Rena crouched beside the old willow tree, fingers sifting through the damp loam in search of healing roots. The early morning light speared through Whisperwood's dense canopy, creating patches of dappled gold on the forest floor. She paused at the sound of a woodpecker drumming somewhere overhead. Normally she would enjoy the rhythmic tapping, but today, her stomach twisted with uneasy anticipation. Her aunt, Sorren, had sent her out for fresh herbs earlier than usual, and though Rena couldn't quite articulate why, something about the forest felt restless—like it was bracing for a storm that hadn't yet arrived.

Brushing aside a pile of fallen leaves, Rena found the slender stems she was looking for: knotted briar-root, an herb Aunt Sorren used to treat fevers. A faint smile touched her lips. She loved these moments of solitude, despite the strange tension in the air. There was a meditative comfort in focusing on each leaf, root, and petal, in marveling at the subtle ways the forest provided for all living things.

Yet when she placed the freshly cut briar-root into her woven pouch, she noticed her hands trembling slightly. It wasn't from fatigue or cold—though Whisperwood's morning breeze carried a chill. No, it was the same jittery feeling she sometimes had just before encountering a wounded animal or a sick villager: a sense that something or someone needed her help.

She stood, dusting off her skirt, and began walking back along the narrow trail that led to Aunt Sorren's cottage. The forest undergrowth rustled as though alive with secrets, each leaf whispering half-formed warnings. As Rena rounded a bend in the path, she froze. A low, throaty groan echoed from the mossy clearing ahead.

Her heart quickened. She carefully moved aside the branches of a drooping pine and peered through. Lying in the ferns was a man—ragged, breathing in shallow gasps, blood staining his tunic. His eyes were half-closed, and his face contorted with pain. Next to him, a toppled satchel lay open, its contents spilling onto the forest floor: scraps of parchment, a small dagger, and something wrapped in dirty cloth.

Acting on instinct, Rena stepped into the clearing. She knelt beside the man, brushing back his matted hair to check for signs of consciousness. "Sir? Can you hear me?" she asked softly. He groaned again, opening his eyes just enough to register her presence.

"Help…" he rasped, voice cracking.

"Don't move," she urged, placing a hand on his forehead. The man's skin was hot, feverish. Her healing instincts flared to life. She tugged the briar-root from her pouch, ready to make a basic poultice to staunch any infection. But as she went to work, a low growl from behind startled her.

Turning her head, she found a wild boar watching them—an enormous creature with coarse bristles and a pair of curved tusks glinting in the early light. Its eyes blazed with fear or aggression, locked on the injured man. Rena's pulse thudded. A cornered boar could be deadly, and she had no weapon. She swallowed, praying the forest's usual calm might guide her.

She lifted her free hand, palm open, projecting a gentleness that had helped her soothe spooked horses and wounded deer in the past. She could never explain precisely how, but something in her touch or her presence often calmed agitated creatures. Her heart pounded as the boar stomped the ground, snorting a warning. Slowly, Rena inched forward. She murmured a soft lull, though no words formed—just a comforting hum that eased from her throat like a bedtime lullaby.

The boar's ears twitched, and its stance relaxed fractionally. Rena dared not break eye contact. She let her mind focus on compassion rather than fear, channeling that feeling the same way she channeled healing energy. The boar's breathing steadied. Finally, with one last threatening snort, it snuffled the air and lumbered off into the thicker brush.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Rena turned back to the wounded man. He stared at her, eyes now wide with awe—and something else. Recognition? He tried to push himself upright, wheezing. "That power… you… must be…" His words fell into a rasp before he slumped back down.

Rena felt his forehead again. Fever raged, and there was a gash on his left shoulder, probably from the boar. Fresh blood seeped around the torn fabric of his tunic. She had no time to wait for him to recover on his own. "Stay still," she commanded. In one motion, she pressed her palm against the wound. A spark of warmth ignited in her chest, flowing down her arm, gathering at her fingertips. She sensed the man's pain as a searing pulse, pressing back against her mind. Grimacing, she let her healing power flow, silver-white light flickering in her peripheral vision.

The man's breathing steadied; his trembling limbs relaxed. Rena's vision blurred slightly—using her gift always took a toll on her—but the bleeding slowed, and the fever's intensity diminished. She knew he would need more thorough care, possibly stitches and salves. Gently, she lifted him, staggering under his weight. He was taller, broader than she had realized.

She half-dragged, half-supported him along the path, heading for the cottage. Every few steps, she had to pause, heart pounding from exertion. Yet she dared not leave him alone to fetch help. She had to keep going, even though the forest path seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the boughs.

After what felt like an eternity, the cottage's thatched roof came into view. Aunt Sorren stood in the small garden, stooped over a row of herbs. She glanced up and gasped, dropping her clippers. In a moment, she was at Rena's side, helping ease the wounded stranger onto a cot near the cottage door.

"Good heavens, child," Sorren breathed, eyes darting to the man's torn tunic and the blood staining Rena's skirt. "What happened?"

Rena's voice trembled with both exhaustion and urgency. "He was hurt in the woods. A boar, I think. I tried to heal the wound, but it was deep. He's feverish, too."

Sorren nodded, her features settling into a calm determination. She dashed inside for bandages and a bowl of water. Together, they peeled away the man's tunic, revealing a gash that ran from shoulder to chest. Though Rena's healing power had staunched the worst of it, infection threatened.

They worked in silence, cleaning and dressing the wound with antiseptic salves. After a few tense minutes, Sorren pressed her ear to the man's chest, listening to his heartbeat. "He's stable for now," she finally said, voice laden with relief. "But the fever needs constant monitoring."

Rena sank onto a wooden stool, burying her face in her hands. She felt the usual post-healing fatigue, a kind of bone-deep weariness that made her limbs feel as heavy as iron. "I can keep watch," she managed, even though her eyes already drooped.

Sorren placed a reassuring hand on Rena's shoulder. "Rest a bit. I'll prepare a stronger feverfew tincture. Once we're sure he won't worsen, we can see if he's able to talk. Perhaps he can tell us how he came to be this far into Whisperwood."

Weariness pressed down on Rena, but her mind buzzed with questions. Who was he? Why had he seemed so shocked by her healing power? She had occasionally treated villagers for cuts and colds—always discreetly—but no one had ever reacted like this. Something in his gaze hinted that he recognized more than just a simple herbalist's apprentice.

She barely noticed drifting off to sleep, but when she opened her eyes again, she was alone with the man on the cot. Aunt Sorren's footsteps sounded in the next room, rattling jars. Feeling somewhat renewed, Rena sat up and checked the patient's forehead. He was cool to the touch, the fever subsiding. Relief swept through her.

Then, with a soft groan, the man's eyes opened. He blinked in confusion, taking in the humble cottage—a single main room with a small fireplace, stacked shelves of herbs, and the bed where he lay. His gaze finally settled on Rena. "You… you saved my life."

A hint of color rose in Rena's cheeks. "I did what I could," she said quietly. "You lost a lot of blood, and you were running a high fever."

He nodded slowly, pressing a hand to his bandaged chest. "Still alive, somehow. You're more than just a simple healer, aren't you?"

She tensed, uncertain how to respond. Her healing power had always set her apart, even though she and Aunt Sorren tried to keep it hidden. "I… I'm Rena," she offered, sidestepping his question. "And this is my aunt's cottage. You're lucky we found you. What's your name? Do you remember how you were hurt?"

He swallowed, eyes flicking around the room as though he expected eavesdroppers. "Gareth," he said, voice strained. "I'm… a messenger—of sorts. I was traveling north with an urgent task when my party was ambushed by brigands. I escaped into the forest but ran afoul of a wild boar." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I suppose I owe my life to your skill. If not for you, that beast would've finished me off."

Rena fidgeted with the edge of the cot, unsure what to say. Aunt Sorren walked in then, carrying a cup of steaming liquid. She handed it to Gareth, her expression polite yet guarded. "Drink this," she instructed. "It'll help with any lingering infection. We added golden-seal root to strengthen your body's defense."

He eyed the cup suspiciously but eventually took a gulp, grimacing at the bitter taste. "Thank you, ma'am."

Sorren glanced at Rena. She seemed to sense the next question on her niece's mind and nodded slightly, giving her a silent go-ahead.

Rena cleared her throat. "You said you're a messenger. Might we ask… for whom?"

Gareth hesitated, his gaze dropping to the worn cloak near the foot of the cot. A faded insignia was embroidered there—a delicate crescent moon intertwined with a lily, half-obscured by dirt and blood. Rena's eyes widened, recognizing it. The same insignia appeared sometimes on traveling merchants' banners, the same motif the minstrels called the royal crest of Silverstrand.

"Wait," Rena murmured, reaching for the cloak to confirm the design. "This is—"

"The king's crest," Gareth finished quietly. He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Rena. His voice carried a strange urgency. "I need to reach the castle with vital information about… the rightful heir. The lost princess, who vanished almost twenty years ago. Rumors say she lives somewhere in these parts, her powers hidden from the realm."

Rena's heart jolted. "A lost princess? Powers?" A cold tingle ran down her spine. Aunt Sorren's face paled, her lips thinning as she exchanged a look with Rena.

Gareth took a labored breath, exhaustion tugging at his features. "Stories claim she was born with a rare gift—one that could heal any wound, even mortal ones." He paused, eyes darting to Rena's hands. "I'd heard only whispers. Yet I see now that rumors often carry grains of truth."

Rena's stomach tightened. She wanted to deny everything, to dismiss his insinuation that she might be tied to the royal family of Silverstrand. The very idea seemed outlandish. She was just Rena, the orphan Aunt Sorren raised. But the uncertain quiver in Sorren's gaze told her there was more to the story. And Gareth's pained expression suggested he had no doubt at all.

He continued, voice steady despite his weariness. "I must return to King Darius and Queen Maribel. If their daughter is alive, if someone truly wields that legendary healing gift… it could change the fate of the kingdom. Silverstrand is on the brink of crisis: rumors of a power-hungry steward, Lord Severin, consolidating influence while the king and queen's authority weakens. The realm needs its rightful heir, someone whose very existence might unite the people."

Silence filled the cottage, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Rena felt her breath catch in her throat. She glanced at Aunt Sorren, mind reeling with questions. Had Sorren known something all this time? The older woman looked stricken, torn between protectiveness and the truth she had long guarded.

Gareth grimaced, clearly pushing past his own pain for the sake of his mission. "If you're who I think you are… we must leave for the castle as soon as I'm strong enough to ride. The fate of Silverstrand might depend on it."

Rena's thoughts whirled. She recalled faint memories: the lullabies Sorren sang when she was small, cryptic references to the 'night of the red moon' when Rena was found. Could she really be a missing princess? The notion felt impossible, yet everything about Gareth's presence—his crest, his conviction—pointed to a truth Rena could no longer ignore.

A heavy hush settled over them. At last, Aunt Sorren spoke, her voice quavering. "Then we have decisions to make. But for now, Gareth, you must rest. And Rena… you and I need to talk."

Rena shivered despite the warm fire at her back. She could sense her life shifting, like the forest before a storm. Her healing gift had always been a quiet mystery, but now, it threatened to pull her into a realm of court intrigue and looming danger. Unsure whether to feel hope or dread, she swallowed against the tightness in her throat and silently nodded, bracing herself for the truth that would unravel her world.

Outside, the wind rustled the leaves, carrying the forest's soft whispers across the clearing. Something had changed in Whisperwood—an intangible stirring of fate. And as the morning light streamed through the windows, Rena realized she stood on the threshold of a journey that would reshape her life and, perhaps, the destiny of an entire kingdom.