Consciousness returned to Lia not as a gentle awakening, but as a jolt. Her eyes snapped open, taking in the rough, shadow-draped ceiling of a cave. The air smelled of smoke and cold stone.
Where am I?
The memories flooded back in a painful rush. The bandits. Not the simple highwaymen she'd expected, but a well-coordinated group of adventurers-turned-ambushers. They'd been waiting for her on the road back to the city. She'd fought well—her years of royal army training had seen to that—but they had the numbers, and a lucky blow from behind had sent her world into darkness. She remembered the searing pain of a blade in her side, the cold dread of knowing she was dying alone on the road.
Her hand flew to her stomach, fingers searching for the terrible wound.
They found nothing.
Not even a scar. Just smooth, whole skin beneath her torn tunic.
Her breath hitched. How? She sat up, her body feeling strangely… perfect. No lingering aches, no stiffness from a hard bed of stone. It was as if the fight had never happened. A deep, instinctual fear settled in her gut. Powerful, restorative magic like this was the domain of high-tier healers, not something found in a random cave.
A trap. It has to be a trap.
Her training took over, shoving the confusion aside. Her eyes, now adjusted to the dim light of the dying fire, scanned the cave. Empty. Her weapons were gone, likely looted by the bandits. But she still had her hands, her knees, her strength.
She moved silently, a phantom in the gloom, pressing herself against the cold rock wall next to the cave entrance. Her muscles coiled, every sense screaming. Someone had brought her here. Someone had healed her. And that someone would be back. She would be ready. She would incapacitate them first and ask questions later.
Arin stirred as the first rays of dawn painted the sky. He was stiff, cold, and ravenously hungry. The girl was still asleep, her chest rising and falling peacefully. The sight filled him with a quiet pride. He'd saved her.
Quietly, he slipped out of the cave. The forest was peaceful in the morning light. Using sharp stones and a lot of patience, he managed to gather what he hoped were edible berries and roots, filling the front of his tunic to make a crude basket.
He returned to the cave entrance, his small form silhouetted against the brightening day outside. He had to duck slightly to get back in.
It was the only warning he got.
The moment he stepped across the threshold, a figure exploded from the shadows beside the entrance.
Lia moved with the lethal, economical grace of a seasoned warrior. There was no hesitation, no warning. Her left arm hooked around his neck in a tight chokehold, cutting off his air and any chance to cry out. Simultaneously, her right foot swept his legs out from under him with brutal efficiency.
Arin's world upended. A choked gurgle was all he could manage before he was thrown violently off his feet. The berries and roots flew from his tunic, scattering across the cave floor. He landed hard on his back, the impact driving what little air remained from his lungs. White-hot stars exploded in his vision.
Before the pain could even fully register, she was on him. Her knee drove into his stomach—a controlled, precise blow meant to paralyze and disorient, not to cripple. The air exploded from his lungs in a woosh of agony. In one fluid motion, she captured both of his thin wrists in one of her strong hands, pinning them above his head against the cold stone floor with unforgiving force. Her other hand pressed down on his chest, her weight ensuring he was completely immobilized.
Her face, fierce and furious from years of discipline and the recent betrayal, was inches from his.
"Who are you?" she snarled, her voice low and dangerous, devoid of mercy. "Who do you work for? Was this a ransom plot? Talk!"
But Arin couldn't talk. He couldn't breathe. The shock of the violent attack, the terrifying strength of the girl he'd just saved, the knee in his gut—it was too much. The fear and the pain and the utter helplessness of the last day crashed down on him all at once.
He started to cry.
It wasn't a loud wail. It was a silent, body-wracking sob. Hot, desperate tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his temples into his hair. His small body trembled uncontrollably beneath her pinning weight.
Lia saw the tears first, welling in his eyes. Then came the quiet, hitched sobs—the sound of pure, unshielded distress, not defiance.
Her fierce expression wavered. The body beneath her wasn't struggling, wasn't resisting. It was trembling. Shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Her eyes, sharp and narrow from combat instinct, truly focused on his face for the first time.
The anger drained from her in an instant, replaced by a stunned, dawning horror.
This wasn't a woman. He was a boy. A child. His features were delicate yet striking, his small frame far too slight to have ever been a threat. And his hair—dark, unruly, unmistakably black. Her breath caught. Black hair. The rarest of rarities, spoken of in hushed tones, glimpsed only in the guarded processions of noble houses or whispered about in ballads. His pale skin only heightened the contrast, and his wide, tear-filled eyes seemed almost unreal, as though the gods themselves had carved them from shadowed crystal. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten.
Her mind froze for a heartbeat, then reeled. She couldn't take her eyes off him. The hair—black as night, stark against his pale skin. The sharp, elegant lines of his face. The deep, haunting color of his eyes. It was rare. Impossible, even, in a world like theirs where men were few and the appearance of a healthy young boy with such features was almost mythic.
Her chest ached with an unfamiliar, confused awe, a feeling she hadn't thought her disciplined heart could ever entertain.
A boy. A beautiful, impossibly rare boy. Here. In the wilderness. Under her hand.
And she had just driven him into the stone with the full, merciless force of her royal army training.
"Oh… Goddess," she breathed, the words escaping like smoke.
She released him at once, scrambling back as if burned. Her own hands shook when she looked at them, then back at him—curled in on himself, sobbing, clutching his stomach where her knee had struck.
Her chest tightened. She had trained for decades to face women twice her size, to strike with precision, to dominate in combat. And yet… this? She had struck a child. A boy. A tiny, delicate boy—his small body trembling beneath her, sobbing helplessly.
And then the second realization struck. The one that twisted her stomach with guilt and left her reeling. She had dared strike him. A boy, yes—but more than that, she had unleashed the full weight of her discipline, her training, her strength on something so rare, so delicate, so precious. She knew what her blows could do. She knew the pain she had inflicted. And now that knowledge sickened her.
"I—" Her voice cracked. "I didn't know… I thought—" She forced herself to soften, her hands rising slowly in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Who are you? Where are your guards? Your family?"
The questions tumbled out in a rush, but the boy could only cry, too small and too frightened to answer.
Memory flickered in her mind. The only times she had ever seen boys—especially ones this beautiful—they were paraded through the capital in guarded entourages, hidden behind armor and silk. Always protected, always claimed by someone of power. Never alone. Never here.
And yet here he was. In a cave. Beside a fire. With scattered food and the faint traces of care. The healed wound at her side… his doing?
The truth fell into place, each piece heavier than the last. He hadn't captured her. He had saved her.
A boy had saved her.