The world flickered in and out like a dying candle flame.
Cold moss pressed against Ruvan's cheek as he lay on his side, unable to move. Blood oozed from the gash across his ribs, soaking into his torn tunic. His right arm trembled as he tried to push himself up, but his vision swam and he collapsed again, cheek scraping bark and dirt.
Somewhere in the blurred canopy above, dawn was breaking. Thin grey light seeped between ancient boughs, illuminating drifting mists. The scent of pine and decay filled his lungs. A wood thrush whistled, its song sharp against the silence.
Pain radiated through him in steady, gnawing pulses. His throat felt dry and raw. His mind drifted in and out of memory – screams in the village, flames leaping against the forge walls, the girl's cries beneath collapsed beams. He tried to push it away, but the echoes clung to him like oil.
Am I dying here?
"Steady, now," a voice murmured.
A warm hand pressed against his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He blinked against the pale dawn, his blurred gaze fixing on a silhouette above him. Slowly, the world cleared enough to see a man kneeling there, his cloak wrapped tightly against the forest chill.
The stranger's hair was pale gold, falling to his collarbones. His features were angular, fine-boned, with faint lavender tattoos curling from his temples down his neck. His eyes glowed an almost unnatural amber under the dawn light.
"Easy," the man whispered again, voice soft and deliberate. "You're bleeding badly. Don't move."
He pressed a hand against Ruvan's ribs. White light sparked beneath his palm. Ruvan flinched, his whole body seizing at the sudden surge of warmth that flooded the wound. Agony flared, then dulled to an ache. He gasped and tried to speak, but his throat was too dry to form words.
"Drink," the man said.
He lifted a clay flask to Ruvan's lips. Water, tinged faintly with bitter herbs, trickled down his throat. Ruvan coughed, swallowed again, and managed to croak:
"Who… are you…?"
"Elion Karr," the man replied. His eyes flicked over Ruvan's injuries, assessing with the calm precision of a practiced healer. "I'm a physician… of sorts."
Ruvan felt his consciousness slipping again. He tried to hold on, blinking desperately. The healer's touch was gentle, but strong, pressing into his ribs to check for breaks. The pain was a distant throb now, like his body was floating away.
"Stay awake," Elion said, voice sharper. "What's your name?"
"Ruvan," he rasped. "Ruvan… son of no one."
Elion paused at that. His golden eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"No one? Strange," he said softly. "Because you carry something… very ancient."
He touched the hilt strapped to Ruvan's waist. Even in his half-delirious state, Ruvan's hand shot to it protectively. Elion smiled faintly.
"Easy. I'm not here to take it. Only to keep you alive." He glanced over his shoulder, listening to the forest's hush. Then he returned his focus to Ruvan. "I'm going to lift you now."
Ruvan felt arms slip beneath his shoulders and knees. The motion tore a grunt of pain from his chest as Elion rose to his feet, cradling him effortlessly despite his size. Ruvan's head lolled against the healer's chest, staring weakly at the intricate tattoos that curved down his throat, symbols he did not recognise.
The forest blurred around them as Elion carried him through twisting deer paths. Ruvan drifted in and out of awareness. He felt warmth radiating from the man's chest, smelled crushed herbs and faint incense lingering in his cloak. Every few steps, Elion would whisper words in a language Ruvan didn't know, words that made the air shimmer faintly.
Finally, Elion knelt and laid him down on a bed of furs beneath a hollowed pine. The tree's roots formed a natural shelter, woven with branches and hanging cloth charms. Small clay pots lined the interior, filled with herbs, bandages, and crystals that pulsed softly in the gloom.
"You're safe here for now," Elion murmured. He brushed damp hair from Ruvan's forehead, then began to cut away his torn tunic to examine the wound properly.
Ruvan winced as cold air touched the ragged gash. Blood still seeped along the edge, though Elion's earlier spell had stemmed most of it. The healer's hands glowed as he pressed his palms to the wound, chanting under his breath.
White light spread across Ruvan's ribs. Heat burned through torn flesh, knitting it together. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as the pain peaked, then faded. He felt each ragged fibre fuse and seal. The process felt… unnatural, like his body was being stitched by invisible needles.
At last, Elion exhaled and slumped back. Sweat dotted his brow.
"It's closed," he said, voice hoarse. "You'll live."
Ruvan's chest heaved as he stared up at the pine canopy. Exhaustion pressed down on him like a mountain. Yet beneath the fatigue, a flicker of gratitude burned.
"Why… help me?" he whispered.
Elion didn't answer immediately. He pulled a water skin from his belt and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.
"Because," he said at last, his eyes distant, "the forest showed me your coming. It showed me… Solrend's heir."
Ruvan's blood ran cold. His gaze shot to the broken blade strapped to his hip. It seemed to pulse faintly under Elion's words.
"I'm… no heir," he croaked. "I'm just… a blacksmith's apprentice."
Elion's expression softened with a hint of sadness.
"Perhaps once," he said. "But the world doesn't care what you were. Only what you are now."
He stood and turned to rummage through his clay pots, mixing herbs into a steaming clay cup. The pungent scent of feverfew and root bitter filled the shelter.
"Drink," he said, holding the cup to Ruvan's lips.
Ruvan obeyed. The brew was foul, but warmth spread through his chest, driving away the lingering chill. His eyelids grew heavy despite his efforts to stay awake.
"Rest," Elion murmured, brushing a hand across his brow. "We will speak more when dawn truly comes. There is much you must know… and little time to learn it."
Ruvan tried to reply, but sleep overtook him like a black tide. His last sight was Elion sitting cross-legged before the altar of crystals, chanting softly as the forest outside shivered with cold wind and distant, echoing howls.