The scent of wet soil and river reeds lingered in the air. The waves of the waters lapped gently against the shore, a soothing rhythm in the morning stillness along with the chirping sparrows.
Zephyr stirred awake.
His limbs ached, and the coarse blanket tangled around his legs felt unfamiliar. For a heartbeat, his instincts surged—where was I?
But the panic ebbed just as quickly. The hum of running water, the soft rustle of the trees... calming him down.
His hand reached for the side instinctively—searching for the cold weight of his blade. It was there, resting against the wall, within reach.
He sat up slowly, muscles protesting. There were faint traces of dried blood on his skin, half-washed, and a bandage snug against his ribs. The memory returned in fragments.
He exhaled, steadying himself.
The door creaked open.
A woman stepped inside, her clothes were simple—earth-toned robes, her black hair tied back. She was carrying a bowl that was steamed with a sharp, bitter scent—crushed riverside herbs, maybe rosauris and blackroot. Old remedies, known for pain and healing.
"You're alive," she said, setting the bowl on a low table. "That's something."
"You're lucky I found you when I did. Another hour and you'd be all dust by now."
Zephyr's gaze flicked toward her. Her eyes were pale and clouded. Her gaze was unfocused, pupils dulled and greyed over like misted glass, taking her sight away.
Though her eyes never met his, there was no hesitation in her movement.
A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Norine, you don't sound like a healer."
"I'm not," she said, kneeling by the bowl. "But I know how to keep someone from dying."
He leaned back against the wall, his gaze shifting toward the open window. The sound of the river was steady, catching breath for a moment.
He remembered what she said the first time he left, limping into the cold rain, blood dripping from his side.
"Doors don't stay open forever, Zephyr. I've seen enough men die by the river."
She had said that once, long ago. But it had stayed with him, heavier than any wound.
Now, a year later, here she was again—kneeling beside him, coaxing him back from the edge.
"You're taking too many risks," she muttered, reaching for the cloth by the bowl.
Zephyr blinked, then smirked faintly. "Are you always this charming in the mornings?"
"Only when I'm nursing half-dead fools."
She dipped the cloth and pressed it gently against the dried blood along his shoulder.
"How bad was it?" he asked.
"Bad enough. Ribs took a hit, shallow cuts and was poisoned on top of it." She paused. "But you're good now."
"Shame," he said dryly. "Would've made a cleaner exit."
Her hand froze for a heartbeat. Just a breath. Then she continued wiping the wound.
"You're still here, Zephyr," she said, voice low. "For now… that's enough."
Zephyr turned his head slightly, studying her. The sightless eyes, the quiet strength behind them. The way she always knew exactly where he was—even if she couldn't see him.
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
She reached for a clean strip of cloth, fingers brushing his arm—light, steady, familiar.
"Rest," she said gently. "You're safe here."
Zephyr waited until Norine left the room, the scent of crushed herbs still clinging to the air. As she left the room, Zephyr swung his legs off the bed and stood slowly. Every muscle protested, but he moved with a stubborn grace.
The hut creaked softly under his steps. He reached for the wooden door, fingers brushing against the grain, and stepped outside. The morning rays of light danced off the river's surface, as a kingfisher darted past in a flash of blue.
This place—this hut, this quiet blend of the world—felt untouched by the chaos he carried.
Zephyr knelt by the river, dipping his hands into the water. Cold. Cleansing. The ripples warped his reflection. Tired eyes. Shadowed cheekbones. And that familiar ink curling along his left forearm—A Raven etched into his skin long ago in his homeland.
"I knew you wouldn't listen to me", Norine's voice drifted from the doorway. She walked over, slow steps over dew-soaked grass.
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes were on the horizon, a faint chuckle left him. "I'm not running," he murmured.
She shook her head, reaching into her robe and pulling out a folded cloth. Inside—his pendant. The one he always wore under his shirt. Burnt at the edges, cracked down the center.
"You dropped this." Her tone was dry, but there was something softer beneath it.
Zephyr stared at it, then took it gently from her palm.
"Thought I lost it," he said.
She nodded. "You almost did."
He closed his fingers around it. Zephyr looked back toward the trees. The forest swayed gently in the breeze.
"You'll leave again."
He looked at her. Not surprised. Just quiet. "I always do."
"But this time," she continued, "you're not walking out of here like a half-dead. Rest. Just for a day."
"A day might be too much."
Her lips quirked. "Then half."
He smiled faintly, then turned back toward the water, washing his face with a rough splash.
"You'll vanish again," Norine said, her voice low.
Zephyr didn't deny it.
"I'll still keep the door open."