The kingdom of Eldoria breathed uneasily that evening.
The sky was bruised purple and gold as the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows over the stone walls of the capital. Bells rang faintly in the distance—not in celebration, but in relief. The war at the eastern borders had paused, and the soldiers were finally returning home.
Among them rode Sir Alaric Vayne.
He did not announce his arrival. He never did.
His black armor bore the marks of battle—scratches, dents, dried blood that no longer belonged to him. His sword rested quietly at his side, its edge dulled not by weakness, but by the weight of lives it had taken. As his horse stepped through the narrow road near the forest village, villagers watched in silence.
Children stared at him with wide eyes.
Old men lowered their heads.
Women whispered prayers under their breath.
Alaric did not look at them.
War had taught him a dangerous habit—to look through people, not at them.
He had survived again.
And yet, survival felt heavier than death.
The village near Moonveil Forest was not marked on most maps. It was too small, too quiet, too unimportant for kings and generals. And yet, fate had a strange way of hiding miracles in forgotten places.
That was where Elara Moonveil lived.
She was gathering herbs near the forest edge when she heard the sound of hooves. Instinctively, she stepped back, clutching the basket to her chest. Soldiers often brought trouble, and knights even more so.
But when she saw him, she did not run.
There was something… broken about the way he sat on his horse.
Sir Alaric dismounted slowly, one hand pressing against his side. Blood seeped through a crack in his armor. He took two steps forward before his knees gave way.
The great knight of Eldoria collapsed into the dirt.
Elara dropped her basket.
She ran.
"Don't move," she said, kneeling beside him, her voice trembling but firm.
Alaric's vision blurred. He could hear her, but the world felt far away. He had faced enemy blades without fear, yet something about this girl—this stranger—made his chest tighten.
"I won't hurt you," she added quickly, as if reading his silence. "I'm a healer… or at least, I try to be."
He finally looked at her.
Her eyes were not afraid.
That unsettled him more than any battlefield ever had.
Elara worked carefully, removing pieces of armor, cleaning the wound with water and crushed herbs. Her hands were gentle, but steady. She did not flinch at blood. She did not ask him who he was or how many men he had killed.
She treated him like a wounded human being.
"Why do you help me?" Alaric asked quietly, his voice rough like stone dragged across metal.
She paused, then smiled faintly.
"Because you're alive," she replied. "And that's reason enough."
Something inside him cracked.
As night fell, she guided him to her small cottage at the edge of the forest. A single candle lit the room. The walls smelled of herbs, old books, and warmth—things Alaric had not known for years.
"You can rest here," Elara said. "Just for tonight."
Alaric sat on the wooden bed, staring at his hands. These hands had ended lives. And yet, they now trembled.
"I should leave before dawn," he said.
She nodded. "Knights always do."
He looked at her sharply.
"You sound certain."
Elara met his gaze. "Men who belong to war never stay where peace lives."
For the first time in years, Sir Alaric Vayne had no answer.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.
Inside, something invisible began to grow—
quiet, fragile, and dangerous.
Neither of them knew it yet,
but fate had already chosen them.
And fate, once awakened, never showed mercy.