Morgan did not follow him.
She stood where the forest thinned, half-shadowed by the trees, and watched Arthur walk down the road with the boy at his side.
His pace was measured. Not cautious, not rushed. Protective, without being obvious about it.
Good, she thought.
He favored his left leg slightly. Subtle enough that most would miss it. He was hiding the pain well—but he had not let it vanish entirely.
That, too, was good.
The boy spoke in low bursts, words tumbling out faster than his courage. Arthur listened. Didn't interrupt.
Didn't reassure with empty sounds.
Just nodded when it mattered.
Morgan folded her arms loosely beneath her chest and allowed herself a small smile.
He was learning.
————±————±————±————
She waited until they were gone before moving.
The clearing still smelled of iron and trampled earth. Blood had soaked deep into the soil, darkening it in irregular patches.
Broken arrows lay scattered like discarded thoughts. Goblin blades—crude, chipped—were snapped or buried where they'd fallen.
And further in, where the ground dipped slightly—
The orc.
Dead.
Morgan approached without hurry, boots soundless against the grass. She crouched beside the body, eyes sharp, taking in the wounds.
Not clean. Not elegant. But fatal.
Deep cuts along the thigh where Arthur had slowed it. A crushed windpipe from a strike delivered too close, too desperate. The final wound—a sword driven beneath the ribs at an angle that spoke of shaking hands and stubborn refusal to fall.
Morgan exhaled softly through her nose.
"So," she murmured, mostly to herself. "You did finish it."
Not neatly. Not proudly. But completely.
She rose and turned away, the memory already pulling at her thoughts.
————±————±————±————
When she had found him, Arthur had been face-down in the dirt.
His sword was still in his hand.
That had been the first thing she noticed.
Fingers locked tight around the hilt, knuckles white even in unconsciousness.
His body had gone still, but some part of him refused to let go.
Blood matted his hair. Not all of it his.
Enough of it was.
Morgan knelt beside him, one hand braced against the ground as she leaned closer. His breathing was shallow but steady. Heart racing—not in panic, but in the slow, grinding aftermath of having pushed past what the body wanted.
"You're terrible at knowing when to stop,"
she said quietly.
No answer, of course.
She brushed hair back from his face, thumb pressing lightly beneath his jaw where the pulse fluttered strong and fast. Too fast. She frowned.
"You'll break yourself like this."
She said it without anger. Without judgment.
Just truth.
————±————±————±————
The goblins had come back after he fell.
Morgan remembered that clearly.
They had circled him like scavengers, emboldened by stillness. She had watched for three breaths—long enough to be certain Arthur would not rise on instinct alone.
Then she moved.
It was over in moments. No display. No excess. A knife through the throat. A crushed spine. A flick of her wrist that sent dark magic blooming once, efficiently, and no more.
When it was done, she returned to Arthur.
She eased him onto his back, careful with the injured leg, and settled onto the ground herself.
With practiced ease, she lifted his head and drew it into her lap.
He stirred immediately.
Brows knitting. A low sound catching in his throat.
"There," she murmured, fingers threading through his hair. "Easy."
His body relaxed in increments. Tension unwinding not because he trusted the world—but because, somewhere deep, he recognized her.
Morgan stiffened slightly at the realization.
Annoying.
————±————±————±————
She did not heal him all at once.
That would have been simple. Tempting, even. To erase the damage, knit bone and muscle clean, send him back onto the road whole and unscarred.
She didn't.
Instead, she worked carefully. Closed what would kill him. Stabilized what would cripple him. Left the rest to time, to ache, to memory.
"You need to remember this," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "Not the pain. But the cost."
Her fingers moved through his hair slowly, deliberately. She smoothed blood away, untangled knots, let her touch linger just long enough that it was no longer clinical.
Arthur shifted again. This time, his hand moved.
He caught a fold of her cloak, fingers curling weakly.
Morgan inhaled sharply.
"…Greedy," she muttered.
But she didn't pull away.
————±————±————±————
He woke briefly while she worked.
Eyes half-lidded. unfocused.
Green dulled by exhaustion but still searching.
"Morgan?" he murmured.
Her name, rough and unguarded, spoken like it belonged there.
She raised a brow. "You're not supposed to know that yet."
His lips twitched. Barely. "Figured… you'd be upset if I got it wrong."
Despite herself, Morgan laughed—quiet and surprised.
"Cheeky," she said. "For someone half-dead."
"Still breathing," he replied faintly.
She leaned closer, voice lowering. "Barely. Don't make a habit of it."
His gaze sharpened for a moment. Enough awareness to take her in.
The closeness. The way her hand still rested in his hair.
"…Sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For worrying you."
Morgan scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."
But her fingers tightened just a little.
————±————±————±————
He slept again after that.
Deep. Dreamless.
Morgan stayed longer than she intended.
She watched the rise and fall of his chest. The way his brow smoothed when pain loosened its grip. The way his grip slackened but did not release her cloak entirely.
She could leave him now. He would wake alone. Strong enough to walk. Strong enough to continue.
She should.
Instead, she sighed and brushed her thumb once along his temple.
"You're going to be trouble," she told him quietly. "The inconvenient sort."
She stood at last, easing him down carefully, arranging his cloak so the night chill wouldn't bite too hard. She erased signs of her magic. Masked tracks. Nudged chance where it needed to go.
The boy would be waiting when Arthur woke.
Of course he would.
————±————±————±————
Now, watching Arthur walk away, Morgan felt the echo of that quiet moment settle into something steadier.
He had not thanked her.
Good.
He had not asked questions.
Better.
He had simply continued.
Morgan turned back toward the trees, lips curling faintly.
"Try not to die again," she said to the empty road. "I'm not always in the mood to be gentle."
Then she vanished into the forest, already measuring the distance he still had to walk —and the day she would no longer be content to watch from the edges.