BLOODBOUND HEARTS

The last light of evening was fading behind the hills when Alara stepped through the door of her family's small cottage, carrying an empty wicker basket.

The village of Bellmere was quiet at this hour.

Most of the villagers had already returned home from the day's work, and thin trails of smoke curled from chimneys into the cool evening air. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once before falling silent.

Alara pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Don't be long," her mother called from inside.

"I won't."

She turned back toward the cottage.

Her mother stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. There was a tiredness in her face that Alara had become accustomed to seeing over the years. Being the village healer meant there was rarely a day when her mother truly rested.

"We're nearly out of moonwort," her mother said. "I need enough to prepare the fever tonic for Mrs. Vale."

Alara nodded.

"I'll get it."

Her mother frowned.

"The forest?"

"The moonwort grows near the eastern stream."

"It's getting dark."

"I know."

"Alara."

She smiled.

"I'll be back before you have time to worry."

Her mother did not smile back.

For a moment, she simply stared at her daughter.

There was something strange in her expression. Something almost like fear.

Then it disappeared.

"Stay on the path," she said quietly. "And don't go deeper into the forest."

"I won't."

"And if the sun sets before you return-"

"I'll come straight home."

Her mother hesitated.

"Promise me."

Alara's smile softened.

"I promise."

She turned toward the forest.

The basket swung gently from her hand as she walked.

She had made the journey countless times before. The forest had never frightened her. It was simply another part of her life, like the herb garden behind their cottage or the shelves of dried plants lining her mother's little apothecary.

Still, tonight felt different.

Perhaps it was the silence.

The deeper she walked beneath the trees, the quieter the world became.

The sounds of the village disappeared first.

Then the birds.

Then even the wind seemed to vanish.

Alara slowed.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing.

She looked ahead.

The narrow path continued between the trees, washed in the pale silver light of the rising moon.

"Just moonwort," she whispered to herself.

She continued walking.

It took another ten minutes before she reached the stream.

Moonwort grew along its banks, its small pale leaves almost glowing beneath the moonlight.

Alara knelt and began gathering the herbs carefully.

One.

Two.

Three.

She smiled when she saw how much had grown since her last visit.

Her mother would be pleased.

She reached for another stem.

Then she heard it.

A sound.

Alara froze.

It had been faint.

Almost nothing.

She listened.

There it was again.

A low, uneven sound.

Breathing.

Someone was breathing nearby.

She slowly stood.

Her fingers tightened around the basket.

"Hello?"

No answer.

She should have left.

Her mother's warning echoed in her mind.

Stay on the path.

Don't go deeper.

But then she heard the breathing again.

It sounded painful.

Someone was hurt.

Alara set her basket down.

She followed the sound.

The trees grew thicker as she moved farther from the stream. Branches caught against her dress, and fallen leaves crunched beneath her shoes.

Then she saw him.

A man was sitting beneath an enormous oak tree.

At first, Alara thought he was dead.

He was completely still.

His dark clothes were torn and stained with blood. One hand rested against his side, pressed firmly against what appeared to be a deep wound.

Alara stopped.

She had never seen anyone dressed so finely.

Even covered in dirt and blood, there was something unmistakably refined about him.

He looked like a nobleman.

Perhaps even a lord.

But there was something else.

Something she couldn't explain.

The stranger seemed entirely out of place in the forest.

Alara took one cautious step toward him.

His head lifted.

And his eyes opened.

Alara forgot how to breathe.

They were blue.

Not the soft blue of a summer sky.

They were pale and cold, almost silver beneath the moonlight.

His gaze fixed upon her.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then the stranger's voice broke the silence.

"Leave."

It was low.

Deep.

And unmistakably commanding.

Alara swallowed.

"You are injured."

"I said leave."

She should have listened.

Any sensible person would have.

But Alara had spent her entire life watching her mother help people who were sick, wounded, frightened, and dying.

She couldn't simply walk away.

She stepped closer.

"I can help you."

Something changed in his expression.

Not gratitude.

Not relief.

Fear.

It was gone almost immediately, replaced by something colder.

"You cannot help me."

Alara frowned.

"You're bleeding."

"I am aware."

"Then allow me to look at the wound."

The stranger stared at her as though she had just said something absurd.

"You should be afraid of me."

Alara's heart began beating faster.

Perhaps she should have been.

There was something frightening about him.

Not merely his size or his voice.

It was the way he looked at her.

As though he could see straight through her.

Still, she forced herself to remain calm.

"I don't know who you are," she said softly. "But you're hurt."

His eyes narrowed.

"And you are remarkably foolish."

"Perhaps."

For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered across his face.

It vanished before she could be certain she'd seen it.

Alara slowly crouched beside him.

The stranger tensed.

"Don't."

"I need to see the wound."

"You need to leave."

"And you need a healer."

"I don't need anything."

Alara looked at the blood staining his fingers.

"That is clearly not true."

Silence.

Then, unexpectedly, he allowed his hand to fall away from his side.

Alara leaned closer.

The wound was terrible.

Far worse than she'd first thought.

She had treated broken bones, deep cuts, burns, and infected wounds beside her mother.

But she had never seen anything like this.

The edges of the wound were dark.

Almost black.

And yet there was something stranger still.

The blood wasn't flowing as it should.

It was as though his body was fighting desperately to heal itself.

Alara reached into the small pouch attached to her belt and pulled out a strip of clean cloth.

"I can stop the bleeding."

His eyes remained fixed on her.

"You should not touch me."

"Why?"

He didn't answer.

Alara pressed the cloth gently against his wound.

The moment her fingers touched his skin, the stranger went completely still.

His eyes widened.

Alara felt it too.

A strange warmth passed through her fingertips.

The bleeding stopped.

She blinked.

The stranger looked down at his wound.

Then back at her.

For the first time since she had found him, he looked genuinely shocked.

"What are you?" he whispered.

Alara stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

He didn't answer.

His gaze had dropped to her hand.

To the tiny cut across her finger where one of the herbs had sliced her skin earlier.

A single bead of blood appeared.

The stranger's pupils widened.

His expression changed.

And suddenly, Alara was afraid.

Not because of his wound.

Not because of the forest.

But because she realized that the man beneath the tree had stopped looking at her like a stranger.

He was looking at her like something he had been searching for.

Something he had never expected to find.

And somewhere deep within the forest, a wolf began to howl.