The room smelled faintly of herbs and iron, a sharp, clean scent that made the air feel alive.
Sunlight streamed through the window, slanting across the floorboards, catching dust motes that floated like tiny embers in the golden light.
The heat from the sun pressed through the glass, warming my shoulders. It was comforting, but I barely noticed it. My mind was elsewhere, circling around the problem ahead.
Eva sat cross-legged on the floor, small bag at her side, tools and vials neatly arranged around her. She looked up when I entered, her eyes bright, unafraid, even in the shadows of my presence.
"Zef," she said softly, the casual familiarity in her voice slicing through the tension. She didn't call me Master. Didn't need to. Not here. Not now.
I let my cloak fall from my shoulders. The weight felt heavy, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the news I carried. "I need you to check something out," I said, voice low. I stepped closer, letting the sunlight hit my face.
She didn't flinch, didn't move away.
Eva tilted her head, lips twitching. "What kind of check?"
I lowered my voice, keeping it even. "Someone fell from the sky. Name's Arinthal. They also call him the Blood of Haven. He is a miraculous healer.
And...
He's in Oma."
I let the words hang for a second. Oma. The one place she'd never want to go.
Her eyebrows rose, interest flickering. "Oma? That's… not exactly a friendly neighborhood for your loyal Summoned," she said.
"No," I agreed, letting a thin smirk touch my lips. "Which is why I need you."
She smiled faintly, calm and deliberate. "You're asking me to go where your warriors can't go. How exciting."
We both laughed softlyly andrylyryly. No pretenses. No titles. Just Zef and Eva. Battle-hardened friends speaking in the open.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice further. "How will you get in?"
She tapped a vial at her side. "He heals people right? I'll go in as someone in need of healing. That's the angle."
I narrowed my eyes. "He might know you're lying."
Her grin sharpened. "Who says I will be lying?"
Before I could respond, she uncapped the vial and drank it in one motion. I froze. "Do I even want to know what you just took?"
"Deadly poison. Kills me by dusk," she said casually, as if she were talking about tea.
I ran a hand over my face. "Oh. Okay. But… how is your death helping the mission?"
"Arinthal won't turn away a dying lady," she replied. Small shrug. Practically casual.
I exhaled, feeling the tension in my chest, the heat of the room pressing in. She packed a small bag with methodical precision, every movement deliberate, unflinching.
I could smell the faint tang of her perfume mixing with the faint chemical scent of poison.
As her hand touched the door, I called out, "Eva. Be careful out there."
Her smile was as bright as ever. "Always," she said, voice calm, steady.
As she walked through the door I had to ask.
"Do you still remember the day we met?"
Her voice echoed in, clear as the sky on a hot afternoon. "How could I forget?"
The door clicked shut behind her. I stayed by the window, watching the sunlight streak across the floorboards, thinking about her, about the mission, about the Blood of Haven.
Then suddenly, I found myself going back to the day we met.
How could I stop myself from recalling?
Remembering the failure of my youth and the danger it left me in, felt nostalgic.
I closed my eyes reliving my past for a moment.
The road burned under my boots. Heat pressed down like gravity, baking the earth.
Dust rose with every step, swirling in the harsh afternoon sunlight.
My cloak stuck to my back, heavy with sweat. My body was failing me, slow and trembling. Every muscle ached. Every breath felt like fire.
I had just lost a war and all my comrades. The Great Zefar was forced to run.
My enemies were close, chasing me relentlessly. I would have ended myself if I could—but my body was too spent even for that. I also had no weapon.
I stumbled, vision blurring. And then I saw her. A figure ahead, a young woman, back strapped with what looked like medical gear.
Shirt and trousers, practical, no pretense. She looked like a healer—but she moved with confidence, purpose.
"Help!" My voice cracked, gravelly, barely carrying across the road.
She ran toward me without hesitation, boots kicking up dust, eyes sharp and calculating. "What happened to you?" she demanded, bending over as she studied my wounds.
I tried to speak. My lips moved, but barely any sound came out.
"What's your name, sir? Are your relatives or friends nearby?" she asked.
"More like enemies," I rasped, scoffing.
She didn't flinch. Didn't pause. "Water? Bandages?"
I coughed, weakness dragging me down. "Your name?"
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Eva Sevlin," she said.
I grabbed her hand, startling her. "Eva, end my misery… then run!"
"Huh?" she whispered, eyes wide, the afternoon sun catching on her copper hair.
Before I could explain, my body betrayed me. Darkness pressed against my vision. My knees buckled. I hit the dirt, the heat of the road scorching through my cloak, burning my face, crushing what little strength I had left.
And then… nothing.
I woke back in the present, sunlight pouring through the window, the faint smell of herbs and iron. Eva was out on the road, carrying out my mission.
Her confidence. Her audacity. The reckless precision that made her indispensable.
I leaned against the windowframe, feeling the warmth of the sun, thinking of the road, the heat, the dust, the fear—and the hands that had held mine when I was dying, young and lost.
She had never needed a sword. She had never needed a crown. Yet she carried the weight of trust like armor, sharper and stronger than anything I possessed.