Mathew stirred from his sleep, his mind sluggish and heavy. His eyelids fluttered open, and the sight before him was unlike anything he had ever seen. The room wasn't crafted by human hands but by nature itself. Walls of living branches, vibrant and interwoven, formed a shelter around him. The branches pulsed faintly as if alive, adorned with delicate flowers and clusters of berries. Vines hung from the ceiling, their leaves swaying gently, casting shifting patterns on the floor.
The air was warm, carrying a heady mix of herbs and spices that tickled his nose and soothed his senses. For a moment, he lay still, his body wrapped in bandages soaked in some kind of salve. The faint smell of the ointment mingled with the other aromas, grounding him.
He tried to sit up, but pain radiated through his body. Every muscle protested, and his ribs felt as though they were held together by sheer willpower. Slowly, he turned his head, his gaze settling on a small wooden table nearby. On it sat a simple pitcher of water.
His throat burned with thirst. Trembling, Mathew reached for the pitcher, his hands fumbling as he brought it to his lips. The water was unlike anything he had ever tasted—cool and crisp, as though it carried the essence of life itself. Each sip sent a surge of energy through him, easing some of the tension in his battered body.
A sudden crash broke the serene atmosphere, and Mathew flinched. His head snapped toward the sound, his heart hammering in his chest.
Standing in the archway was a woman unlike anyone he had ever seen. She was tall, her figure a perfect blend of strength and grace. Her skin was a rich crimson, glowing faintly in the dim light, and her eyes burned like twin embers, intense and captivating. Long, jet-black hair fell over her shoulders, framing her face—a face both innocent and breathtakingly alluring.
But it was the horns that drew his attention first. Two small, curved horns rose from her temple, adorned with delicate metallic jewelry that caught the light. Her attire was simple yet elegant, a mix of leather and cloth that hugged her figure without restricting movement.
For a moment, they both froze. The woman glanced at the floor, where a bowl of herbs and bandages lay scattered from her apparent stumble. Her gaze darted back to Mathew, and her eyes widened as if realizing he was awake.
Mathew, though weak, instinctively tried to rise. "Let me help you—"
His words were cut off by his legs buckling beneath him. He fell heavily to the floor, the impact sending sharp pain through his torso. He gasped, his vision blurring momentarily.
"Don't move!" the woman exclaimed, her voice warm yet commanding.
In an instant, she was by his side. Her movements were quick but careful as she helped him back onto the bed. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, and her proximity allowed Mathew to notice details he hadn't before—the faint shimmer of her skin, the way her tail swayed behind her as though mirroring her emotions.
"Foolish," she muttered under her breath, her accent soft but lilting. "You're in no condition to move."
Mathew stared at her tail for a moment, the realization dawning on him. Tiefling. The word sprang to his mind, dredged up from old texts he had read in the books he brought form the library. A race with infernal lineage, often feared and misunderstood. He had never imagined to see one in person, and now, here was one tending to his wounds.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a second figure appeared in the doorway. An older man, his presence commanding yet cautious, stepped inside. His skin bore the same crimson hue, though weathered and scarred from a life hard-lived. His horns, larger and more curved than the woman's, framed a face etched with lines of both strength and sorrow.
The man's fiery eyes scanned the room, taking in the spilled herbs, the bed, and finally Mathew. He stepped closer, his expression guarded. "You're awake," he said, his voice a deep rumble.
Mathew nodded weakly.
The man leaned in, inspecting the bandages with a practiced eye. His hands, though calloused, were careful as he adjusted the wrappings. "You're lucky," he muttered. "An angel's blade… it should have killed you outright."
Mathew swallowed, his throat still raw. "Thank you," he rasped. "For saving me. For… all of this."
The man straightened, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "Don't thank me," he said gruffly. "Thank Valyn. If she hadn't brought you here, you'd be nothing but ash."
Mathew turned his gaze to the woman—Valyn. She was now sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on the floor. Her tail flicked nervously, betraying her unease.
"Thank you," Mathew said, his voice stronger this time. "I owe you my life."
Valyn glanced at him briefly, her cheeks darkening with a faint blush. She said nothing, her hands busy arranging the spilled herbs into a semblance of order.
The older man cleared his throat. "I am Grius," he said. "This place is called Kriggan. It's a sanctuary—hidden from the eyes of humans, angels, and demons alike. Those who have no place in the world above find refuge here."
Mathew's mind churned with questions, but before he could speak, Grius held up a hand. "You need rest," he said firmly. "The blade that struck you wasn't ordinary. Even for someone like you, healing will take time."
Mathew nodded reluctantly, sinking back into the bed.
Grius stood there for a whilez watching Mathew closely as though measuring his intentions. Then he left, his movements measured and weighted with burden.
---
As the day wore on, Mathew found himself talking more with Valyn. She was quiet, her responses short but not curt. She had a way of speaking that made every word feel deliberate, as though she weighed them carefully before sharing.
Her shyness intrigued him. For someone who had saved his life, she seemed almost embarrassed by his gratitude.
"I didn't do it for thanks," she admitted at one point, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I did it because it was the right thing to do."
Mathew smiled faintly. "Even so, you saved me. That deserves recognition."
Valyn didn't reply, but the faint blush on her cheeks returned.
By evening, Valyn stood abruptly. "You should rest," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You're not fully healed."
She began to leave, but Mathew reached out, his hand catching hers. His touch was light, hesitant.
"When will I see you again?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers.
Valyn froze for a moment before pulling her hand away. She didn't meet his gaze, but a small, shy smile played on her lips. "Soon," she whispered before slipping out of the room.
Mathew stared after her, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries. As he lay back against the pillows, the memory of her face lingered in his mind. For the first time in weeks, he felt something stir within him that wasn't anger or pain.
He closed his eyes, the scent of flowers and herbs filling his senses, and drifted into a restless sleep, Valyn's fiery eyes haunting his dreams.