Elara dropped to her knees beside the man's motionless form. His face was pale, beads of sweat clinging to his brow. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, and his hand — the one pressed against his side — was slick with blood.
Panic fluttered in her chest like a caged bird, but she forced it down. She had no time for fear.
Without hesitation, she slid her arms beneath his shoulders and heaved him upright. He groaned softly, eyes fluttering but not quite opening. She wasn't strong, but desperation made her capable. Step by step, she dragged him across the path and into her cottage, his weight sagging against her.
Inside, the room was warm from the fire she'd tended earlier. She guided him to the small couch near the hearth and eased him down. He slumped into the cushions, unconscious again, his breathing labored.
Elara wasted no time. She fetched clean water, linen cloths, and the jar of herbal salve she kept tucked away — a mixture her aunt had once taught her to make. Her hands trembled as she peeled back his bloodied shirt, revealing a long, jagged wound running along his ribs. It didn't look deep, but it was dirty and inflamed. Whatever had cut him wasn't clean.
She cleaned it carefully, wincing each time he flinched in his sleep. Once it was washed and packed with salve, she wrapped the bandages snugly around his torso, tying the ends with quiet determination. All the while, he murmured words she couldn't make out — fragmented, fevered.
"Easy," she whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "You're safe now."
She sat beside him long after the fire dimmed, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Who was he? What had happened? Was someone out there looking for him — or had he been running from something?
Sleep didn't come for her that night.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the weight of change. Inside, a stranger lay in her home, and for the first time in years, Elara's quiet life no longer felt so quiet.
To be continued.....