Before either of them could say another word—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A sharp rap at the door shattered the quiet.
Both of them froze.
Ronan's posture stiffened instantly. His muscles tensed, golden eye flickering faintly beneath the surface.
He smelled something.
Faint… bitter… metallic.
Like smoke. Burnt stone. Ash.
He inhaled again, slower.
"…Something's off."
Brynn frowned, stepping toward the door. "It's probably the innkeeper—"
"No." Ronan's voice was low, serious. He swung his legs off the bed despite the pain, grabbing the shirt draped nearby. "It's not food. Not sweat. Not horses."
He sniffed again.
"It's sharp… oily… something like sulfur but… cleaner."
He didn't have a word for it. Not yet.
But his instincts screamed danger.
Gunpowder.
He just didn't know the name.
Brynn looked back at him, concerned. "You think it's—?"
"I don't know. But don't open that door."
Knock. Knock.
Harder this time.
Ronan grabbed his blade from beside the bed and stood, jaw clenched.
Then, a voice on the other side—calm, too calm.
"Mr. Vale. Miss Brynn. We know you're in there."
A pause.
"Don't make this messy."
Ronan took one slow, deliberate step toward the door.
Another.
He was halfway there when—
BOOM.
The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters.
A deafening blast, like thunder given form, echoed through the inn.
Ronan was launched off his feet—slammed backward into the wall like a ragdoll, blood spraying from fresh impact wounds across his chest and shoulder.
Brynn screamed, ducking low as shards of wood flew through the room like shrapnel.
Smoke hung in the air. Acrid. Chemical.
Ronan groaned, coughing as he slid to the floor, leaving a red smear down the wall. His ears rang. His vision blurred. But he saw the jagged hole in the door—saw the barrel still aimed through it.
What the hell was that?
His instincts screamed magic, but this wasn't sorcery. It was louder. Mechanical. Brutal.
Brynn rushed to him, casting a quick healing spell with shaking hands.
"Ronan! Stay with me!"
His eyes snapped open, the gold in them flaring like a storm.
Outside, boots crunched across the wooden porch.
"Reloading," someone muttered.
Ronan's lip curled into a snarl as his muscles surged—wounds already knitting closed.
"Bad idea," he growled through gritted teeth.
Then he lunged.
Ronan had barely surged to his feet when—
Thunk!
Thunk! Thunk!
Three arrows struck him in rapid succession—one sinking into his thigh, another piercing his side just beneath the ribs, and the third slamming into his shoulder.
He staggered.
Then came the second BOOM.
Another shotgun blast tore through what remained of the doorframe.
This time it hit him square in the chest.
The force lifted him off his feet—again—and sent him crashing backward through the window in an explosion of glass and wood.
CRASH!
He tumbled through the air, slammed into the muddy earth outside, and rolled across the inn yard in a heap.
Blood soaked through his shirt. Arrows jutted from his body like cruel needles.
Pain lit every nerve.
The world spun.
But the beast inside him stirred—thrashing.
Ronan's fingers twitched, clawing at the mud.
He coughed, spitting out red.
Above him, dark shapes emerged—five figures in cloaks, crossbows and those strange iron tubes in hand, stepping from the shadows with grim precision.
One of them raised a hand.
"Don't kill him yet," the leader barked. "We want him alive."
Ronan groaned—barely conscious, but his eyes opened.
One blue. One gold.
The monster wasn't dead yet.
Not by a long shot.
BOOM.
The first shot hit his gut. A flash of fire. A gurgle of blood.
BOOM.
The second tore into his side, knocking him back onto the mud-soaked earth.
BOOM.
The third struck his chest—so close to his heart he swore he felt it stop.
Ronan gasped, the world around him collapsing into a dull, distant hum. The rain. The footsteps. The murmured voices. They all blurred together.
He stared up at the swirling, cloud-choked sky.
And in that moment, as the cold began to creep in, he thought about her.
Brynn.
The way she had touched his chest, afraid but gentle. The way she had looked at him—not with fear, but with hope.
The way her lightning had knocked him unconscious… to save him from himself.
Maybe that had been the last good thing in his life.
Maybe this was how it ended.
The last thing he felt was warmth. Not from the blood pooling beneath him—but from the memory of her, smiling with her cheeks red from embarrassment.
Then everything went black.
…
Light.
Soft. Pale.
Warmth.
The scent of lavender… and honey… and faint ozone.
Ronan's eyes blinked open.
He wasn't in the mud.
He was in bed.
The same bed.
And there she was.
Brynn.
Curled up on his chest again, breathing softly. Her hand rested over his heart—exactly where she had cast her lightning the day before.
No wounds. No blood. Just the quiet rhythm of her breath against him.
It was like nothing had ever happened.
His brow furrowed. "What the hell…"
But he didn't move.
Not yet.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever… he wasn't in pain.
And maybe, just maybe, the nightmare wasn't real.
Or maybe… it hadn't ended yet.
Knock. Knock.
Ronan bolted upright, heart pounding, eyes blazing gold for a split second.
But no pain came.
No gunfire. No blood.
Instead… he smelled something.
Not smoke. Not steel.
Flowers.
Warm, sweet, familiar. Lavender.
And food. Fresh bread. Herbs. Roasted meat.
His breathing slowed.
Brynn stirred with a soft groan beside him, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Wh—Ronan? What is it?"
He didn't answer at first.
He just stared at the door, instincts screaming danger, but his senses arguing back with peace.
Everything felt… off.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
His hand brushed over his chest—no wounds. No scars. His shirt had even been changed.
Another knock.
Then a soft, muffled voice from the other side. Feminine. Kind.
"Room service! Brought your breakfast!"
Ronan narrowed his eyes.
Room service?
Where in the hells were they?
Ronan stood slowly, the creak of the floorboards beneath his bare feet sounding far too normal for what he expected. He grabbed his shirt from the chair, slipping it over his shoulders, muscles still tense beneath the fabric.
Another knock.
"I'm coming," he muttered, voice low, rough.
Behind him, Brynn groaned again and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Ugh… wait—Ronan?"
Her voice pitched higher as she looked down and froze.
She was still on the bed.
Still wrapped in the blankets.
Still… very close to where he had been.
Eyes wide, her cheeks ignited in crimson.
"I—I didn't—I didn't mean to fall asleep like that!" she stammered, clutching the blanket around her like a shield. "That's not—! I was just—making sure you didn't die!"
Ronan glanced back at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything. "You're fine, Brynn. You didn't snore."
Her embarrassment somehow doubled.
Before she could respond, he reached the door, hand on the handle, body still tense. Even with the scent of bread and flowers, something in his blood didn't trust this.
Click.
He opened the door.
Standing outside was a cheerful halfling woman in a neat apron, balancing a silver tray stacked with steaming food and a small vase of sunbright daisies.
"Morning, dears!" she chirped. "Compliments of the inn. You've both had quite the week."
Ronan stared at her. "Where are we?"
"Oh, sweetheart," she chuckled, pushing past him with the tray, "you're in Elderfield. Safe as it gets."
Ronan's jaw clenched.
He'd never heard of Elderfield.
And he wasn't sure safety had anything to do with this place.
Ronan stepped aside, letting the halfling woman into the room, though his eyes never left the tray.
She set it gently on the small table near the window, humming a cheery little tune. "Stew, sweet bread, sliced pears, and a special side we get imported from across the sea. Not every day we get heroes resting in Elderfield."
But as the steam rose from the platter, something hit him.
A smell.
Bitter. Sharp. Wrong.
It cut through the warmth of roasted meat and honeyed bread like smoke in a summer wind.
He frowned and stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the plate.
Everything looked fine—until his gaze landed on the side dish.
A small heap of dark red leaves, glistening as if lightly glazed. They shimmered faintly in the light.
Brynn, now sitting up and pulling her hair out of her face, glanced over. "What's that?"
"I don't know," Ronan said quietly.
And that was the problem.
He'd hunted across wastelands, eaten roots, berries, meats from beasts with too many eyes—but he knew what was edible. What grew where. What was safe.
These leaves… weren't from anywhere he knew.
And that bitter smell? It was coming from them.
He didn't trust it.
Didn't trust this place.
Didn't trust any of it.
The cheerful halfling smiled. "You'll love it. Locals call it Elarin greens. Helps the nerves. Very calming."
Brynn looked to Ronan, catching the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near his gauntlet.
She whispered, "You smell something, don't you?"
He nodded once.
Something wasn't right.
Ronan narrowed his eyes at the strange red leaves. He leaned closer, sniffing again.
Still bitter in scent. But… there was something else. Faint. Almost like—
Fruit?
Without breaking eye contact with the halfling, he picked up a single leaf between two fingers and brought it to his mouth.
Brynn tensed. "Ronan…"
He bit down.
And paused.
His brow furrowed.
"…It's sweet."
Brynn blinked. "What?"
He chewed once more, then swallowed. "It's… like sugar and berries. With a little spice. Doesn't match the smell."
The halfling beamed. "Told you! Scent throws most folk off. It's a calming herb, really—works wonders for people who've been through a lot."
Ronan remained still, gaze locked on the woman. "Why serve it to me?"
"Because you're wounded," she said cheerfully, picking up the empty tray. "Or you were. And the mayor insists our guests feel welcome. You're heroes, after all."
With that, she turned and trotted out the door, humming again as it clicked shut behind her.
Ronan stared at the plate.
Sweet, but smelled wrong.
Something about it didn't sit right with him.
Brynn looked over from the bed, concerned. "You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure.
He wasn't sure if the food was safe.
He wasn't sure if they were safe.
And he wasn't sure if anything that had happened since he was shot was real.
Ronan's eyes drifted toward the small fireplace in the corner of the room. The coals inside glowed faintly, but offered no real heat. A few chopped logs sat in a basket beside it, barely enough for a couple hours.
His gaze shifted to the axe hanging from a hook nearby. A simple thing—well-used, iron-headed, with a leather-wrapped grip. Ordinary.
"Cold might settle in tonight," he said, reaching for it. "I'll cut some firewood. Just in case."
Brynn tilted her head. "You sure you're up for it?"
He didn't answer directly, just gave a small nod and turned toward the door.
But as he opened it, he paused.
The morning air hit him—fresh, but too still. No birds. No rustling. Just silence and the smell of damp earth… and something faint beneath it.
He stepped outside, boots crunching over gravel, axe in hand.
The woods at the edge of the village loomed not far off.
If someone was watching him—if this was a trick, a trap, or something worse—he'd rather be the hunter than the prey.
And if he found nothing?
Well, at least the fire would be warm.
The sun had dipped low, painting the edges of the clouds in gold and blood-red by the time Ronan returned.
His arms ached—not from exhaustion, but from the repetition. The swing, the split, the thud. Again and again. Like he was trying to drown his thoughts beneath the sound of splitting wood.
A bundle of logs was cradled in his arms, the axe slung across his back. He stepped quietly down the narrow hallway of the inn, boots leaving faint trails of bark and forest dust.
When he opened the door to the small room, it creaked softly.
Warmth greeted him.
And the smell of the food still on the table, untouched by Brynn.
She sat near the fireplace now, her cloak draped over her shoulders, fingers fidgeting with the hem.
Her eyes lifted as he stepped in. "You were gone a while."
He set the wood down gently beside the hearth. "Had to find a good tree. Most were damp."
Brynn stood, brushing her hair behind one ear. "You alright?"
"I'm not bleeding out," he said, voice dry.
She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an answer."
He didn't give her one.
Instead, he knelt by the fire, feeding in the first log. The flames caught slowly, dancing to life and casting flickering shadows across the room.
As the light touched his face, Brynn noticed something in his expression.
Not just weariness.
But wariness.
Like the forest hadn't eased his nerves.
Like something out there had followed him back.