The first sensation to pierce the fog of unconsciousness was the stark, singular warmth of one cheek pressed against something soft, a strange counterpoint to the chill that clung to the rest of me. The night air, crisp and cool, carried the distant, mournful hoot of an owl and the sharp, sporadic crackle of a nearby fire. A heavy, yet not unpleasant, aroma of woodsmoke, intricately laced with the sharp, clean scent of crushed herbs, hung in the air, a fragrant tapestry that spoke of both wilderness and care.

My eyelids, heavy as stones, finally fluttered open to a breathtaking canopy of ancient trees. Their gnarled branches clawed at a sky strewn with the diamond dust of a million stars, their immense shadows writhing like living things in the unseen currents of the wind. A flickering, hypnotic orange light danced at the edge of my vision, and a pull I couldn’t articulate drew my gaze towards it.

There, Cassius was a silhouette against the flames, a small pot bubbling precariously above the crackling wood. The firelight was a sculptor, carving deep, dramatic lines into his face, highlighting a jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone and the dark, bruised hollows that had taken root beneath his eyes. I tried to sit, to push myself upright, but a blinding bolt of agony in my shoulder stole my breath and tore a pained groan from my throat.

“Thalia,” Cassius’s voice was a tangible weight, heavy with a weariness that seemed to seep into the very air around us. “Careful. Just…slowly.”

Silence was my only answer as I gathered what little strength I possessed. Each inch of movement was a hard-won battle, the pain from my shoulder forcing a ragged gasp past my clenched teeth. Trembling, I finally managed to prop myself up, my head swimming from the dizzying effort. Through it all, Cassius’s intense gaze never wavered from me.

I looked down. My shirt was a ruin of shredded fabric, sliced away to reveal a thick, expertly wrapped bandage around my arm. The white of the cloth was a shocking contrast to the dark, dried blood that soaked what remained of my sleeve.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was as taut and strained as the lines etched around his mouth. “I cleaned the wound and applied a poultice. It was the best I could manage out here. We can’t risk infection.” His words were flat, a report delivered with a chilling lack of emotion.

My eyes moved from his handiwork back to his shadowed, unreadable face. “Thank you,” I whispered, the words feeling utterly inadequate. I attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt more like a grimace, a pathetic twitch of my lips that he didn’t acknowledge.

“Are you okay?” I pressed, ignoring the searing protest from my shoulder as I shifted closer, needing to break through the wall he had erected.

He refused to meet my gaze, his own dropping to his hands, which he squeezed so tightly his knuckles shone white in the firelight. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with unspoken things.

“I’m not the one who nearly bled to death,” he bit out, the words as sharp and jagged as flint.

That wasn’t what I asked.

His head snapped up then, and the firelight caught a look on his face that was a maelstrom of fury and a deeper, more fractured pain. “You almost died,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You almost died protecting me.”

“But I didn’t,” I insisted, the words costing me more than just the breath to speak them. My own stubbornness was a familiar, if painful, anchor. “It was my choice to make, Cassius.”

“That’s not the point!” He surged to his feet, turning his back to me to stare into the consuming darkness as if it held the answers that eluded him. “I’m useless like this. Powerless. If I can’t wield mana, then my swordsmanship must be…flawless.” The last word was a self-inflicted wound.

“Cassius…” I began, my voice softer, a gentle attempt to cut through the harshness of his self-reproach. “You were locked away. No one comes back from something like that and is perfect at anything, no matter how ingrained the skill is.” A dull, radiating ache pulsed from my shoulder, a liquid fire that stole my train of thought. With a sigh, I surrendered to the weakness and slowly lowered myself back to the ground. “…And I’m not exactly at my strongest, either,” I finished, my voice thin with a fatigue that went bone-deep.

The rigid tension in his shoulders eased, and he turned back to face me. The raw anger had bled out of him, replaced by a weary understanding that softened the hard planes of his face. “Once you’ve healed,” he offered, his tone gentle for the first time since I’d woken. “Perhaps we could train together.”

A real smile, soft and genuine, touched my lips. “That sounds perfect.”

The unforgiving ground offered little comfort, and with a grunt of effort, I pushed myself to a sitting position again, the movement sending a dull, throbbing echo through my injured shoulder. “And besides,” I said, looking over at him, “you can’t be that bad of a swordsman. You’re a good teacher of magic.”

A faint, ghost of a smile touched his lips, the first genuine sign of warmth I’d seen. “You’re an annoyingly resilient student,” he countered, his voice losing some of its hard, brittle edge as he sat back down. He gestured to the pot nestled in the coals. “Now drink this. It will help.”

“And what is ‘this’?” I asked, my suspicion piqued.

“A tea. Mostly white willow bark, for the pain.” He carefully ladled the murky, steaming liquid into a rough-hewn wooden bowl. “Amelia packed enough supplies for a small army. She thinks of everything.”

“That’s Amelia,” I agreed, accepting the offered bowl. The earthy, sharp scent stung my nostrils before the liquid even touched my lips. The brew was aggressively bitter, a taste so foul it made my eyes water and my entire face clench into an involuntary grimace. Seeing no other option, I took a steadying breath and drained the bowl in three long, desperate swallows.

I slammed the empty bowl down in my lap, shuddering. “Vile,” I choked out, my voice raw. “That is absolutely, unquestionably vile.”

For the first time, a real laugh escaped him—a short, deep, and honest sound that seemed to startle even himself. “The most potent remedies often are,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the firelight. “Nature provides the cure, not the flavor.”

“True,” I murmured, my gaze drifting past the comforting circle of the fire to the shadowed arches and moss-eaten stones that surrounded us. “So this is…?”

“Eldrien,” Cassius affirmed, his voice now gentle. The smile he gave me was full of a warmth and pride that seemed to chase away some of the night’s chill. “You didn’t fail, Thalia. You got us here. We just had the misfortune of landing in the ruins.”

The breath I’d been holding escaped me in a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The validation was a balm, soothing a deep-seated fear I hadn’t even dared to acknowledge. I did it.

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming softer, more instructive. “Close your eyes for me.” I obeyed without question. “Forget the pain. Forget everything but this place. Feel the night air on your skin. Listen to the symphony of the leaves.” I nodded, letting the quiet, rustling music of the forest envelop me. “Your blood is part elven. That gives you a bond with this world that few humans possess. Nature speaks, Thalia. I want you to see it.”

He paused, letting the silence settle. “When you are ready, open your eyes and look at the nearest tree.”

I let my eyelids drift open. The world seemed sharper, the colors deeper, more vibrant. I fixed my gaze on a massive, ancient oak whose branches reached for the sky like gnarled arms. And then I saw it. It wasn’t a light, not in the traditional sense, but a living aura—a faint, ethereal tracery of soft green energy that clung to every twig and leaf, pulsing with a slow, silent, rhythmic beat. My hand rose of its own accord, a single finger extended in silent, breathless awe. “It’s…glowing.”

“Yes,” Cassius breathed, his voice filled with a quiet reverence. “That is its life force. You’re seeing the very soul of a healthy tree.”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, utterly mesmerized. “What if… what if a tree wasn’t healthy?”

“Its light would be a sickly, muddy brown, like the color of stagnant water,” he answered, his tone shifting seamlessly back from teacher to caretaker. “But that is enough for one night. Lie down.”

“I feel like I’ve been lying down for an eternity,” I mumbled, though there was no real heat in the words.

“I know,” he said, his voice softening with an unexpected tenderness. “But every moment you rest is a moment closer to us moving on.”

He was right. With a resigned sigh that did little to mask the wince of pain, I lowered myself back down. I watched him for a long moment, his profile strong and serious in the flickering light of the fire. The quiet, capable authority he wore out here in the wild was so different from the caged man I first saw. I could get used to this version of him.

“Do you think we’ll be able to travel tomorrow?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper against the vastness of the night.

His intense gaze met mine, and he seemed to weigh every ounce of my strength, every flicker of my eyelids. “We will see what the sunrise brings,” he said, his voice a gentle evasion. “Now, rest. I will keep watch.”

“And you?”

“I will rest when it is my turn. Sleep, Thalia.”

His command was a gentle current, pulling me under into the deep, welcoming waters of exhaustion. The firelight danced across the hard, handsome planes of his face, casting him in flickering bronze and shifting shadow—a living, breathing portrait that became the last thing I saw before the darkness finally, blessedly, took me.