Every person in this world has at least one fateful encounter that changes everything. Mine happens on a winter night, cold enough to freeze the tips of your fingers if you don't keep them moving.
I'm trudging back home after another long day of work. My arms ache from hauling sacks of grain, and my stomach growls angrily, as if protesting the single loaf of bread I managed to earn. Fynn, the mill owner, barely even looked at me when he handed it over. He never does. I'm not worth a second glance to most people around here.
The snow crunches under my boots, and my breath fogs in the freezing air. The streets are empty now—no kids playing, no chatter coming from the market. Everyone's already indoors, sitting by their fires, probably eating something warm. I try not to think about it.
My shack sits at the edge of the village, right where the trees of the forest begin to take over. It's not much—just some scrap wood and tarpaulin I managed to piece together—but it's home. The path leading up to it is uneven, covered in patches of snow that glimmer faintly in the moonlight.
That's when I see it.
At first, I think it's just a patch of shadow near my door. But as I get closer, I realize there's something… wrong. The snow isn't white; it's dark, stained in uneven patches that glisten wetly. My chest tightens as I quicken my pace, my boots sliding a little on the frozen ground.
And then I see her.
She's lying there, facedown in the snow, her black hair spilling out around her. Her clothes are torn, and there's blood—so much blood—seeping into the snow beneath her.
For a second, I just stand there, frozen. My heart's hammering so loud it feels like it might burst out of my chest.
What do I do?
I take a shaky breath, forcing my legs to move, and kneel down next to her. Up close, she looks even worse. Her skin is pale, almost ghostly, and her lips are slightly parted as if she's trying to breathe but can't quite manage it.
"Hey," I say, my voice coming out hoarse. "Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
I reach out with trembling hands, pressing two fingers to the side of her neck. For a moment, all I can feel is the cold biting at my skin. Then there it is—a pulse. Weak, but there.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Okay," I mutter to myself. "Okay, she's alive. That's good. That's… good."
But she's bleeding. I press my hand against the wound on her back, feeling the warmth of her blood seep through my fingers. It's sticky, almost tacky against my skin. I have to get her inside.
Shifting her is harder than I thought it'd be. She's not heavy, but her body is limp, and the snow makes it hard to keep my footing. I manage to get her into my arms and stumble toward the shack, kicking the door open with my boot.
The door creaks loudly on its rusted hinges, echoing in the stillness of the night. Inside, it's not much warmer than outside, but at least there's no wind. I lay her down as gently as I can on the pile of rags I call a bed. Her face is even paler under the dim light, and for a moment, I wonder if I've done enough.
No. I have to do more.
I tear off my coat and toss it aside, then grab my spare shirt—the only other piece of clothing I own that isn't falling apart—and rip it into strips. My hands are clumsy, shaking from both the cold and the panic coursing through me, but I manage to press the fabric against her wound.
The blood keeps coming.
"Come on," I mutter, frustration creeping into my voice. I glance down at her skirt, the fabric already torn and stained. I hesitate for half a second before ripping the hem into more strips. It's not like she'll care about a torn skirt if it means saving her life.
I bind the wound as tightly as I can, tying off the makeshift bandages and hoping they'll hold. The bleeding slows, but it doesn't stop completely.
I sit back on my heels, staring down at her. She's so still, so pale. I can't just leave her like this. She needs proper first aid—cotton, clean bandages, something to keep the wound from getting worse.
The pharmacy.
I'm on my feet in an instant, grabbing my boots and shoving them on as I head for the door. I don't even bother locking it behind me. She's not going anywhere, and neither is anything worth stealing.
The streets are eerily quiet as I make my way to the village center. Most of the houses are dark, their shutters closed tightly against the cold. When I reach the pharmacy, the faint glow of a lantern spills through the cracks in the shutters.
I push the door open, and the warm air inside hits me like a wave. The pharmacist looks up from behind the counter, his brow furrowing when he sees me.
"I need bandages and cotton," I say, my voice shaking.
He looks me up and down, his expression skeptical. "That'll be three silver falcos."
Three falcos. That's more than I've ever had at one time. My stomach twists uncomfortably, but I don't have time to argue.
"I don't have that kind of money," I admit. "But I'll work for it. I'll clean your house, your garden—whatever you need. Just give me the supplies, and I'll pay you back."
The pharmacist narrows his eyes at me, then sighs. "Fine. Be here tomorrow morning. And don't slack off."
He hands me a bundle of supplies, and I clutch them tightly as I rush back home. My breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps by the time I reach the shack, but I don't stop.
She's still there, her breathing faint but steady. I kneel beside her and start replacing the makeshift bandages with the clean cotton and proper cloth. My hands are clumsy, but I do my best.
When I'm done, I sit back, exhaustion washing over me. I look at her properly for the first time, my eyes tracing the delicate features of her face. Even now, pale and unconscious, she's… beautiful.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. She's just a person. Someone who needs help. That's all.
But now I have another problem. I haven't eaten since morning, and if I don't eat, I won't have the strength to work off my debt tomorrow.
I grab my fishing net and knife, casting one last glance at her before heading out the door.
The forest looms ahead, dark and quiet under the moonlight. The snow crunches beneath my boots as I step onto the trail, my breath fogging in the cold air. I tighten my grip on the net and knife, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.
It's a slow walk, the weight of everything pressing down on me. But I can't stop now.
Somehow, I'll make it through.