Barius hadn't stirred for hours.
The fever had broken, but his breathing stayed shallow, his body a weight of bruises and strange stillness on the cot by the fire. Nyla sat on a stool at the edge of the bed, grinding garlic and ginger with the pestle to help with the swelling of his broken leg, humming songs she half-remembered, every soft circle of stone against wood steadying her pulse.
Alva crept closer, the quiet of the cottage making her steps sound too loud. "He's still asleep?"
"Mhm," Nyla agreed without looking up. "And best left that way for now."
The girl frowned. "You gave him something, didn't you?"
Nyla hesitated only a beat. She did not like the thought of dosing a man against his will, but there had been no consent to give, only a choice to make.
A draught that took the edge off rage and pain, not one to bury him in sleep for a week; a soldier's sedative she'd used in field hospitals, tempered with valerian and a touch of willow for the fever. She kept a small bottle of counter-tincture within reach, sharp tea and crushed peppered mint, the sort of rude stimulant that would wake a man without killing him.
"Only enough to steady him. Enough for us to work." Then she sat with her palm on his chest, watching the rise and fall like a metronome, listening for the breath to shallow. If the sleep ran too deep she had the counter-measures at hand; if he woke dangerous, she'd have the bindings and the door between them.
It was crude medicine and necessary medicine, and she would answer for it if it cost him more than she had feared.
Alva edged closer to the cot, curiosity outweighing caution. "He doesn't look dangerous now..."
"That's because he isn't conscious," Nyla replied, voice gentle but firm. She rose, brushing ginger from her palms. "It's best to stay away from him for now. Especially when he wakes up."
Alva hesitated, glancing from the sleeping stranger to Nyla. "But you helped him anyway."
"I did," Nyla said quietly. "As is my sworn oath. It's one you will take one day if you wish to become a Healer and then you will learn that it isn't our place to judge who is saved and who isn't. It is our job to treat everyone the same. That doesn't mean we can't take precautions to keep ourselves safe."
The wind rattled the shutters, a low moan threading through the walls. Alva tugged her blanket tighter, retreating a few paces before sighing, and returning to her spot she'd made for herself under the table where she was tying twine around fabric and hay to make charms.
Nyla's eyes flickered to him. The sedative would wear off soon. She hoped by then he'd wake with his wits about him and hoped, too, that she'd still believe she'd done the right thing.
For now, she poked at the fire, listening to the deep rasping breathing of the man laying in the middle of her workshop.
Her back ached, her neck was stiff. The air in the cottage still held the scent of smoke and crushed yarrow, but the rain had passed, and with it their dwindling supplies. They had another mouth to feed now, and at the thought of it, a sick anxious feeling crawled up her throat, and she swallowed down with a gulp. People would start to notice. "Come Alva, we need to go into the market today."
Alva jumped to her feet, "What about him?"
"He's not going anywhere soon. We missed the morning market and I'm sure Lysa's already out of bread." Nyla was already picking up her cloak and attaching her belt. She tucked her coin purse into the leather pocket and picked up her basket, Alva following suit.
They bundled their cloaks tight and stepped out into the pale light, the damp earth soft beneath her boots. The air was fresh and brisk. The Hollow still looked unsettled, the puddles in the road black as mirrors, the air sharp with the scent of wet ash and churned mud. Overnight the snow had melted even more, revealing dirt and stone hidden away where she had never seen it before.
The market was half its usual self. Only a handful of stalls had opened, their awnings sagging from the rain. Nyla stopped at Lysa's table, the baker's hands dusted white with flour as she wrapped a loaf still warm from the oven.
"Morning, Nyla," Lysa said, her tone brittle with effort. "Missed you this morning, I saved you a loaf. Quiet day, isn't it? Feels like the whole Hollow's holding its breath."
Nyla managed a smile, passing over a few copper coins. "It'll pass. They always do. Thank you, I was worried you'd been cleaned out."
Lysa shook her head. "I've been able to do naught else but bake my terrors away. I apologise if you can taste it in the bread," she chuckled, half serious, "But I don't think it'll pass this time. Guards from the royal escort were found in the woods - what's left of them. Ewan said the prince himself was among them, though no one saw him dead or alive. The king's men came before dawn, took the bodies north."
Nyla's heart skipped, though her hands didn't falter. "Took them?"
"Aye," Lysa said, lowering her voice. "Didn't want folk asking questions, I suppose. You know how it is with the crown, when they want something gone, it's gone."
The loaf was heavier in Nyla's hands now.
"Have you seen Valtor?" Alva asked carefully.
Nyla's gaze snapped down to her, but she couldn't deny it'd been on her mind.
Lysa sighed, looking toward the empty lane that led down to the forge. "Not seen him since the day before the riders came, little one. I know how fond you were of im'. Maris says she's been sick with worry."
Nyla followed her gaze. The forge stood dark and still, chimney cold against the pale sky.
"Well," she said softly, tucking the bread into her basket, "if you hear anything—"
"I'll send word," Lysa promised. "But Divines keep you, Nyla. Whatever's brewing out there, best to stay close to home."
Nyla swallowed down the sand in her throat and turned away, her boots whispering against the wet ground.
The village murmured around her, snatches of talk, fear-laced and fervent.
"Bodies torn clean through..."
"Beasts, they said, not men."
"Why would the royal guard be this far north?"
Each word pressed closer around her like fog. She kept her chin down, her pace steady. They wouldn't understand, not if they knew what lay breathing under her roof. Why had she done it? Should she have done it?
She needed to send word to Eodwyn immediately. They would soon find out the Prince was not amongst the bodies, and Nyla didn't even want to think about what might happen then.
At the edge of the square, she paused, glancing once more at the forge. The empty yard, the cold chimney, the silence where there should've been the ring of steel on stone. If Valtor were here...
Fool. Nyla thought bitterly about herself and a man who had gotten his fill and left under the cover of darkness. You utter fool.
Then she turned toward the path home, her fingers tightening on the basket handle.
Nyla pushed open the door to the cottage with her shoulder, the smell of herbs and smoke meeting her like a familiar sigh. The room was just as she'd left it, the fire burned low, Alva's basket of half-sorted twine and foliage by the hearth.
For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. Nothing had changed. It was as if he didn't exist. But that was far from the truth.
She set the bread down and told Alva to stay in the house.
She moved through the back and crossed the yard to the workshop. She looked over her shoulder - she'd never done that before, she'd never had to, but her heart was a drumbeat as she pushed her way inside and closed the door behind her.
He lay exactly where she left him. His body stretched out in front of the hearth, darkly silhouetted against the warmth of the fire. She moved to check the poultice along his shoulder, careful not to touch skin for longer than needed. The fever had eased, though the wound still oozed faintly. Whatever storm had torn him apart, his body was slowly remembering how to heal.
She snatched parchment from her desk, dipped the quill once, and wrote fast, the ink blotting in places.
To the Eodwyn Wardens,
A man was found near death in the snow outside the Hollow. He bears a crest I do not recognise and carries a blade of clear royal make. He is alive and currently in my care, though his condition is grave. I request immediate guidance or retrieval.
- Nyla, Healer of the Hollow
A sharp knock in the distance, broke the stillness.
Nyla froze, every muscle going taut.
Another knock, louder this time. "Nyla? You home?"
Maris.
Nyla's throat closed. She left the note, steeling her nerves. Maris was a hound, she'd sniff the lie right out of her if she let her.
Alva was standing at the back door when Nyla emerged from the workshop. Her cheeks were pale, eyes alert, "Maris is here."
"Thank you, Alva."
Maris stood on the step, cheeks pink from the cold, a basket of greens hooked over her arm. "Nyla!" she said happily when she stepped into view, "I thought I'd drop these by, see how you were. You missed the morning market, I figured maybe you were feeling unwell." Her voice was bright, but her eyes, sharp, assessing, flicked past Nyla's shoulder.
"I'm fine," Nyla said quickly. "Just tired."
Maris shifted her weight. "Aye. Well, there's talk, you know. About what happened near the bridge." She lowered her voice. "They say royal guards were killed. Some think Valtor had a hand in it."
Nyla's heart stumbled. "That's nonsense. He wouldn't."
"Wouldn't he?" Maris's brow furrowed. "He's been missing since last night. And there's blood by the forge. You were close with him, figured you might know something...if he's returned yet..."
"I don't," Nyla said, too fast, even though it was the truth.
Maris tilted her head, lips pursed.
Oh no.
"You're pale. Jumpier than a hare, too."
Nyla's fingers tightened on the doorframe. "I just haven't slept."
Maris leaned a little, peering past her. "What's that smell? You brewing something new?"
Nyla stepped forward, blocking her view. "It's nothing, just poultices."
"Oh, poultices..." Maris echoed, unconvinced. "For what, then?"
"Maris, please—"
The older woman's face softened, though suspicion still flickered in her eyes. "If there's trouble, you can tell me. You know that, don't you? Is Valtor here?"
Nyla hesitated. She could lie again, send her away. But Maris's gaze was unrelenting, the kind that could peel truth from stone. "No, Valtor isn't here. It's not that..." Her shoulders sagged. "Maris, trust me-"
"Nyla, you are delivering my baby, there is no one I trust more in my life than you...and Ewan. Tell me."
Wordless, Nyla stepped back and gestured with her head to follow.
Maris' eyes sparkled as she shut the door behind her and followed Nyla to the workshop. "Whatever you do, Maris, you promise me right now you tell no-one."
"I trust you Nyla...don't make me regret it."
Nyla stepped inside, stomach full of knots.
Maris entered cautiously, her boots creaking on the floorboards. The moment her eyes landed on the cot, she stopped dead, eyes flicking to Nyla.
"Oh, gods," she breathed. "Nyla, what have you done?"
"He was dying," Nyla said quietly. "I couldn't leave him."
Maris stared, horror and awe warring on her face. "H-h-how?!"
"Maris, please keep your voice down."
Maris took Nyla's hand tightly, as if scolding one of the village kids for doing something they weren't supposed to. "Do you have any idea what'll happen if they find out one of them is missing?"
Nyla's hands trembled despite her effort to hold steady. "Yes. That's why you can't tell anyone."
Maris tore her gaze away from the man on the cot, looking at Nyla with something between pity and disbelief. "Sweet stars, girl...you've buried yourself alive." The fire crackled softly between them. aa
Nyla's mouth pressed into a thin line, "I am sending word to the Eodwyn guard as we speak," she murmured, moving to adjust the cloth at his temple. "Then it won't be my problem and we would have saved a life."
Maris' eyes clinged to Nyla's neck and her fingers came up to pull away the scarf hiding a handprint bruise, "He do that to you?"
"Out of fear," Nyla tugged it and wrapped it around her neck.
Maris hovered close behind her, half-fascinated, half-terrified. "And yet here he lies, snoring under your roof. I swear, Nyla, only you would drag a wounded soldier into your home and feed him herbs instead of finishing what the battle started."
"I don't kill men who are already dying," Nyla said, voice quiet but firm.
Maris huffed, shaking her head. "You might not have to. If someone finds out you're sheltering one of them, they'll probably do it for you."
"I know...but they'd be foolish to try."
Silence stretched. The only sound was the slow rhythm of Barius's breathing. The lamplight flickered across his broad shoulders, the sheen of sweat glinting along his collarbone.
Maris eyed him warily. "He's a big one, isn't he?" Her gaze flicked over Nylas form, almost in disbelief. "Built like a stone wall. I'm not even going to ask how you got him here. What of Alva? What if he wakes up?"
"He won't," Nyla replied, though her hands paused for a fraction too long. "Not until the draught wears off. I dosed him enough to fell a bear, and even then, he's broken his leg."
Maris made a sound between a laugh and a groan. "Divine's preserve us. You and your bleeding heart."
Nyla gave her a faint look over her shoulder. "It's not the heart that worries me. It's what happens when he wakes and realizes where he is."
Maris's face softened, sympathy hidden behind her usual sharpness. "Then let's hope he's the grateful kind..." then her eyes narrowed, "And just what were you doing out in the forest? As I recall, my husband ordered everyone to stay indoors."
Nyla allowed a weary sheepish smile. "I needed mushrooms."
Maris crossed her arms, "Mushrooms?"
"They stop bleeding during childbirth." Nyla said.
Maris' brows shot up but Nyla could already see she'd won her over. "Do not say you did this for me..."
"No...of course not...well...defying your husbands orders, yes I did do that for you but I had good cause. Finding...him was not on that agenda..."
Her eyes flicked back to the prince in disdain, "If this goes wrong, I'll say you bewitched me into silence."
"You'll say nothing, please, Maris."
Maris sighed. "Aye. Nothing. But you owe me bread for life, healer."
"Done," Nyla murmured, gaze lingering on his face, on the faint crease between his brows, the restlessness even in sleep.
Maris lingered by the hearth, still rubbing her arms though the room was warm. "You'll have to keep him hidden," she said at last. "If anyone catches sight of a uniform or anything...well, you'll have half the village men at your door, you know what Roland's like when he's had a few."
"I've already burned it," Nyla replied, glancing toward the small pile of ash in the fire pit. "What's left of it, anyway."
Maris gave a low whistle. "You don't do things by halves, do you?"
Nyla didn't answer. Her gaze had gone to the man again, his face no longer so gray, his breathing deeper, steadier. Beneath the bruises and grime, he looked less like a monster and more like what he was: a man caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Maris followed her look, eyes narrowing. "You sure you know what you're doing?"
"No," Nyla said honestly. "But I couldn't leave him to die."
Maris's sigh dragged out of her, full of tired resignation. "Well...he's here now. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. Saving a royal guard could earn you some favour."
Nyla's stomach tightened.
She hadn't realised until that moment, Maris didn't recognise him.
Not as a prince. Not as the missing heir.
Swallowing hard past the lump in her throat, "I didn't do it for a reward."
"I know. But mercy is mercy. They'll be grateful...hopefully..." She straightened her shawl, squaring her shoulders. "If anyone asks, I'll say you've been sick. That'll keep most from bothering you. Give me that letter and I'll make sure it's sent by raven today."
Nyla met her eyes, gratitude flickering there as she handed over the sealed parchment. "Thank you, Maris."
"Don't thank me yet," Maris muttered, tucking in between the folds of her cloak. "When he wakes, you send word. If he so much as twitches wrong, I'll bring the guards myself."
The words landed heavier than intended, but Nyla only nodded. "That's fair."
Maris stepped toward the door, hand lingering on the latch. "Take care, Nyla. And for stars' sake, don't let Alva near him."
"I won't."
The door shut behind her, leaving the cottage in a hush broken only by the soft hiss of the fire. Nyla stood still for a moment, hands pressed to the table, her heart thudding a slow, uncertain rhythm.
Then she turned toward the cot.
Over the next hour she drip fed him water and checked over his vital signs. It was late afternoon when Barius stirred, just a small shift, a faint sound low in his throat, but it was enough to send a ripple of tension through her. She moved closer, keeping her distance yet drawn all the same, watching the twitch of his eyelids, the flex of muscle beneath skin.
He was waking.
The first sound was a low, rough groan, the kind torn from somewhere deep in the chest, more instinct than thought. Nyla froze where she stood.
Barius's fingers twitched first, curling weakly against the blanket like someone feeling for something that wasn't there. His brow creased, and a faint, broken exhale left his lips.
Then his eyes opened. Not sharply. Not like a warrior waking from a nightmare but slowly. Uncertainly. The blinking, lost kind of waking you see in men who have been half-dead too long.
His gaze drifted towards her, unfocused, the blood vessels around his pupil causing crimson to bleed into the white. Within they were green, the sort of green that appeared like jewels in stone, jade shot through with gold, but unfixed, like he wasn't really seeing her. He tried to move, groaned in pain.
"Easy," Nyla murmured, lowering herself beside him, keeping her voice low, cautious. "You're safe."
He blinked again. A long, confused blink that didn't settle. His lips parted. No sound came.
He tried again. "...w...where..."
His voice was raw, barely a scrape of sound. His hand lifted a fraction from the blanket, trembled, then dropped.
"You're in my home," Nyla said softly. "You were hurt. Badly."
His gaze flitted across the ceiling, the walls, the flickering shadows. None of it seemed to connect. He was scanning his world like it was brand new.
"Do you know your name?" she asked.
His eyes moved back to her, slow, dragging, as if her voice had to pull them.
For a long moment, nothing.
Then, he frowned. A small, scared wrinkle of confusion. "I... I don't..." His breath stuttered. "I don't know."
His pulse spiked beneath Nyla's fingers. Not recognition, panic.
She reached to steady him. "All right. It's all right. You told me your name was Barius, does that sound familiar?"
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and lifted a hand to his chest as if realizing for the first time that he was in pain. His fingers brushed the bandages on his eye, then recoiled in surprise. "What...happened to me?"
"You were attacked," Nyla said, keeping her voice a warm whisper. "A Nightwalker. You were poisoned, your leg was broken...I found you in the snow. You're lucky you're alive."
His breathing quickened at that, shallow, uneven. Nyla pressed her palm to his, channeling a low current of calm and pain relief into his nervous system. He flinched slightly at her touch, instinctively, like someone unfamiliar with being touched at all. His fingers curled around hers, and his eyelids fluttered. His breaths steadied, the pain easing under her spell.
"You're safe here, just breathe."
His eyes drifted back to hers. "...who are you?"
"My name is Nyla," she reminded gently. "I'm a Healer."
He stared at her for a long moment, trying to hold onto her name like it was smoke slipping through his fingers.
"Nyla..." he echoed, as if tasting the shape of it.
Then his eyelids fluttered, heavy again.
Too much effort.
Too much blood lost.
Too much venom still clinging to him.
His gaze unfocused completely, drifting toward unconsciousness, eyes closing before she could say another word. Not the frightening, slack sort of collapse he'd slipped into before, but something softer, an exhausted surrender, the body finally allowed to stop fighting for breath.
Nyla kept one hand on his, feeling the subtle shift in the rhythm of his pulse. Slower. More even. The fever, while not gone, no longer raged like fire along his veins.
"Good," she whispered. "Rest."
She let go only when his fingers finally loosened. Her own palms trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of what had just happened. For the first time since dragging him in from the snow, he was aware, however briefly.
Nyla sat back on her heels, rubbing a hand over her face. She'd worked in war-tents before, seen men wake confused, delirious, half certain they were still on the battlefield. But this, this felt different. As if pieces of him were missing entirely, not just scattered by trauma, but pried loose by something deeper.
His magic?
Alva's magic?
The Nightwalker venom?
Or something the crown had done to him long before she ever found him?
She exhaled shakily.
Questions she didn't have the strength to chase, not tonight.