[AMAL POV]
The first night passed without incident. I slept fitfully on the hard ground outside my dwelling, wrapped in my traveling cloak, listening to the sounds of the forest and the occasional shift of movement from within. Every instinct told me I was making a mistake, that bringing a stranger into my sanctuary would only lead to disaster.
But when dawn broke and I heard him call out weakly for water, I found myself rising immediately to tend to him.
"How do you feel?" I asked, entering the dwelling with a waterskin and fresh bandages.
"Like I've been stabbed in the shoulder," he said, attempting to sit up. "Which, inconveniently, is exactly what happened."
I helped him drink, noting that his color was much improved. The bleeding had stopped completely, and while he was still weak, he was no longer in immediate danger.
"The wounds are healing well," I said, checking the bandages. "You should be able to travel in a few days."
"Travel?" He looked genuinely dismayed. "So soon?"
"You said you understood the terms."
"I did. I do." He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "It's just... I haven't had anyone care for me like this in a very long time."
The simple honesty in his voice caught me off guard. "I'm sure you have people who care about you."
"Do I?" He smiled, but it was sadder than his usual expressions. "I have business associates. People who find me useful. But care?" He shook his head. "That's rarer than you might think."
I found myself softening despite my better judgment. "Surely you have family."
"Family." He said the word like it tasted bitter. "Yes, I have family. The kind that would step over your bleeding body to reach their own goals."
There was something in his tone that resonated with memories I'd tried hard to bury. The day my own father sold me to the king to not bring shame to the family.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
"Don't be. It's taught me to value genuine kindness when I find it." His eyes met mine. "Like yours."
I stood abruptly, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I should gather more healing herbs. The supplies I used on you have depleted my stores."
"May I come with you?"
"You can barely sit up."
"I can manage. The fresh air might help, and..." He hesitated. "I'd like to help, if I can. It seems wrong to simply lie here while you work to heal me."
I wanted to refuse. Every rational part of my mind screamed that keeping him close, letting him see more of my world, was dangerous. But the loneliness I'd carried for so long felt suddenly unbearable.
"Very well," I said finally. "But if you slow me down or reopen those wounds, I'm leaving you in the forest."
"Understood."
Helping him to his feet was more difficult than I'd expected. He was heavier than his lean frame suggested, and the weakness from blood loss made him unsteady. I had to support most of his weight as we made our way outside.
"This is Malik," I said, introducing him to my stallion. "He's... particular about strangers."
Malik's dark eyes assessed Noah with the intelligence that had always unnerved visitors to the palace. Horses, I'd learned, were excellent judges of character.
To my surprise, Malik allowed Noah to approach, even accepted his gentle touch on his muzzle.
"He's magnificent," Noah said, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Arabian?"
"Yes. We found each other when we both needed saving."
"A kindred spirit, then."
I led them both toward the deeper parts of the forest, where the more potent healing herbs grew. Noah managed to keep pace, though I could see the effort it cost him.
"Tell me about them," he said as I knelt beside a patch of moonbell flowers. "The herbs. What they do."
I glanced up at him, surprised by the genuine interest in his voice. "You really want to know?"
"I really want to know."
So I told him. As I gathered the delicate blooms, I explained how moonbell could ease pain and promote sleep. When I found a cluster of silverleaf, I showed him how to identify the plant and described its properties for preventing infection.
"You're remarkably skilled," he said, watching me work. "Where did you learn all this?"
The question I'd been dreading. "From someone who needed to know."
"A teacher?"
"A friend." The word came out harder than I'd intended. "She's gone now."
"I'm sorry."
"Death comes to everyone eventually."
"That doesn't make it easier."
I looked up at him, surprised by the understanding in his voice. "No. It doesn't."
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, and I found myself relaxing despite my reservations. He didn't push for more information, didn't pry into the obvious pain behind my words. Instead, he simply helped where he could, following my instructions with careful attention.
"You're good with your hands," I observed as he successfully extracted a delicate root without damaging it.
"I've had practice with delicate things."
"Your trade?"
"Among other things." He smiled. "I deal in... rare items. Things that require careful handling."
"What sort of things?"
"Jewelry, mostly. Some artifacts. Items that have more value than their materials might suggest."
That made sense. It would explain his fine clothes, his obvious education, his comfort with wealth.
"Is it profitable?"
"It can be. Though the real reward isn't always monetary."
"What do you mean?"
He was quiet for a moment, studying the herb in his hands. "Sometimes you find something that changes everything. Something that makes all the risk worthwhile."
Something in his tone made my chest tighten. "And have you? Found something like that?"
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something there that made my breath catch. "I'm beginning to think I have."
I stood quickly, busying myself with sorting the herbs we'd gathered. "We should head back. You've been on your feet too long."
"Amal."
"You need rest."
"Amal, look at me."
Against my better judgment, I did. The intensity in his gaze made my heart race.
"I know you don't trust me," he said quietly. "I know you have every reason to be cautious. But I want you to know that meeting you... it's changed something for me."
"Stop."
"I know because I recognize it. Because I've been drowning in the same well."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "You don't understand what you're saying."
"Don't I?" He reached out as if to touch my face, then let his hand fall. "I've spent years building walls, keeping people at a distance, telling myself it was safer to be alone. But safety isn't the same as living."
"Sometimes it's all we have."
"It doesn't have to be."
I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. This was dangerous territory, the kind of hope that had destroyed me before.
"I should take you back," I said finally. "Your wounds—"
"Are healing. Just like yours could, if you let them."
"You don't know anything about my wounds."
"Then tell me about them."
"Why?" The word came out as a whisper. "Why do you care?"
"Because I think we could heal each other."
The simple statement hung between us like a bridge I was terrified to cross. In the silence that followed, I could hear the forest around us, the distant call of birds, the whisper of wind through leaves.
Normal sounds of a normal world, while my entire existence balanced on the edge of a decision that could destroy everything I'd built.
"I can't," I said finally, my voice breaking. "I can't take that risk."
"What risk?"
"The risk of believing you. The risk of letting you matter. The risk of having something to lose again."
His expression softened. "What did they do to you?"
The question was so gentle, so carefully asked, that it nearly broke me. "They took everything," I whispered. "Everything I was, everything I could have been. They left me with nothing but scars and the knowledge that kindness is just another word for weakness."
"It's not."
"Isn't it?" I looked up at him, tears blurring my vision. "Look where kindness has brought me. A stranger bleeding in my forest, and I can't even let him die in peace."
"And look where it's brought me," he said softly. "To the first person in years who's seen me as more than a means to an end."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand more than you think." He moved closer, slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "I understand that someone hurt you so badly you've forgotten what it feels like to be safe. I understand that you've been alone so long you've forgotten what it feels like to matter to someone."
"Noah—"
"I understand because I've been there too."
And then, gently, carefully, he did what I'd been both craving and dreading. He reached out and touched my face, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
"You matter to me," he said quietly. "I know it's too soon, I know I have no right to say it, but you matter to me."
I should have stepped away. Should have reminded him of our agreement, of the temporary nature of his stay, of all the reasons why this was impossible.
Instead, I found myself leaning into his touch, starved for the simple human connection I'd denied myself for so long.
"This is a mistake," I whispered.
"Probably."
"I don't know how to do this anymore."
"Neither do I."
"I'm broken."
"So am I."
And in that moment, with his hand gentle against my face and his eyes holding mine with such careful tenderness, I almost believed that two broken things might be able to heal each other.
Almost.
"We should go back," I said, but I didn't move away from his touch.
"Yes," he agreed, but his hand remained on my face.
"This changes nothing."
"If you say so."
"I mean it."
"I know."
But as we made our way back through the forest, his arm around my waist for support and mine around his shoulders, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything had already changed.
And I couldn't decide if that terrified me or gave me hope.
That evening, as I prepared our simple meal, I found myself acutely aware of his presence. He sat propped against the stone wall, watching me work with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You're staring," I said without looking up.
"I'm observing."
"There's a difference?"
"When you stare, you're trying to possess something. When you observe, you're trying to understand it."
I glanced at him. "And what are you trying to understand?"
"How someone so strong can believe she's broken."
The words hit deeper than I expected.
I handed him his bowl, our fingers brushing as he took it. The simple contact sent warmth shooting up my arm.
"Tell me about your family," I said, desperate to change the subject.
His expression closed off slightly. "What do you want to know?"
"You mentioned they were... difficult."
"That's one word for it." He ate in silence for a moment. "I have two brothers. The eldest is... let's say he has very specific ideas about power and how to use it."
"And the other?"
"Dead." The word was flat, emotionless. "Killed in a hunting accident when we were children."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He met my eyes. "What about you? Any family?"
"No."
"None?"
I shrugged, turning my wrist to let the brand catch the light. "Sold."
He raised a brow. "Ah, but they're still alive, aren't they?"
I didn't blink. "Who knows. The dead don't send letters."
We ate in comfortable silence, the crackling fire the only sound between us. But I could feel something building in the quiet spaces, a tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he looked at me.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm I hadn't expected. Noah's strength returned steadily—by the third day, he could walk without support, and by the fifth, he was helping me with tasks around the dwelling. His wounds were healing remarkably well, the deep gashes closing cleanly without infection.
But it was more than his physical recovery that surprised me. It was how naturally he seemed to fit into my solitary world.
He learned to identify the healing herbs without being told twice. He helped me tend to Malik, earning the stallion's grudging respect. He even managed to repair a section of the dwelling's roof that had been damaged in a recent storm, working with skilled hands that spoke of more than merchant's experience.
"You're very capable," I observed on the sixth day, watching him weave new thatch with practiced ease.
"Thank you, master," he replied, not looking down from his work.
Despite my wariness, I found myself genuinely enjoying his company. He was intelligent, well-read, and had a dry sense of humor that often caught me off guard.
"Tell me about your travels," I said one evening as we sat by the fire. "You must have seen interesting places."
"Some." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Though I've learned that the most beautiful places often hide the darkest secrets."
"Such as?"
"Courts where poetry and music mask poison and betrayal. Markets where rare treasures are bought with blood money. Palaces where—" He stopped abruptly, his expression closing off.
"Where what?"
"Where power corrupts everything it touches."
I studied his face in the firelight, noting the way his jaw tightened. "You speak as if you've seen it firsthand."
"Haven't we all? In one way or another?"
It was a deflection, but I didn't push. We both had secrets, and I was in no position to demand his when I guarded my own so carefully.
By the seventh day, something had shifted between us. The careful distance I'd maintained was crumbling, worn down by small kindnesses and shared moments. When he laughed at something I said, my chest felt lighter. When he looked at me with those dark eyes, I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years.
"This is dangerous," I told Malik one morning, brushing his coat while Noah gathered firewood. "I'm starting to care about him."
Malik snorted, as if to say he'd seen this coming from the beginning.
"He'll leave soon," I continued, more to convince myself than the horse. "His wounds are nearly healed. He has no reason to stay."
But that afternoon, as we worked together to preserve the herbs we'd gathered, I caught him watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just... I haven't been this content in a long time."
"Content?"
"Peaceful. Useful. Like I have a purpose beyond..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind."
"Beyond what?"
"Beyond survival."
The words hit me with unexpected force. I understood that feeling—the exhaustion of simply existing, of every day being about nothing more than making it to the next.
"I know what you mean," I said softly.
"Do you?"
"Better than I'd like to."
That night, as we prepared for sleep, he lingered by the fire longer than usual.
"Amal," he said finally.
"Yes?"
"When I leave here... would you consider coming with me?"