The sun never rose fully in the Ravine. It bled light slowly, as if reluctant to touch the world with warmth. Morning came in shades of rust and gray, a haze of half-illumination hanging over broken rooftops and uneven paths. In the village, life stirred quietly not with joy, but obligation.
Aurelia stood by the edge of the central well, sleeves rolled up, callused hands tightening rope around a broken pulley. Her breath was mist in the cold air. She had never drawn water like this before coming here, in the Vault, water had come from glass reservoirs, perfectly filtered and temperature-controlled, but out here, it tasted like iron and grit. She preferred it.
"Careful with that one," called Old Ma Ruth hunched over a nearby basket of grain. "Last time it snapped and took Dan's shoulder clean out."
Aurelia gave a small nod of acknowledgment and tested the knot again, satisfied. She liked Ma Ruth, she was one of the few who spoke to her like a person instead of a mystery. Most villagers watched her from a distance, sensing something off. She was too calm in chaos, too precise in her movements, not a scavenger, not a local but she didn't volunteer stories and no one asked. She liked it that way.
It was near midday when the caravan came. Five armored wagons pulled by grunting mechs, half-machine, half-animal, dust spiraled up in their wake, and the village went still, wary eyes watching from doorways, hands tightening on tools that could double as weapons.
Aurelia stood in the shadow of the blacksmith's hut, arms crossed, pulse steady. She knew trouble when she saw it. And this was trouble.
The front wagon hissed open. Two mercenaries stepped down, wearing dust-beaten cloaks and thick goggles. They said nothing. From the second wagon, a stretcher was lifted out by a third man, he looked younger, blood-splattered, panicked. And on that stretcher lay someone half-dead. A man tall even while unconscious, bandaged from ribs to thigh, one leg twisted wrong, skin ghost-pale. His hair, matted with sweat, was the color of dark bronze, and there was a faint line of a scar trailing from his brow to his jaw. His tattered state couldn't hide his good looks. Even unconscious, he looked significant, he had a noble presence.
"He needs a place to recover," the young man shouted. "We were ambushed, he held the line! Please help us!"
The villagers muttered uneasily. One older woman crossed herself and stepped back.
"Is he cursed?" someone whispered.
"No," said another, voice tense. "I've seen that emblem before, it belongs to the Morn family, one of the main families in the North. Nobles from Calder Stronghold."
That changed the air, not that it brought reverence, just more fear.
Everyone knew Calder. A northern fortress, famous for its militant family lines. The Morns were warrior-blooded, proud and brutal. But Calder had taken heavy losses last season when a Class Three beast broke their gates. Rumors said the Stronghold had never recovered. This man must have been one of their sons.
Aurelia remained still, watching. Her gaze fell on the mark etched into his breastplate-a sun half-shattered, the Morn family crest. And beneath it, a name carved faintly in the metal: Andres.
She'd never met him, never heard of him, even but she didn't need to. He was like every man who had once stood on a stage at the Vault, shining like a sun, shouting promises of salvation only to burn out or betray. Except, this one was wounded not burning.
The villagers argued, someone offered the barn, someone else protested. The mercenaries began losing patience.
"I'll take him," Aurelia said quietly. Every head turned.
Old Ma Ruth blinked. "You sure, girl?"
Aurelia nodded. "I have room."
"You barely speak to anyone," muttered another. "Now you want to nurse a war prince back to life?"
Aurelia didn't answer. She stepped forward and gestured to the stretcher. The mercenaries exchanged glances, shrugged, and handed him off without ceremony.
---
She took him to her hut, a modest two-room structure near the woods, made of scrap metal and scavenged stone. He barely fit on the bed, his limbs too long, too restless even in unconsciousness. She stripped his ruined armor, cut away his shredded shirt, and got to work. The wounds were deep, claw marks, burn traces and one old injury near the spine, half-healed wrong, probably untreated for days. His vitals were sluggish but stable. He must have been strong once. The kind of strong that was trained, honed, conditioned but now he was dying inch by inch.
She cleaned him in silence, her hands steady despite the blood. She didn't flinch when he groaned, didn't speak when he jerked in sleep, she just worked. Saving him had nothing to do with him, she did it because she only because she wanted to.
---
Andres Morn didn't wake up the first night. Or the second. Aurelia had half-expected him to groan and throw a punch the moment she stitched his side, maybe even threaten her like the arrogant fighters she remembered from the Vault but he didn't. He just slept, fitfully, unevenly, groaning in pain sometimes.
She found it both worrying and convenient. It was easier to care for someone when they weren't talking. Every morning, she boiled water with cracked herbs from her garden, cleaned his wounds, reapplied the medicine paste she'd bargained for with two dried fish and a scowl, and tried not to think about how much blood was on her floor.
She dragged a cot into the room and slept there at night. The main bed, her bed, was too small for a man of his size, but it was the only proper one she had. He looked almost embarrassed by how awkwardly he fit on it, one leg sometimes slipping off the edge, a foot thudding to the ground in the middle of the night. The first time it happened, Aurelia blinked awake to the sound, then sighed.
"Seriously?" she muttered, and gently nudged it back up. She didn't know why she talked to him. Maybe because he couldn't answer.
"Try not to die. That would be rude," she told him on the third day, while spooning bitter broth between his lips.
He coughed slightly not quite conscious, but not gone either.
"You're not even that handsome," she added under her breath, wiping the corner of his mouth. "Maybe a seven. Seven and a half. Don't let it get to your head." He didn't react. Of course he didn't. But it made her smirk a little. It was oddly nice having someone to talk to who didn't expect answers. Or lies. Or apologies.
---
On the fourth morning, she sat beside him peeling boiled roots for soup, bare feet up on the wooden bench. Her hair,coiled in soft braids, was tied up in a scarf, and her apron had three stubborn stains that refused to come out no matter how hard she scrubbed. She looked ordinary, that, in itself, felt like a privilege to her. In the Vault, she had never been allowed to be ordinary. She was polished, tailored, expected to lead with spine and silence. Her mother had called her "a blade meant for command." Her sister had seen her as a threat but out here, she was just a girl who made soup that wasn't particularly good but could fill a belly. It felt really nice and satisfying.
"Let's see," she murmured, turning back to Andres with a small frown.
The bandages on his chest needed changing again. She had run out of the premium kind, so she was stitching together clean cloth scraps from her old shirts, one piece even had a faded print of a cartoon rabbit, if he ever woke up and noticed, he'd just have to live with it. She leaned over him, adjusting the cloth on his ribs. His breathing had evened out a little, shallow but steady.
"You're healing fast," she said. "Which is impressive considering you looked like a shredded bedsheet three days ago."
A pause.
"I don't know what you were trying to prove. But next time, maybe let someone else take the fall."
Another pause.
"…Also, if you try anything stupid when you wake up, I'll knock you out again."
She reached for the basin, only to catch a flicker of movement. Her head snapped toward him.
His hand twitched. His eyes moved continuously beneath his eyes. His eyelids kept fluttering.
She set the basin down gently, heart climbing its way up her throat. Andres stirred again not fully awake, but enough that his brow furrowed, a groan bubbling low in his throat. Then he whispered something. Aurelia leaned closer.
"…Eirin…" It was so soft, she thought she imagined it.
"Eirin?" she repeated. "Is that your sister? Lover? Secret code word for help?"
His lips parted, dry and cracked. His eyes flickered under the lids again, but didn't open. He didn't answer, he just exhaled sharply and slumped back into the pillow. Aurelia exhaled too. Only then realizing she'd been holding her breath.
"Well," she said, standing up. "Glad we're starting with cryptic muttering. Very on brand for mysterious warriors."
---
Later that afternoon, she took a short break from playing nurse.
She sat out on the stoop with a bowl of soup in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, watching the clouds shift lazily in the reddish sky. Her skin glowed warm in the half-sunlight -golden-brown with flecks of darker tone across her shoulders. She closed her eyes and leaned into the warmth.
From inside, her ears picked up a sound, a soft groan. Then she heard it again, this time louder. Aurelia's eyes snapped open.
That wasn't a sleep-groan, that was a what the hell happened to me groan.
She stood, dusted off her pants, and walked back inside.
Andres Morn was awake, barely awake. His eyes were open just a sliver, unfocused, brow creased like he couldn't decide if he was in pain or just confused. His gaze landed on her, and stuck.
She tilted her head. "Hey," she said lightly. "Welcome back to the land of the mildly alive."
He blinked slowly. His lips moved like he wanted to speak, but no sound came out.
She crossed her arms. "Don't strain yourself. You're going to be woozy for a while. Also, you owe me three bandages, two bloodstained shirts, and the dignity of being elbowed in the face last night. You flail in your sleep."
He squinted at her like he was trying to decide if she was serious. She was. Mostly.
He croaked something that resembled "…where…"
"You're in my home," she said simply. "Which, by the way, is a privilege. Don't make me regret it."
"Who…"
"Later. You're too out of it. Just rest."
"…Water…"
Aurelia didn't say anything. Just turned, filled a cup, and walked it back to him. She raised his head slightly and let him sip. He took it in small gulps, then paused. His gaze flicked up to her face again, more aware now. He studied her features, the faint golden hue of her skin, the dark brown eyes, the braid falling over one shoulder.
He opened his mouth. And then passed out.
Aurelia stared at him for a long moment, then sighed.
"Drama queen," she muttered softly
The next time Andres woke up, it was morning. Aurelia was crouched beside the hearth, poking at a stubborn log in the firepit with a stick. She'd wrapped herself in a worn shawl against the chill, her braid looped up this time in a loose knot on her head. There were small smudges of ash on her cheek and flour on her sleeves.
She looked nothing like the woman he vaguely remembered in flashes, the one with sharp eyes and a voice like folded steel. But that same woman turned, caught him staring, and raised an eyebrow.
"Well," she said, "the bear stirs."
Andres blinked. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"You're awake-awake this time, right? Not just halfway-conscious and whispering someone's name like it's a prophecy?"
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Everything hurt.
"…Where…" His voice cracked mid-word.
Aurelia stood and walked over, grabbing a nearby mug.
"You're in my home, in a small village named Ravine. You were very nearly monster mulch. Congratulations on not dying."
She helped him sip some water again, and this time he held the cup himself though his hand trembled slightly.
He studied her more closely this time. Her features were… unexpected. Warm skin the color of polished bronze, high cheekbones, freckles sprinkled lightly across her nose and cheeks. Not someone he recognized and not from any family or faction he could place. He frowned.
"You're not from around here," he rasped.
Aurelia shrugged. "You're one to talk. Not a lot of fully-armored mystery men drop into my vegetable patch. Especially bleeding out like leaky soup pots."
He almost smiled. His lips curled at the side and then froze slowly turning into a grimace. He started to remember, memory stabbed at the edge of his mind, sharp, fast, bitter. The mission. The ambush. The look in Eirin's eyes.
He flinched and clutched at his side. Aurelia was already moving, she pressed a hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him back against the pillow.
"Hey, hey, don't do that. I just got your insides back inside you, don't make me redo the stitching."
He tried to push her hand away but failed miserably, she didn't even blink.
"You're too weak to be stubborn. Rest first. Questions later."
Andres glared at her, but the fire behind it fizzled quickly. He was weak, too weak, that fact alone burned worse than the wounds. He let his head fall back against the pillow, jaw clenched.
"Fine," he muttered.
Aurelia gave him a small nod and moved back toward the fire. She stirred the pot hanging above it and ladled something thick into a bowl.
"Soup's still terrible," she said. "But it's hot and vaguely nutritious."
He looked skeptical.
"You want to recover or not?"
"…Depends on what's in that."
"Mostly roots. A couple of herbs. Maybe a regret or two."
He snorted. A small, reluctant sound.
She looked up at him and smirked slyly. For some reason, he felt shivers down his spine.
Aurelia fed him in silence for a few moments, spooning the soup slowly and carefully. He wasn't strong enough to feed himself yet, not without spilling half of it down his front and she didn't seem eager to risk wasting food.
She was quiet, but not cold. Efficient, calm and relaxed.
And occasionally muttering sarcastic things under her breath like "You'd better be grateful, mystery man, I gave up my last onion for this."
He appreciated it more than he expected, it wasn't as awful as he thought it would be.
"You live alone?" he asked, once his bowl was empty.
"Obviously."
"No family?"
She gave him a long look. "Don't need one."
There was finality in her tone, but no bitterness, just fact.
Andres studied her face. She looked… settled, like ke someone who had been hurt, bled, burned and come out of it not untouched, but unbent. It reminded him a little too much of himself. He felt a kind of kindred spirit with her, which annoyed him.
"You're of noble blood" he said slowly.
Her spoon paused for a heartbeat too long.
"…What makes you say that?"
"The way you move, posture, the way you carry yourself"
"You're observant."
"Used to be part of my job."
She set the bowl down with a shrug. "Well, maybe I'm just overly confident in myself"
"That too."
That earned a grin. "Smart."
Then she stood. "Get some more rest. I've got errands. If you try to leave this bed and faceplant on my floor, I'm not helping you up."
He raised an eyebrow. "What if I need the bathroom?"
"There's a pot. Don't miss."
She left the house shortly after, muttering something about eggs and spoiled milk.
Andres lay back on the bed, listening to her footsteps fade into the crunch of dirt and gravel outside. Silence settled in her absence. It gave his thoughts too much room to breathe.
He closed his eyes, but the memories came anyway. The ruins, the blood, the way Eirin had turned her back on him, cool and detached, like their years together had never meant anything.
He clenched his fists weakly. He should've died out there. Maybe he was supposed to. But this woman, this unknown girl in an apron and a braid had saved him and now he owed her, he hated owing anyone.
When Aurelia returned, she was carrying a basket with a lopsided tomato and three sad-looking eggs. She set it down with a huff.
"They didn't have much left," she said. "But I managed to convince Old Ma Ruth to give me the good ones. Told her you were some war hero."
Andres gave her a look. "That's a lie."
"I know. But she's half-deaf and likes drama."
He chuckled softly.
That night, he slept more soundly. Aurelia, curled on the cot near the door, listened to the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath and thought,
I really hope you're not trouble.