The interior of the hut was a tapestry of shifting shadows and the sharp, medicinal tang of dried herbs. Bundles of lavender and bitter-root hung from the low rafters, their silhouettes dancing against the stone walls as the fire in the hearth flickered. It was a cramped, humble space—a sanctuary built for one ghost, never intended to hold the warmth of a living man.
Dragging him there had been a feat of sheer, desperate will.
Seraphine had long since traded her silk slippers for sturdy leather boots, and her delicate hands, once meant for nothing heavier than a lace fan, were now calloused and strong. She had used a makeshift sled of deer-hide and rope to pull the stranger across the damp forest floor. Every grunt of exertion, every burning breath in her lungs, had been a reminder of the two years she had spent surviving.
She was no longer the "Jewel of the Empire" who fainted at the sight of blood. She was a woman who had learned to hunt, to skin, and to endure.
With a final, straining heave, she managed to hoist him onto her narrow cot. The rough linen sighed under his weight.
Up close, the stranger's nobility was even more undeniable. His skin was pale from blood loss, but even in the dim light, his features were carved with a startling symmetry. He looked like a statue from the Aethelgard palace gardens—only he was warm, breathing, and bleeding onto her only blanket.
Seraphine moved with a frantic efficiency. She reached for her shears, her gloved fingers trembling as she positioned them against the fine, charcoal wool of his tunic.
Snip. Snip.
The fabric fell away, revealing a chest that was broad and well-muscled, now marred by a jagged gash along his ribs and deep, purpling bruises. Seraphine's breath hitched in her throat. In her old life, she would have looked away, her face flushing with the appropriate noble shame. Now, she only saw a puzzle of broken flesh that needed to be mended.
She dipped a cloth into a basin of warm water infused with yarrow and silver-leaf. As she began to clean the wound, the man let out a low, guttural groan.
His eyes flickered open. The amber was deeper now, reflecting the hearth-fire like polished gems.
"Still... here," he rasped, his voice catching.
"I told you to be quiet," Seraphine whispered, her voice like the rustle of dead leaves. She kept her hood pulled low, her long chestnut hair acting as a secondary veil. "Your ribs are in no state to support your chatter. Drink this."
She lifted his head, her gloved fingers brushing the dark hair at the nape of his neck. She held a cup of willow-bark tea to his lips. He drank greedily, but his gaze never left her. He was looking at her—really looking—trying to pierce through the shadows of her hood.
"You speak... like a queen," he murmured, his voice trailing off into a delirious haze. "But you live like... a ghost."
Seraphine froze. For a terrifying heartbeat, she wondered if he recognized the cadence of her voice. Had the news of the "Cursed Villainess" reached the neighboring kingdoms? Did he know he was being saved by a monster?
She pulled her hand away, her heart thudding against the black rose on her collarbone. She could feel the mark pulsing, a dull, rhythmic heat radiating through her neck.
"A ghost is all I am," she said, her voice turning icy. "Sleep. Tomorrow, the forest will claim you again if you aren't strong enough to leave."
She retreated to a wooden chair by the fire, her silver dagger clutched in her lap. She watched the way the light played across his face, noticing the way his dark hair fell across his brow. He was a Prince—she was certain of it. A Prince who looked at her and saw emeralds instead of ink.
It was the most dangerous thing she had ever encountered in the Forbidden Forest. Not because he could kill her, but because he made her want to remember what it felt like to be Seraphine of House Aurelian again.
As the stranger's breathing finally leveled into a deep, healing sleep, Seraphine looked at her gloved hands. For two years, she had been content to be a shadow. But as the fire died down, she felt a terrifying, long-forgotten spark of hope.
He thinks I'm a spirit, she thought, a bitter smile touching her lips. Let him keep his dream. Because once the sun rises, he will see the marks. And then, he will realize he was saved by a nightmare.
Coming Up in Chapter 3: The Amber Reflection
The sun rises on the first morning in the hut. Kael is finally fully conscious, and he's not ready to let his "forest spirit" disappear back into the shadows. But as he tries to get a closer look at his savior, Seraphine's mask begins to slip...