The message came at dawn, slipped beneath the door like a secret. No seal. No name. Just a piece of bck ribbon tied around the parchment. I already knew what this meant. Another assignment. Still, I opened it, the paper soft and worn by many hands.

  One pce. One name. Mireholt. The girl.

  I folded the message, throwing it into the fire. The fme licked the edges before devouring it whole.

  Outside, the wind howled low between the stone buildings of Drevmire. My hometown was a hollowed-out pce—ash-gray walls, crooked chimneys, smoke in every breath. But it was home. I strapped my bdes to my back, hidden beneath my cloak.

  They warned me that she was dangerous, her bloodline linked to ancient magic. That, if she lived, she could restore what should be forgotten. They never told me exactly why they feared her. Only that she needed to die.

  By nightfall, I was already beyond the northern ridge, following the narrow roads; Cutting through the forests and fields. Horses were too loud, too noticeable. I couldn't risk someone remembering a face. On foot I left no trail, no witness. The third day, I stopped by a small outpost called Eldmere. It's a town between Drevmire and Mireholt. Horses were too loud, I was already beyond the nor

  I had pnned to meet up with an acquaintance.

  Sitting in the farthest corner, hood low, and fingers wrapped around a chipped cup.

  He sat down and already began, "She is still in Mireholt. They say she heals the sick and injured with her bare hands. No tools, no chants. Just her touch."

  I didn't look up; "And the council?"

  "Nervous," the man said, rubbing his thumb over a worn ring, "Too many eyes on her. But they said they want it done cleanly. Quiet."

  "What else?"

  He hesitated for a moment; "Some say she brings pnts back to life. Other cims she raised a child from the dead."

  "Lies." I muttered. "Maybe," he replied, "but the people believe them. That's almost worse."

  "Thank you," With a nod, I stood up and left a silver coin on the table before disappearing into the dark.

  The woods thickened as I continued walking. Branches cwed at my cloak. Leaves muffled every step. The further I walked, the more the world changed. It was warmer, greener grass and lots of flowers, compared to my hometown.

  I spotted the vilge before nightfall. Mireholt clung to the edge of the forest like a secret. Small cottages with moss-covered roofs. Lanterns flickered in the windows. Smoke curled from the chimneys. It was untouched by the war, by politics. Almost peaceful. Too peaceful.

  I didn't step into the vilge right away. I watched from the trees. I counted the many homes. How many people lived here? How many people moved through the square? And, most importantly, the guards. There was none.

  I crouched beneath the trees, back pressed against the rough bark, eyes fixed on the civilians below. A little boy pying with a wooden hoop down a dirt path. An old man sharpening his bde that looked more suitable for harvesting than one for killing. No walls. No weapons. I grew up in a pce that taught you to expect a knife in your back. And then my eyes flickered over to a garden. The cottage was filled with herbs, flowers that shouldn't be blooming in this kind of weather. Lavender, Bloodrose, Moonfern and others I didn't recognise at all.

  In the centre she was kneeling down in the dirt. Her hair fell in loose waves down her back, catching the ntern behind her. Her hands were covered in soil. She was alone. That must be her. She didn't look like a threat?

  I returned after nightfall, hood on, boots silent on the cobblestones of Mireholt. Lanterns hung on iron hooks, swaying softly in the wind. I didn't go for food or comfort. Taverns were messy, loud, and perfect for hearing names. And if she was known, someone here would speak her name before the night ended. I walked into the tavern. The kind of pce where everyone knew everybody. I felt like I didn't belong.

  The barkeep's eyes flickered up and down as I approached the counter.

  "Stranger," the man said, neutral but wary.

  I nodded, "Passing through."

  "Plenty pass. Few stop."

  "I heard there's someone here," I said casually, "A girl with a gift. Healer, I think?"

  The barkeep went still. So did the room. At a nearby table, a man with a sun-weathered face and broad shoulders stood slowly. He didn't look like a farmer, maybe more like a hunter. There was steel in his eyes, hands hovered near his belt, like it was a crime to ask about someone in this town.

  "Why're you asking about Eirys?" the man said.

  I turned slightly, voice calm, "Just heard stories."

  The man stepped closer into my personal space, "She didn't ask for stories. And sure as hell didn't ask for people sniffing around her business."

  "I meant no harm."

  The man narrowed his eyes, "No one harmless walks like you do."

  That did it. The man moved first.

  A sharp curse, a fsh of movement as my head snapped back as a fist cracked across my jaw. It was a solid punch, enough to split my lips. I staggered half a step, tasting blood.

  I didn't speak. I didn't warn.

  I closed the space between us. My hand shed out, not with a dagger, but with my palm smming into a man's throat. A choking gasp as they stumbled backwards. The dagger came next. I gripped it in reverse, hooked my arm around the man's neck and drove the bde under his ribs, deep and angled upwards. The man screamed.

  Not a clean kill.

  Blood spurted against my forearm, the man bucked his grip, trying to push away, breathe. I twisted the bde. I felt it scrape his bones, felt the body seize as his lungs filled with blood into a wet gurgling gasp.

  His hands clutched my shoulders, the other scrambled uselessly at my dagger's hilt.

  "Don't." I said under my breath. "Just let go."

  The man's knees buckled. My hand left his body, wiping the bde on his shirt. No one moved. No one stopped me as I turned and walked out.