“Of course,” she whispered, a strangled ugh escaping her throat.

  All she’d wanted was a simple night with her tea, her book and her cat. That’s all. Just a moment to forget about everything and find some peace.Instead, the universe had delivered an armed, bleeding stranger to her doorstep during the worst storm in months.

  Clearly, the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

  A violent gust rattled the cottage, smming the open door against the wall. The impact sent her bookshelves trembling, threatening to topple her most treasured possessions. Rain swept across the threshold in sheets, cold air battling the warmth of her sanctuary.

  “Damn it all.” She pressed her back against the door, using her weight to force it shut against the gale. The tch caught with a decisive click that felt like the closing of a trap. She was now sealed inside with him—whoever, whatever he was.

  Amriel turned, her shoulders pressed against the rough wood, surveying what remained of her peaceful evening. And then, the kettle she’d set to boil, began to scream for attention, its whistle rising to a frantic pitch.

  Priorities, Riel. One crisis at a time.

  The thought sounded unnervingly like her mother’s voice—pragmatic, unflinching, and maddeningly right. She’d deal with the kettle first, then the bleeding man. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate with all its yelling.

  She edged around the prone figure, keeping her knife ready, never quite turning her back on him. The kettle’s urgent whistle set her teeth on edge as she lifted it from the hook, steam hissing as she moved it to the stone hearth’s edge. The sudden silence seemed louder than the whistle had been.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught an unexpected movement—Meeko. But not the bristling, snarling Meeko she’d expected. The massive forest cat padded toward the stranger with deliberate steps, silver eyes narrowed in... curiosity?

  This made no sense. Meeko tolerated exactly three humans: herself, Niamh, and Simon—and the tter two only after years of bribery with choice game and scratch sessions. Everyone else received bared teeth at best, drawn blood at worst. Yet here he was, nose twitching as he circled the unconscious stranger, his posture more inquisitive than defensive.

  “Have you lost your mind too?” she murmured.

  Meeko’s ear flicked in her direction, acknowledging her voice without deigning to answer. He lowered his head to sniff at the stranger’s damp cloak, whiskers twitching with interest.

  The copper light of the hearth revealed the stranger more clearly—tall and lean beneath his sodden cloak, with bronze skin and sharp features now sck in unconsciousness. The sword strapped to his back was no ceremonial piece but a well-used weapon.

  Fetching her camping bedroll from beneath her cot, Amriel knelt beside him and spread her bedroll out, steeling herself for what came next. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  The question lingered, unanswered in the close air of the cottage. She needed to see the extent of his wounds, which meant moving him. Which meant touching him. Which meant making herself vulnerable.

  This is madness, she thought, even as she crossed to her sleeping area to retrieve her bedroll. He could be anyone. Anything.

  Meeko’s strange behavior was the deciding factor. The forest cat’s instincts had saved her life more than once. If he sensed no immediate threat from this man, perhaps she could cautiously trust that assessment.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she told the cat, who merely blinked at her, serene and unperturbed.

  Amriel knelt beside the stranger, spreading the bedroll next to him. The task ahead was daunting—he outweighed her considerably, and moving deadweight was never easy. She’d need to leverage his unconsciousness, allowing gravity to do most of the work.

  “Alright,” she muttered, positioning herself at his shoulders. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  The cloak had to go first. The fabric itself, though currently waterlogged, was of decent quality. As she worked at the csp, her mind cataloged observations.

  His breathing was uneven but persistent. Good sign. Skin was cmmy but not ice-cold. Another point in his favor. The blood from his wounds, while concerning, wasn’t pumping rhythmically, suggesting no major arteries were compromised. Three small mercies.

  The cloak fell away revealing a sword in a bck leather scabbard, secured across his back by a harness of straps.

  She hesitated before touching the weapon. Taking it from him felt like crossing another threshold, one with no clear way back. But leaving an armed stranger in her home, even an unconscious one, was foolishness beyond measure.

  “Sorry about this,” she murmured, fingers working at the rain-soaked leather straps. “But I’ll be keeping this safe until we determine if you’re friend or foe.”

  The harness gave way, allowing her to slide the scabbard free. The weight of it surprised her—heavier than it looked, with a bance that spoke of quality craftsmanship. She set it carefully against the far wall, well out of his reach should he wake suddenly.

  Now for the hard part.

  Bracing herself, Amriel gripped his shoulders and rolled him toward the bedroll. His body was deadweight, resistant to movement. A grunt escaped her lips as muscles strained, sweat beading on her forehead despite the chill air.

  “Come on,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “Work with me here.”

  As if in response, his body suddenly shifted, momentum carrying him onto the bedroll with unexpected ease. The movement must have jostled his wounds—a sharp cry tore from his throat, though his eyes remained closed. The sound was raw, visceral, sending a chill down her spine.

  Pain like that couldn’t be feigned.

  Breathless, she rocked back on her heels, surveying her handiwork. He y sprawled on her bedroll, face upturned to the firelight. Without the shadows of his hood, she could see him clearly for the first time.

  His features were striking—bronze skin several shades darker than her own, sharp cheekbones that would have been aristocratic if not for the network of small scars across them. His jaw was strong, stubbled with several days’ growth. Dark hair, nearly bck, clung to his forehead in damp tendrils.

  Not from Khymarh, that much was certain. The coloring, the bone structure—everything about him whispered of distant nds. And yet, something about him felt... familiar, in a way she couldn’t define.

  Focus, Riel. His origins are less important than his injuries.

  She forced her gaze away from his face, assessing his body with clinical detachment. Deep gouges scored the hardened leather armor across his chest and shoulders—cw marks too rge for any natural predator she knew. The arrows were worse, their broken shafts making extraction challenging. Arrow wounds were vicious things, carrying dirt and infection deep into the body. And those in the abdomen rarely ended well.

  Reaching for her bone knife, she carefully cut the straps that held his armor in pce, revealing wounds that should have already killed him. Yet his breathing remained steady, if shallow. The bluish tinge to his lips suggested blood loss and cold were taking their toll. Without immediate help, he wouldn’t see dawn.

  For a fleeting moment, she considered seeking help—but the raging storm made that impossible. By the time it cleared enough for travel, it would be too te.

  She was his only chance, as inadequate as that might be.

  “Alright,” she whispered, more to herself than to him or Meeko. “One step at a time. Prep and clean the wounds. Extract the arrows. Control the bleeding. Prevent infection.”

  Saying it aloud made it seem almost manageable—a series of discrete tasks rather than one impossible burden. She could do this. She had to.

  Pushing to her feet, Amriel gathered her supplies—clean cloths, pliers, and her precious herbs. Herbs that might mean the difference between life and death—Chaliss moss for infection, Lycra leaves to slow bleeding, and precious Horissa Vharia to manage pain and, in this case, keep the patient asleep.

  She also grabbed the fsk of scotch Simon had left behind during his st visit. The memory of his wry grin flickered briefly in her mind — “For emergencies,” he’d said with a wink.

  “This counts,” she muttered dryly.

  As she arranged these implements beside the bedroll, a strange calm settled over her. This was familiar territory. Not the severity of the wounds, perhaps, but the act of healing itself. Of fighting against death’s approach with the only weapons she had—knowledge, determination, and the quiet belief that life, however fragile, was worth protecting.

  She gnced once more at the stranger’s face, so still it might have been carved from stone if not for the painful rise and fall of his chest. Whoever he was, whatever had brought him to her door on this storm-wracked night, he had pced his life in her hands—knowingly or not.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said softly, dipping a cloth into warm water. “But I’ll do what I can. That’s a promise.”

  Meeko’s purr rumbled in response, vibrating through the floorboards like a benediction.

  Beyond the cottage walls, the storm continued its assault, branches cracking like bones beneath its fury. But inside, a different battle was beginning—quieter, more desperate, but no less fierce. A battle Amriel was determined not to lose.

  Amriel’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for the herbal paste in her satchel, the smell of crushed Horissa Vharia leaves making her nostrils fre. Sweat beaded at her temples despite the chill that had settled into the cottage.

  She took a steadying breath, fighting to calm the frantic beating of her heart. The man’s face was ashen beneath his tan, lips pale and cracked.

  Gently, she pried his mouth open and pced the paste beneath his tongue, ensuring it wouldn’t be dislodged.

  “Stay under,” she whispered, surprised by the tenderness in her own voice—a plea wrapped in a command. “You’ll thank me for it ter.”

  If you survive, she added silently, the thought bringing a tightness to her chest she refused to examine.

  While she waited for the herb to take effect, Amriel ran each tool through the fmes dancing inside the hearth, watching as the fire licked at the metal. The ritual was as much for her benefit as for sterilization; it centered her, reminded her of her purpose. Heat radiated against her face, warming skin that felt too tight, too cold with apprehension.

  Get it together, Riel, she said sharply to herself.

  She set her jaw. Death wasn’t welcome here tonight.