Alaric’s eyelids fluttered, his gaze turning glassy as exhaustion clawed at him.
Lara blinked, and when she looked again, she saw that the soldier had fallen fast asleep.
Relief washed over her like a wave. He was finally asleep. It must just be his reflexes, right? With injuries like that and without anesthesia, how could one remain conscious?
Unbeknownst to her, pain had been the only thing tethering Alaric to wakefulness. Now, he let himself slip into feigned slumber, waiting for her to lower her guard.
Fatigue gnawed at Lara as well. She pulled a thin mat from the shelf and lay down beside the bed, close enough to hear his breathing. If anything happened, she needed to be near him. His injuries were too severe to leave him unattended.
As silence settled, Alaric’s eyes cracked open. Moonlight cut through the dim room, casting shadows along the walls. He lifted the rough blanket draped over his body, feeling the firm tug of bandages wrapped neatly around his abdon. He was half naked. His arms and chest, once raw with scrapes, were now sared with a cooling ointnt.
Who is this woman?
His mind drifted in and out of clarity, but one thought remained sharp—her hands, steady and skilled, had treated his wounds with precision surpassing even the most skilled imperial physicians.
He wanted to shift, to see her more clearly, but his body felt like it had been crushed beneath a mountain. His muscles refused to obey him.
Perhaps the dicine had begun to work, dulling the relentless pain. His breathing slowed, his limbs growing heavy. He surrendered to the call of sleep.
...
Lara woke to the sharp pang of hunger twisting in her gut. She had forgotten to eat the night before.
Blinking away sleep, she turned to check on her patient. He was still as stone, his breath steady. Gently, she lifted the blanket, fingers working to untie the knot securing the bandages. They held well, but she longed for sothing stronger—sothing like modern-day dical tape to keep them in place. She should try to find an alternative for that.
The wound was fine and did not show signs of inflammation. The ointnt must have been very effective. She applied a thin layer and then secured the bandage again.
Her gaze lingered on his face. Even in repose, there was an undeniable regality to him. His sharp and well-defined features put to sha every actor who topped the list of the most handso n. Not even Tom Cruise, Chris Evans, or Henry Cavill could compare.
With a shake of her head, she forced herself to focus. Rising, she moved to the shelf, gathered the dresses, and tucked them away in a hidden chest in the loft. She swapped them with n’s clothing, placing them in her own storage space before heading to the earthen stove to reheat last night’s chicken binakol.
Then, she rembered.
Gray.
His pack.
Heart pounding, she rushed to the hanging bridge, swiftly crossing into the dense forest. She saw the splattered blood stained the forest floor, but no fallen bodies lay nearby. Panic tightened in her chest.
She whistled.
A mont later, Gray erged, his pack following close behind. Relief flooded her. They were unhard. Whatever battle had taken place, they had survived.
Lara took out the jerky she had made from boar at and watched as the wolves eagerly tore into it. She was surprised that not only the wolves but also the tiger enjoyed snacking on jerky.
When Lara entered her room, she had changed her appearance. She had a mustache drawn on her upper lip, and her hair neatly coiled around her head was hidden under the cap.
The man was still sleeping.
She knelt beside the bed, pressing a cool palm against his forehead. No fever. His resilience was staggering.
"You’re strong-willed," she murmured, brushing a stray lock of jet-black hair from his face. "Your will to live is surprising. Most wouldn’t have made it past the bridge in your condition."
Glancing at the pile of soiled clothes she had pushed aside last night, she moved to retrieve them. They were closer to the wall, half-tucked at the edge of the bed. Lara bent over him, stretching her fingers toward the fabric.
A cold hand clamped around her wrist.
Her breath hitched.
Her gaze darted to where his fingers gripped her skin—firm, calloused, unyielding. She swallowed, trailing her eyes upward until they t his. His eyes were half open, and thick, dark lashes veiled the obsidian depths beneath.
"Letter," he rasped, his voice hoarse, raw from disuse, far from the pleasant one Lara had heard days ago.
She frowned. His lips were cracked and parched.
He needed water. It must be soti when he last had a drink.
"Wait here," she said softly. "I’ll get you sothing to eat."
As she turned away, she didn’t see the faint curl of his lips.
Alaric watched as ’he’ exited the room. The ’soldier’ from the courtyard. The one he had seen practicing fluid movents outside the inn.
What is ’he’ doing in the depths of the jungle?
His gaze road around the room, noting the small changes—the clothes that had been removed from the open shelf and the new garnts that had replaced them.
Alaric was a very observant man. It was his instinct. No matter how much pain he was suffering, he would always observe his surroundings, and that kept him alive for years.
When Lara returned, she carried a wooden tray—a porcelain bowl, a wooden mug, and a jug of water carefully balanced on top of it.
"You’re lucky," she said, placing the tray beside him. "The sword missed your organs. It was blood loss that nearly killed you." Her tone was casual as if discussing the weather.
"You have to sit up so you can eat."
Lara placed the tray on the bedside table. Her master made that for her, so she had sothing to place the beautifully handcrafted clay jars she used for her oil lamp.
"Kane," he murmured, eyes locked on her. "Kane of the House of ndel, from Legares."
Lara stiffened. A shiver ran through her.
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