The battlefield was a graveyard of silence, broken only by the crackle of burning wagons and the low moans of the dying. Elara moved swiftly between the fallen, her healer's satchel bumping against her hip. Her hands shook as she pressed herbs against torn flesh, whispered prayers for the men she could not save.
She had always known death. But tonight it felt closer, watching her with hungry eyes.
She almost passed him by.
The knight lay sprawled on his back, his silver armor split across the chest. His sword was buried in the mud, his hand outstretched as though reaching for salvation. He was young, though his face was worn with battles and shadows. Blood soaked through his breastplate in waves.
Her training told her he would not live long. Her secret told her she could save him.
Elara hesitated. If she used her gift, if anyone saw—
But something about him made her reckless. She pressed her palms over the wound. Silver light bled through her fingers, soft at first, then blazing like a second moon. Flesh knit beneath her touch, breath steadied, and the knight's eyes flew open.
Storm-grey eyes. Piercing. Alive.
"You—" His voice was hoarse, but edged with fire. "You're no ordinary healer."
Elara froze. No one was meant to see. No one was meant to know.
"If you speak of this," she whispered, fear racing through her, "I will hang before dawn."
He held her gaze for a long, unflinching moment. Then, against the weight of blood and pain, he gave a faint smile.
"Then I won't speak. You saved me. I owe you my silence… and my vow."
A vow. Dangerous words, binding words. Words she would not forget.