The scar still burned.
Rowan stirred beneath a patchwork of coarse hay, the brittle ends pressing against his skin through the thin weave of his shirt. Morning crept slowly through the cracks in the old barn walls, light spilling in soft, dusty shafts. The air was cold—cold enough to bite if he let it, but not enough to mask the dull ache pulsing in his chest. The wound had long since stopped bleeding, but it throbbed like a bruise worn into his bones. Another night, another dream.
He hadn't known real sleep in weeks. Not since he'd started running. Not since the nightmares had returned. They were always the same: fire, shadows, and the final moment before the blade came down—not on him, but on everything that mattered. The faces blurred now. His father's was among them, but always twisted in accusation. And when Rowan woke, it was with the familiar taste of ash in his mouth and the slow realization that nothing had changed.
He sat up carefully, one hand gripping his ribs while the other reached for the canvas-wrapped sword resting beside him. The barn was quiet. Long abandoned. He'd found it off a forgotten trail days ago—or maybe just yesterday. The passage of time meant little lately. Days bled into each other like ink in water.
Twenty hunters in a month. That's how many had come for him. Some with blades, others with magic. A few had spoken his name with recognition, fewer still with sympathy. None had cared whether the charges were real.
Rowan stood, dragging his coat over his shoulders. It was heavier than he remembered. Everything was. He stepped outside into the brittle morning air, boots crunching over frost. The world was quiet, but it was the wrong kind of quiet. A forced hush, like breath held before a scream.
He started walking—not toward anything, just away. Away from the ruin behind him, from the smell of smoke that clung to his memory, and from the shadow of a kingdom that no longer wanted him.
The path beneath his feet was faint, little more than the ghost of old wagon tracks. He followed it anyway, letting instinct carry him. The land began to slope, the grass giving way to soil and root as the trees ahead thickened. A forest waited there—unmarked on any map he remembered. But at this point, maps weren't something he trusted.
He didn't see the fire at first. He felt it.
A shift in the air, a crackle like brittle leaves catching flame. Then came the heat—sudden and sharp. He turned, just in time to duck as a blast of fire scorched the earth beside him. He landed hard, rolled behind a fallen tree, and stayed low.
Another flame arced overhead, splitting the silence with a roar. The heat chased after him like breath from a forge.
He knew this hunter.
Or at least, he remembered the silhouette.
Rowan drew his sword. The blade was dull. Functional. Not made for displays, only for survival. The shape of it was strange—curved at the spine and forged with a crossguard of folded metal unlike anything crafted in this land. Even when dulled by wear, it held a weight beyond its steel.
He moved between the trees, dodging the next blast by inches. Bark exploded beside him, and smoke poured into the clearing. The flames weren't wild—they were aimed. The hunter was herding him.
Rowan's breath came ragged. His body ached with the effort of movement. The scar flared, as if answering the heat with its own silent scream.
"You're already dead," the bounty hunter called out. "You just haven't realized it yet."
Rowan didn't answer.
Another blast came—larger, uncontrolled.
Then the wind shifted.
The fire paused in midair, curling unnaturally as if held in place. A hush followed, strange and sudden. Smoke reversed its path, and the flames recoiled like water retreating from an unseen wall.
A figure stepped into the clearing.
The hunter's fire sputtered and died before it touched her.
She didn't look at Rowan. Her gaze was fixed on the charred branches and the blackening ground, fury etched across her face not from fear, but indignation.
"You would burn all this for one man?" she muttered, her voice steady and low.
The hunter raised a hand to cast again, but it never finished rising. A rush of wind—sharper than any blade—sent him crashing into the roots of a tree. His fire was gone before he hit the ground.
Rowan saw her face for only a moment before the pain overwhelmed him. His body folded. Darkness took him.
---
Rowan awoke to a dull ache in his limbs and the low crackle of a fire. The scent of smoke and dried herbs filled the air, not unpleasant, but foreign. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim lighting of the room—a round chamber with walls carved from dark wood, the ceiling arched above him like the inside of a great tree. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with scrolls, bottles, feathers, and strange relics. The bed beneath him was rough but warm, layered with furs that smelled faintly of the wild.
He tried to rise, but pain lanced through his ribs and side. He collapsed back with a wince.
"You're still too weak," a voice said.
He turned his head. A woman sat nearby, perched on a low stool, hands folded in her lap. Her expression was curious, but not overly concerned.
"You were unconscious for a day and a half," she said. "We thought you might not wake."
He licked his dry lips. "I've been worse."
"Hard to believe," she said with a tilt of her head, though her smile was faint. "You were half-cooked and bleeding when I found you."
He let his eyes drift around the room again. "Where… is this?"
"My mentor's home. We live in the heart of the forest, though you're lucky we do. Most people avoid this place."
She stood and crossed the room to retrieve a clay mug from a low-burning stove. "Drink this. It'll dull the pain."
Rowan accepted the mug with some effort, fingers stiff around the handle. The brew was bitter and earthy, but it brought warmth to his chest and loosened the knot of pain in his side.
Before he could ask another question, a new presence entered the room.
She moved like smoke—silent, certain. Her face was lined but firm, framed by streaked hair pulled tightly away from her face. Her eyes were sharp, cold, and unimpressed.
"I see the stray has opened his eyes," she said.
Rowan didn't respond.
"I'm Nemara," she continued, folding her arms. "This is my home. You're here because Elira insists on saving things."
Rowan took another sip from the mug, then looked to Elira. "You dragged me here?"
She shrugged. "I wasn't about to let you burn in the middle of a forest."
Nemara's gaze didn't waver. "You brought trouble with you. Fire magic stains the ground for weeks. Be glad it didn't reach the deeper roots."
"I didn't ask for—"
"No. You didn't," Nemara interrupted. "But you did lead him here. That makes you a problem."
Rowan started to push himself upright again, slower this time. "I'll be gone before sunset."
"You'll be gone when I say you can walk," she said, turning away. "And not a moment before."
Her robes whispered against the floor as she left the room. A door clicked shut behind her, and silence settled between them once again.
Elira sighed. "She's not great with guests."
Rowan managed a weak smile. "I never would've guessed."
She stood and walked to the corner of the room, where his things had been neatly arranged. His cloak, satchel, boots—and his weapon.
She hesitated before picking it up. "This sword… it's strange. I've never seen anything like it."
He sat up more fully, the pain retreating enough for him to move without groaning. "That's because it's not from here."
"Not from the region?"
"Not from this continent."
She turned it over in her hands, studying the curved spine, the weight, the iron markings along the hilt. "What's it called?"
He hesitated. "Where I'm from, it's called a khirval. A blade used by border knights."
"You're a knight?"
"I was," he said. "A long time ago."
Elira didn't press further, though her eyes told him she wanted to. She placed the sword down gently and returned to her stool.
"You don't talk much."
"I've had too many people try to kill me this month," he muttered.
"Then maybe it's time to stop traveling alone."
He met her gaze, but before he could answer, his body gave out and he lay back against the bedding.
"Rest," she said, her voice softening. "You'll need your strength."