"Thank you."
She smiled, her eyes crinkling. "I'm Tiriel. And you?"
This Wood Elf was nothing like the xenophobic recluses described in the archives. She was warm. Vibrant.
"Owen."
"Owen? A nice na. You’ve been asleep for a long ti. Are you hungry?"
Tiriel sat on a stool beside the bed, resting her chin in her hands as she gazed at him. Her green eyes were limpid pools—clear, guileless, without a speck of the darkness he expected.
"Could I... trouble you for so water?"
"Of course! Just a mont."
As she skipped out of the room, Owen sank back onto the wooden slats, staring up at the intricate patterns of the living ceiling. She had ntioned a "High Priest." That implied a full tribe. He had been saved by a Wood Elf clan.
But why? The histories claid they despised humans. Yet here he was, not in a cage, but in a guest bed, healed by high magic.
Flesh shaping...
He glanced at his new arm. The priest had to be at least of the Six-stars to perform such a feat.
He frowned. A dying human knight offered them nothing. No political leverage, no wealth. It seed... purely altruistic.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Owen pushed his thoughts aside and looked toward the entrance.
Tiriel returned, but she wasn't alone. Behind her lood a taller figure—an elderly Wood Elf leaning on an oaken staff. Like Tiriel, he was tall and willowy, over six feet, with a posture that defied his age.
Tiriel hurried over, sitting on the edge of the bed to help Owen up. He allowed himself to be maneuvered, leaning back against the cool wood of the wall.
"Here. Drink."
She held a wooden bowl to his lips.
Instinctively, Owen raised his right hand to take it.
Smack.
Tiriel gently but firmly swatted his hand down.
"I told you," she chided, her brow furrowing. "You cannot use that arm yet."
Owen blinked, then lowered his head in contrition. "Apologies. I forgot."
"Just drink. I'll hold it."
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"Thank you."
He drank greedily, the cool water soothing his parched throat. When the bowl was empty, he nodded.
"Enough?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"You're welco!"
Tiriel went to place the bowl on a side table. The elder, Rapha, took her place, sitting beside the bed. His gaze was intense, ancient, and piercing.
Owen t the look head-on.
"Tiriel says you saved my life," Owen said, his voice steady. "I am Owen Valerius. I offer you my deepest, most sincere gratitude."
Valerius. A noble house. Rapha noted the steel in the boy's blue eyes.
"I accept your gratitude."
Rapha reached out toward the green arm.
Owen didn't flinch. He let the priest take the limb.
Rapha’s long fingers traced the musculature, checking the mana flow and the seamless graft. It was perfect. A complicated emotion flickered in the old elf's eyes. This human was now, in part, Wood Elf. In ti, he would co to realize just how deep that bond went.
"The arm has taken well to you," Rapha said, releasing him and standing up. "Rest well. Recover."
Owen felt a strange pang. The way the priest looked at him... it wasn't the look of a stranger, or even a savior. It felt almost... paternal.
Ridiculous. He shook his head ntally. I'm a human noble. He's an elf priest.
"I will," Owen replied dutifully.
Rapha turned and swept out of the room without another word.
A mont later, the door opened again. Tiriel popped her head in.
"Eh? Where did the High Priest go?" She was carrying an armful of strange fruits.
"The Elder has left."
"Oh! What did he say?" She flopped onto the bed, completely at ease.
"He said the arm is healing well." Owen saw no reason to lie.
"Good, good! Here, want one?"
She held out a white fruit, about the size of a tennis ball.
Owen didn't recognize it, but he was starving. He reached out with his left hand this ti. Tiriel smiled approvingly.
He took a bite.
Sugar. Pure, concentrated sugar. It was so sweet it made his teeth ache and his jaw clench. It was cloying, almost nauseatingly so.
He glanced at Tiriel. She was munching on hers with a look of pure bliss.
Elven taste buds are... different.
Fighting the urge to spit it out, Owen forced himself to finish the fruit. It was food. He needed strength.
As soon as he swallowed the last bite, another white sphere appeared in front of his face.
"Another?" Tiriel offered brightly.
She was beautiful, Owen thought distantly. But that fruit was a weapon of war.
"Thank you, but I'm full."
"Really? That was tiny!"
"My stomach is... still settling. I eat very little."
"Suit yourself." She shrugged and bit into the second fruit herself. "Humans have such small appetites."
Owen lay back down, feigning sleep to avoid the sugar-bombs.
His stomach growled quietly, but he ignored it. His mind drifted back to the ambush.
Stonefang Forest. He was deep in the central zone. He couldn't go back the way he ca. That Orc...
The mory of the hamr crushing his arm flashed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Tom.
His squire had drawn the griffin away to buy him ti. Tom was fast. His Wind-attribute Martial Aura was exceptional. He had to be alive. He had to be.
Rustle.
The mattress shifted next to him.
Owen opened his eyes and looked to his right.
He froze.
Tiriel’s face was inches from his own.
He scrambled backward in a panic, flailing his limbs.
Thump!
He fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard.
"What's wrong?" Tiriel propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with genuine confusion. "Owen? Are you okay?"
"You... why are you sleeping there?!" Owen stamred, pointing a shaking finger at the bed.
"Why wouldn't I be? This is my house. I always sleep here."
"Huh?"
"Hm?"
They stared at each other, twin question marks hanging over their heads.
Yawn...
Tiriel rubbed her eyes, breaking the standoff. "I'm sleepy, Owen. I'm going to bed."
She curled up under the thin blanket and closed her eyes. The day's lessons with the High Priest had drained her ntally. Within seconds, her breathing evened out.
Owen pushed himself up from the floor, sitting there in stunned silence.
So... for the past few days... while I was unconscious...
He looked at the sleeping elf, then at the empty space beside her.
We've been sharing a bed?
His brain short-circuited.
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