered a faint, thoughtful smile, but said nothing.

  Edric remained silent, his gaze steady but unreadable.

  Renric gave a slow nod, accepting her answer with a trace of amusement. “You’re not easy to read, Elise.”

  Elise offered a faint smile—more gesture than emotion. Then, for the first time since their arrival, she dipped into a proper bow, a small, respectful courtesy.

  “Thank you, Sir Renric.” A small nod followed. “May the rest of your day be kinder than the last.”

  And with that, she turned and walked away—disappearing into the streets of Karmine, leaving more questions behind than answers.

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