Pain had a way of sharpening the world. It stripped everything down to its ugliest truths; every breath a blade, every moment a betrayal. I pressed my palm harder against my side, but the wound there refused to yield. Heat spread beneath my ribs in relentless pulses, blood slipping between my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to contain it.

  The forest had carried me this far, but it would not save me. The Duskwood, as they called it, did not interfere in the affairs of the Shadowborn, not even when we bled for it.

  I leaned back against the oak's trunk, bark biting into my shoulders. The tree was older than the kingdom that hunted me, older than the king who had ordered my execution, and older than the Hunters I looked for. Its roots rose from the earth like the ribs of some great beast, cradling me in their shadow as though I were already a corpse laid to rest.

  I should not have made it this close to the village, that had not been part of the plan, but plans unraveled quickly when betrayal was involved. The mark along my collarbone writhed beneath my torn armor, reacting to my failing strength. Black lines coiled slowly up my throat, faint heat simmering beneath my skin. They answered to fear, to fury, to proximity.

  And someone was there now. Footsteps, light, and careful approached the edges of my vision. I stilled, every instinct snapping to attention despite the haze creeping at the edges of my vision. I dragged myself upright against the oak, jaw tightening as fresh pain flared white-hot through my side.

  Another villager. Another scream waiting to happen. The king’s people were predictable. They crossed themselves when they saw us, called us demons, Shadowborn, cursed sons of a forgotten god. As if naming us monsters made it easier to drive blades through our ribs.

  The footsteps slowed and then stopped. I lifted my head, and there she was, unarmored and unarmed with a basket hanging from one hand. Wind-tossed hair catching the last threads of dying light. She stood just beyond the roots, her silhouette framed in silver and shadow, eyes fixed on me.

  Waiting for it—the horror, the recoil—I held her gaze. She didn’t scream, she froze. Her eyes flicked to the blood at my side, to the trail staining the forest floor behind me. Her expression shifted—not to fear, but to calculation, or something like recognition.

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  Her fingers twitched as if she were resisting the urge to reach for me. The mark beneath my skin stirred in response. It was subtle at first—a tightening coil beneath my collarbone. Then a slow, deliberate shift upward along my throat. It reacted to intent, it reacted to threats, it reacted to magic.

  And she carried something, probably something quiet that even she didn't have a name for. I swallowed against the dryness in my mouth and forced the words out before weakness robbed me of them. “Don’t scream.” My voice came out harsher than I meant it to, gravel dragged over stone. A warning, not a threat. Or perhaps both.

  Her lips parted. For a moment, I saw it—the tremor in her breath, the spike of fear in her pulse. I could almost feel it through the thinning barrier between us. The forest hummed faintly, aware. If she ran, she would bring soldiers. If she stayed…

  She would learn exactly who I was.

  Her gaze lifted from my wound to my face. And still—no scream. Instead, she spoke. “If I meant you harm, you’d already be dead.” The audacity of it nearly made me laugh. A village healer, by the look of her hands and the contents of her basket. I recognized the sharp scent of crushed comfrey and dried yarrow even through the copper tang of my own blood. She had training. Real training.

  Why was she here? The question pressed against my skull, but the forest answered first.

  My strength faltered. The world tilted violently, black edging my vision. I exhaled through clenched teeth and let my head fall back against the oak. I should push her away, I should tell her to leave. Instead, I found myself watching her kneel.

  She set her basket down carefully, movements measured. She was either brave, or naive, or foolish. Her hands hovered over my torn armor for a fraction of a second, assessing. The air shifted as her fingers brushed my skin—heat flaring where she touched me. Her breath caught, but she did not pull away.

  For the first time in years, something unfamiliar pressed against the walls I’d built around myself. Not hope, hope was a liability, but curiosity. Why would a villager risk her life for me? Why would the forest choose her?

  I forced my eyes open fully and met her gaze again, studying her as carefully as she studied my wound. “If you stay,” I murmured, voice low and fraying at the edges, “there will be consequences.”

  And as her fingers pressed against the wound at my side—steady and sure—I realized something dangerous. She did not look at me like I was cursed. She looked at me like I was worth saving.