The house stood silent beneath the moon. Its windows dark, its walls still beneath the great oak’s looming shadow. The door remained shut, weathered but unmoved, its hinges untouched by the urgency of their knocks.

  Just as a hand reached for the door, ready to cross the line between caution and intrusion, a voice rose from the night.

  “There’s no need to break the door.”

  All three men turned sharply, hands falling to the hilts of their blades.

  The woman stood not ten paces behind them, in the open field. A dusky blue cloak clung to her frame, the fabric catching the moonlight in soft ripples. Her hood was drawn low, partly shadowing her face, but strands of loose dark hair rustled gently in the breeze. Her stance was calm, her eyes steady beneath the hood. When she spoke, her voice was smooth—unshaken.

  She hadn’t made a sound approaching. Silence filled the air as the wind blew through the trees and the grass.

  The three held their ground, staring at the woman in front of them.

  Then, slowly, she reached up and lowered her hood.

  The moonlight touched her face, revealing a quiet elegance and beauty that didn’t ask to be noticed. Her skin held a soft, silken glow, like starlight on still water. Her long dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, swaying gently as the breeze wove through it. In the soft light, she looked like someone untouched by time, but her gaze held the weight of someone who had seen much and spoken little of it. There was grace in her posture, calm and composed, as though the world moved slower around her. A poised stillness that suggested both awareness and restraint.

  Renric stared, momentarily at a loss. Not one of them spoke.

  This was not the gnarled old crone of tavern whispers. This woman stood with grace—refined and elegant, bearing the stillness of one shaped by silence and solitude, not by superstition and fear. A stark contrast to the tales they’d heard.

  She tilted her head slightly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Still, no one answered. The guards remained frozen, unsure whether to speak—or breathe.

  Finally, Renric held up a hand, steadying the others as he stepped forward. His voice came low, careful.

  “Are you the one who lives here?”

  She regarded him for a moment, then gave a single nod.

  He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the hilt at his side. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’ve wounded men who won’t last the night. We need herbs, healing potions—anything you’re willing to spare.”

  The wind stirred around them again, brushing past the grass and her cloak alike. She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she stepped forward—past them—and toward her door. Her movements were quiet, deliberate.

  She paused at the threshold and looked back at Renric.

  “These wounded men,” she asked softly, “how are they doing? What kind of injuries?”

  Renric hesitated. “One…” He swallowed. “One is unconscious. Caravan driver. Crushed leg, deep cut on his arm. The other—a guard—took a blow to the side. Deep laceration. Lost a lot of blood. Fever’s starting to set in.”

  The woman listened without interruption, her expression unreadable. Then she turned without a word, stepped up to her door.

  “Wait here,” she said before it closed behind her.

  And just like that, the house returned to stillness—moonlight resting on quiet walls, wind whispering through the oak above.

  Renric glanced at the guards. They stood quietly beneath the night sky, eyes flicking between the door and the darkened fields behind them. Still no one spoke.

  Then, with a slight tilt of his head and a smirk tugging at his mouth, Renric broke the silence.

  “So,” he said, keeping his voice low but teasing, “still think she’s going to curse us, Alden? Turn you into a toad for almost busting in her house?”

  The younger guard, Alden, stiffened. “I wasn’t that nervous.”

  “You flinched like she’d cursed you by blinking,” Renric said.

  The second guard, Garron, chuckled. “Your hand was halfway to your blade before she even spoke.”

  “Alright, alright,” Alden muttered, tugging his cloak tighter. “She caught us off guard, that’s all. You saw her—she just appeared. Didn’t even hear her boots.”

  Renric hummed, turning his gaze back toward the door. His expression softened a fraction. “She’s not what I expected,” he murmured.

  Garron shrugged. “Could be she really is a healer. Her place looks well-kept. Crops don’t grow that strong in cursed soil.”

  “Maybe,” Renric said. His tone had shifted, quieter now, thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter, in the end. Healer, witch, or something in between—if she can help Derren and Harlen, that’s enough for me.”

  He paused, hands resting lightly on his belt. His eyes drifted up to the lone oak, its silhouette reaching skyward.

  “I wonder what her name is,” he said, almost to himself. “And why she’s out here. Alone. Place like this…”

  Alden raised a brow. “That’s a lot of wondering for someone we just met.”

  Renric shot him a look—not denial, but not confirmation either. “Just saying. You meet a lot of people in town, but none like her. Calm like she belongs in the quiet. Like the wild bends around her instead of the other way around.”

  Garron gave a slow nod. “Whatever she is, she didn’t slam the door in our faces. That’s a good start.”

  Renric chuckled. “A very good start.”

  They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the tension between them eased. A breeze passed through the grass. Somewhere nearby, the leaves of the oak whispered.

  Then Renric’s voice grew more serious. “If she comes back with healing herbs and bandages… I’ll call the ride worth it.”

  “And if she comes back with a whole satchel of potions?” Alden asked.

  “Then I’ll call her a miracle,” Renric said, grinning.

  They waited, the pale glow of night stretching over their shoulders, hopeful.

  Inside the quiet house, Elise moved through the dim glow of a lantern, her fingers gliding across the wooden shelves. She paused briefly, scanning the vials arranged in precise order. Her hand settled on four glass bottles—taller, heavier than the others—each filled with a deep crimson liquid that shimmered faintly in the light, like moonlight caught in ruby glass.

  Greater healing potions. Stronger than common draughts, capable of closing deeper wounds and slowing infection. She rarely needed them. Not for herself. But tonight…

  She hesitated, gaze lingering on the door.

  A knight and two guards, at her threshold in the middle of the night. That alone said enough.

  It couldn’t be just fiends or wandering beasts. Men like them could handle such things. But if it was worse—if the dark things were stirring again, corrupted creatures or something bigger roaming the land—then it’s already happening, and it couldn’t be ignored.

  She turned back to her cabinet and pulled free a fresh roll of bandages, then a small jar of golden salve infused with crushed bitterroot—meant to draw the heat from a fevered wound. Her eyes narrowed. Just in case.

  From a tall jar on a nearby cupboard, she scooped out a mix of dried lemon balm, fennel seed, and crushed elderflower—gentle herbs, known for easing pain and quieting the nerves. She pinched a bit of clove bud and a sliver of dried apple peel, dropping them into an elegant teapot with delicate ease.

  She held her hand beneath the base, and a soft glow pulsed from her palm—gentle warmth flowing into the porcelain. The water shimmered, then began to steam. Within moments, a soothing aroma filled the air: herbal, earthy, with a touch of spice.

  She poured the tea into three glass bottles, wrapping each in cloth to keep them warm. Then she wrapped two bundles of oatcakes and dried fruit in cloth, setting them aside.

  The healing items—four greater potions, a roll of bandages, and a jar of golden salve—were carefully tucked into her leather satchel, well-worn but sturdy. She pulled the strap over her shoulder, then gently gathered the food and tea bottles in her arms.

  With a soft breath, Elise stepped outside.

  The men looked up. Renric straightened first, alert. The others followed. She approached without a word and handed each of them a drink, then offered the wrapped cloth with food.

  “You’ve ridden far. You should take something,” she said.

  They nodded, murmuring thanks.

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  One of the guards took a careful bite of the oatcake, brow lifting slightly. Renric followed, more out of politeness than hunger—but the first bite surprised him.

  Nutty, crisp-edged, and filling in a way that made him realize he hadn’t eaten properly all day.

  As they ate, they kept an eye on her, watching as she shifted the satchel forward and drew out the potions and bandages.

  “Where are these wounded men?” she asked.

  Renric stepped forward. “South of here,” he said, pointing behind them. “Follow the faint path, just beyond the ridge. We’ve made camp there with the rest of our party.”

  She nodded once, silent a moment.

  The guards had taken seats on the low bench near the house, sipping quietly. Renric and Elise remained standing, eyes level, words measured.

  “If I may ask,” she said gently, “what happened?”

  Renric looked to the guards, then back to her. He spoke evenly. “Merchant convoy. Attacked before first light. Two wagons destroyed. Several dead. One survivor we found crushed under the wreckage. Another, one of ours, wounded in the fight.” His brow furrowed. “Not bandits. The man said it came from the sky—black wings, glowing eyes. Too fast, too strong. It knew what it was doing.”

  Elise listened, her face unreadable—but her eyes sharpened, flickering with thought.

  Could it be an Ancient? Or one of their minions…?

  If they’re moving again… something is changing.

  She paused. The guards quietly finished the last of their bread and tea.

  “I’d like to come,” she said, handing Renric the satchel. “These will help, but they’ll need more than potions. If you’ll have me, I can help. It never hurts to have another pair of hands.”

  Renric blinked, surprised. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” she said, already tying her long black hair into a neat bun. “I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t.”

  He looked at her for a moment longer, as if unsure whether to question her resolve—or the strange calm with which she carried herself.

  Then she picked up another bundle—heavier than the rest, tied with a green cord—and held it out.

  “For the others,” she said. “There’s enough food to share. You’ve likely had little rest.”

  He turned to the youngest guard. “Lend her your horse.”

  Alden hesitated only briefly before dismounting.

  Renric turned back to her. “Can you ride?”

  Elise placed a foot in the stirrup, “Yes,” she said, gripping the saddle, and mounted in one smooth, practiced motion. She settled easily into place.

  Renric stared for a moment—at the way she moved, the quiet confidence in her posture, the ease, the control. There was strength beneath the grace.

  She caught his gaze. “Shall we go?”

  He shook himself, clearing his throat. “Alright. We ride now.”

  They rode beneath a silver-streaked sky, the moon high and cold, casting long shadows over the hills. The wind surged across the open fields, carrying the scent of dew and grass, tugging at cloaks and hair as hooves beat a steady rhythm across the earth. They moved swiftly, with urgency—but not fear. For once, they carried hope.

  The two guards rode ahead on a single mount, one hand clutching the bundled food Elise had prepared. Elise followed close behind, her cloak streaming behind her like a ribbon of night. Renric rode last, the satchel of healing supplies secured at his side, his sword bouncing softly against the saddle.

  His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the dark ahead. But more often than not, they drifted to the figure riding just ahead of him.

  Who is she?

  She didn’t move like a common herbalist or healer. There was grace in the way she held the reins, her back straight, her gaze forward, as if the wind itself yielded to her calm. Her dark hair, now tied in a low bun, still loosened slightly with the wind, catching moonlight like fine silk.

  At last, he broke the silence. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, voice low but clear.

  She glanced back over her shoulder briefly, then turned her eyes forward again. “Elise.”

  “Elise,” he echoed, letting the name settle between them. Simple. Unfamiliar. Yet somehow... fitting.

  “I’m Renric,” he added after a moment. “Those two ahead—Alden’s the younger, still fresh to the guard. The older one is Garron. They usually patrol the northern stretch of town.”

  They rode in silence a few beats longer. Then Renric asked, “Why live out here? So far from town?”

  Elise didn’t answer right away. The wind pressed at them, tugging their cloaks, whistling through the grass.

  Finally, she said, “The town is loud. I prefer quiet.” A pause, then a faint smile. “Out here, nothing knocks on your door unless it means to.”

  It was not a lie. But not the truth either.

  Renric nodded slowly, though her answer only deepened the questions in his mind. Still, he said nothing more.

  The open field stretched before them, silver-touched and swaying with the wind. The campfire ahead would be just over the next rise. But as he watched her ride—a healer cloaked in dusk, calm amid storm, appearing from nowhere when they needed help most—Renric found his thoughts drifting.

  This night had begun with blood and wreckage. But now it carried something else.

  A strange sense that they weren’t alone in the dark anymore.

  Meanwhile, the fire burned low at the heart of the camp, its amber light flickering across the worn faces gathered around it. Cloaks were drawn tight against the chill, the silence between them broken only by the soft hiss of flames and the distant murmur of wind through the grass. The scent of smoke clung to everything—faint, earthy, familiar.

  The dirt road behind them twisted into shadow, swallowed by the night. Beside the fire, the wagon stood with its end turned inward, angled to shield the wounded from the wind and catch the fire’s warmth. Its frame was still and solid in the dark—less a vessel now than a shelter, worn and waiting.

  Onboard the wagon, Dame Rheya knelt beside the wounded. Derren lay pale and fevered, breath coming in shallow gasps. Harlen, quieter now, gritted his teeth in sleep—his side still weeping through the last of the bandages. They had run out hours ago.

  Rheya shifted her weight and opened one of the crates near the wounded. Inside, folded bolts of linen were packed tight among trade goods. She pulled one free and drew her blade, slicing a length clean across the fabric. Turning back to Harlen, she began changing his wrappings with calm, deliberate care.

  Sir Edric sat near the fire, his broadsword laid across his lap, one hand resting loosely on the hilt. “You’ll be stitching with silk next,” he muttered, not unkindly.

  Rheya didn’t look up. “If it keeps him alive, I’ll use gold.”

  She reached into her belt pouch and drew out a small glass vial—the tincture she’d taken earlier. A deep green liquid shimmered inside. She tilted it, letting a few drops fall between Derren’s lips, then dabbed more onto Harlen’s fevered skin. The scent of crushed mint and bitter bark filled the air.

  “It’ll cool the fever, dull the pain,” she said. “But not much else.”

  She rose, wiping her hands on her cloak, and joined the others at the fire. The guards were quiet, worn thin. One sat with a freshly bound arm—the gash across it clumsy and deep, but clean. Another nursed his arms, marked with light scratches from the creature’s claws during the earlier ambush. An older guard, whose name Edric hadn't caught, sat sharpening a short blade against a flat stone, the rhythm steady and familiar.

  “Think Renric found her?” the guard with the gashed arm asked, his voice low.

  “Found someone,” Edric replied. “Whether she’s got what we need is another matter.”

  The blade paused mid-sharpening. The older guard glanced up at the firelight, his face unreadable. “He’s been gone a while.”

  Rheya crouched near the wounded guard with the gash. She uncorked the tincture again and gently applied it to the wound, the guard wincing but saying nothing. Then she turned to the other, dabbing the cuts on his arm. The firelight caught the glint in her eyes—tired, but sharp as ever.

  “They’ll make it through the night,” she said. “But I wouldn’t call it safe.”

  Silence fell again, broken only by the wind hissing in the grass and the distant howl of some unseen beast.

  Edric stirred, his voice low. “Strange how a little hope can go a long way.”

  Rheya gave a faint nod. “Even if it’s just a shadow moving where you want it to.”

  Edric glanced over at her. The firelight caught in his eyes, and he gave a quiet grunt—something between agreement and a tired kind of smile.

  Rheya met his look, then returned her gaze to the dark beyond the ridge. She didn’t speak again, but her silence said enough.

  Then it happened.

  A flicker above the firelight.

  The guards turned their heads. One stood. Rheya paused halfway up the wagon, hand gripping the edge. Edric looked up first.

  From the darkness above, a shape emerged—soaring against the backdrop of stars. Wings unfurled—long and blade-thin—cut through the sky with unnatural grace. Scarlet and black, patterned like blades of shadow and flame, shimmering with a faint crimson aura.

  It passed over the camp, silent as death, heading northward. Toward the town.

  The fire cracked. No one spoke.

  Every face turned skyward. Edric rose slowly to his feet. Rheya stood still on the wagon, cloak stirring in the wind.

  “Is that… what I think it is?” someone whispered.

  “No wings like that in the bestiary,” muttered the older guard.

  Edric didn’t answer. His hand had drifted to the hilt of his sword, not to draw it—but to ground himself.

  Rheya's eyes followed the creature. Her voice was low. “Could that be the same creature from the attack?”

  “Hard to say,” Edric said. From this distance,” He exhaled. “We just don’t know.”

  They watched as the creature shrank into the night, wings pulsing with crimson light—like a warning that hadn’t yet been spoken.

  Then silence again. The night seemed darker for it.

  Sir Edric stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the direction the creature had flown. The flames from the campfire danced in his peripheral vision, but his mind was elsewhere—calculating, weighing.

  He took a breath and clenched his jaw. “That thing’s headed for the town.”

  He turned back toward the fire, his eyes sweeping over the camp. Derren and Harlen lay pale and still on the makeshift bedding aboard the wagon, their breathing shallow. The guards who could still fight sat close to the flames, bandaged but alert. The others had fallen quiet, watching him, waiting for a command.

  Edric knelt near the fire, drawing a line in the dirt with a stick—marking the camp, the road, the direction the creature had flown.

  “If we ride now, hard and fast, we could reach the gates before sunrise. But we’d have to leave the wounded behind.” He glanced at Rheya, who was climbing back down from the wagon, a flicker of worry in her usually unreadable face.

  “We can’t move them,” she said, voice calm but certain. “Harlen’s barely hanging on. And Derren’s fever’s climbing. If we left them—even with supplies—they wouldn’t last the night.”

  Edric nodded slowly, absorbing her words. Then he spoke again, quieter. “Renric should’ve returned by now.”

  “He’s not late,” Rheya said gently. “Not yet.”

  Edric looked into the fire. “None of us know this stretch well. The southern roads aren’t patrolled as often. The roads thin out, wayposts are scattered. Most knights don’t ride this far south unless they have to,” he said.

  The guard with the gashed arm shifted where he sat, wincing slightly as he adjusted the sling. “If they veered off the faint track out here,” he murmured, “it wouldn’t be hard to lose time. Or your bearings.”

  The older guard leaned in. “So we wait?”

  Edric exhaled sharply. “If that creature reaches the town before us—” He stopped himself. “If it attacks, we’ll be too late to warn them.”

  Silence again. The wind had picked up, whispering through the tall grass like a voice at the edge of thought.

  Rheya joined him near the fire, her voice steady. “When Renric returns, we’ll know more. Supplies or not, we’ll act.”

  The tension in the group didn’t vanish, but it eased slightly under her words.

  He looked at her—troubled, uncertain—but didn’t argue. He only nodded once, then turned his eyes to the horizon, where the last glow of the creature had vanished.

  “We make no assumptions,” he said. “We stay sharp. And we wait.”

  What remained of the fire smoldered low, its embers casting faint orange veins through the ash. A hush settled over the camp—the kind that came not from peace, but from people too tired to speak, too wary to sleep.

  Then, a sound. Faint. Rhythmic. Hoofbeats, rising like a heartbeat through the stillness.

  The guards stirred. One sat straighter. Another reached for his weapon.

  Edric’s hand moved to his sword without thinking. Rheya had already turned her gaze to the ridge.

  More than one rider.

  The pace was careful, deliberate. Not a charge. A return.

  A few heartbeats later, shapes emerged over the rise—three figures on horseback, washed in silver starlight. The road behind them lay in shadow, but they rode in light.

  Renric led them, his posture upright despite the long ride. But it was the woman behind him who caught every eye. Elise.

  Cloaked in the night, her silhouette framed by the low light of the moon. Her horse moved like it belonged to the dusk, and her presence, though quiet, seemed to press back the dark around her.

  The guards rose one by one, drawn not by alarm—but by something else. Something quieter. Something like hope.

  Rheya stepped forward as the riders drew near, brow furrowed, not in doubt—but in measure.

  Edric stood beside her, the firelight catching the edge of his blade, forgotten for now.

  Renric slowed his mount, eyes scanning the camp. The firelight caught the wear on his face, the lines of dust and road. But there was something else there too—a glint of relief, and in his expression, the faintest hint of something like belief.

  He looked down at Rheya, then Edric. “She’s here.”

  And for the first time that night, the camp didn’t feel like a place waiting for something to go wrong. It felt like something had arrived.

  A light in the dark.