Theron gritted his teeth as he forced his battered body upright.
Pain shot through every nerve, sharp and unrelenting, making him wince and nearly collapse again.
His muscles trembled from the effort, his ribs flared with agony—but he pushed through it. He had to. Even though every inch of him screamed for rest, staying still felt like giving up… like dying faster.
At that moment, the wooden door swung open with a creaking sound of worn wood.
A girl stepped into the room.
Her blonde hair flowed behind her like sun-kissed silk.
She wore a simple dress—light and breathable for the early summer heat—clinging slightly to her skin after walking outside. The fabric, a bit damp from the heat and breeze, hugged her figure in ways she probably hadn't intended. She looked fully developed despite her young age, and the dress did little to hide that.
She appeared around eighteen—the same age as him. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and through the fabric, the faint outline of her nipples was visible, slightly hardened from the cool breeze outside.
In her hands, she carried a wooden tray with a bowl of steaming stew, a piece of bread, and a small herbal tonic.
Theron's eyes narrowed as he looked at her—not with lust, but with caution and curiosity. He searched through the memories inherited from the previous owner of this body, trying to place her face.
Then he found it.
Her name was Elira.
She was the daughter of Marcus—Theron's father's dearest companion, a man who had died years ago in a hunting accident.
After his death, Marcus had taken Elira treating her like family.
Because of that, she and Theron had grown up together. Played together. Argued. Laughed. They had been close—maybe even too close. From what Theron could tell, the old Theron had even had a bit of a crush on her.
Elira was also the village's healer. A mage, just like Theron.
She had been the one tending to his wounds ever since he was injured during the clash with Vanilia Village's men two days ago.
As Elira walked into the room, her eyes locked onto Theron, who was still struggling to stand, using the bed frame to support himself.
She gasped when she saw him.
"Theron! What in the name of the Spirits are you doing?! You can't move like that!" she exclaimed.
She quickly placed the tray on a nearby stool and rushed to his side, arms already reaching out to support him as he swayed.
"You're still not healed! You should be resting, not—"
"I've been lying here, rotting for two days," Theron interrupted, his voice hoarse but sharp. "I need to know what's going on in the village. I'm still the chief, aren't I?"
Elira's expression hardened. "You are. But you're also half-dead. You won't do the village any good if you collapse in the middle of the street."
She stepped back and crossed her arms. "Garlan and Brude are already handling things."
Theron blinked at the names. More memories clicked into place.
Garlan—his father's old advisor. Quiet, sharp, and loyal.
Brude—the head of the village's militia. Rough, but dependable.
"Elira," he said with a sigh, "I know they're capable. But I can't just sit here helpless. If I can't walk around, I at least need to talk to them and work something out. I have to do something. I can't just lie here doing nothing."
Elira stared at him, her eyes locked on his face.
"No," she said firmly. "You need rest."
"And I'll rest," Theron replied. "But I won't sit here twiddling my thumbs while the village burns. You need to call them here for me. Let me speak with them. If you don't, I'll go find them myself."
A long pause followed.
Elira opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue again—but after one look at the fire in his eyes, that same stubborn fire she had seen in his father, she let out a frustrated huff and finally gave in.
"Fine," she muttered, picking up the tray and setting it on the table beside the bed. "But eat this first. It'll help with your recovery. If I come back and it's untouched—"
"I'll eat," he promised. "Just go."
She lingered for a moment longer, clearly wanting to say more, but then nodded and turned. Her steps were light but quick as she left, the door creaking softly as it swung halfway closed behind her.
As soon as she was gone, Theron let out a long, exhausted sigh.
He turned his eyes toward the tray, staring at it like it was a threat waiting to strike.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Elira. In fact, he trusted her more than anyone else here.
But the curse? That changes everything.
He had been killed by soup before. Not just once, but several times.
Once, a pot of soup had somehow been poisoned minutes before serving—because a hawk had crashed through the kitchen roof, knocked over a shelf, and sent a jar of poison into the pot. Random, ridiculous accidents always found him. Always. Like the universe itself was out to get him.
So no, he wasn't taking any chances with that stew.
He glanced around the small room—a cozy, simple space made of wood and stone. A narrow window let in a breeze from outside. In the corner sat a water basin, a chest for clothes, and a worn stool.
With great effort, he stood up and limped toward the window, pain shooting through his legs with every step. When he reached it, he carefully tilted the bowl outside.
Slowly, quietly, he poured the steaming stew into the flowerbed below. The soil drank it up without a sound.
He placed the empty bowl back on the tray, making sure it looked undisturbed. Then he picked up the bread, took a small bite just for show, chewed, and spat it out silently into a napkin.
Next came the tonic. He poured it gently into a small potted plant in the corner, letting the thirsty herbs absorb the liquid.
By the time he finished, the tray looked like a half-eaten meal.
He sat back down, wincing as he leaned against the headboard, and took a deep breath.
Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. Hopefully, Elira wouldn't notice.
As he waited for her return with the two men, his mind stayed busy.
He started going over ideas—plans and strategies, trying to piece together a way to handle the growing trouble outside. He couldn't afford to stay down for long. Not with danger knocking at their gates. Not with that curse hanging over him like a shadow.
Time dragged on. The minutes felt like hours. But eventually, footsteps echoed outside, and the door creaked open again.
Elira entered first, followed by two men.
The first was Garlan, the old advisor. He was tall and slender, with streaks of grey in his dark hair and a frown that seemed etched into his face permanently. His sharp eyes scanned everything, always thinking beyond what was said. He wore simple brown robes—plain, but dignified.
The second man was Brude, head of the village's troops. Broad and solid like a boulder, with arms thick as tree trunks and a beard like a well-kept hedge. He wore patched-up leather armor that looked like it had seen years of battle, and he carried the faint scent of iron and sweat. Scars ran down both arms, silent proof of the battles he had survived.
Both men gave short bows.
"Lord Theron," they said in unison.
Theron nodded back. "Garlan. Brude. Thank you for coming," he said, voice calm but serious.
Elira stepped forward after them, but her eyes flicked straight to the tray on the table.
The empty bowl. The nibbled bread. The dry cup.
Her brows immediately pulled together.
"You already finished?"
Theron leaned back slightly and nodded. "I was starving," he said with a small shrug. "Guess I ate a little faster than I should've."
But her eyes narrowed even more. She looked around the room, as if searching for someone else who might've helped him eat.
"And the tonic?" she asked, voice calm but filled with quiet suspicion.