There was a wide gash across the woman's abdomen. That was where all the blood soaking her body had come from.
But that wasn't what made Riven freeze in place.
What made his breath catch was what surrounded that wound.
All around it—beneath her lower stomach, along her waistline, and up the sides of her ribs—were scars. Not fresh wounds. Old ones. Long, darkened marks, some raised like ridges, others faded to pale lines. Yet all of them were clearly visible under the faint glow of the room's flickering lantern.
Whip lashes. Slashes. Burn marks.
Scars of torture.
The upper part of her body was riddled with them, crisscrossing like forgotten roads etched onto pale skin. Her flesh had become a canvas of suffering, every line a silent tale of pain. One particular scar stood out—a small, round brand just below her collarbone, as if someone had once pressed a searing piece of metal into her flesh.
What made it all feel so wrong, so disturbing, was the contrast.
The contrast between her outer beauty and the ruin hidden beneath her clothing.
She had the face of a goddess, hair like flowing flame, and skin on her neck and arms that remained pristine—soft, unmarred, perfect. The visible parts of her body appeared untouched, like nothing had ever harmed her. As if all the torment had been aimed precisely at the parts hidden beneath fine fabric.
The dress she wore—an opulent black gown embroidered with fine patterns and lace—wasn't just a beautiful garment. It had been carefully chosen. Crafted, perhaps, to conceal the truth.
Riven swallowed hard. His eyes trembled.
What kind of life had she lived?
Was she a noble's slave? A prisoner of war? Or… something darker?
"Did you run from the ones who did this to you?" he whispered under his breath.
His eyes, moving without permission, landed on her chest—still covered in dark lace. He quickly turned his head away.
"I must not think anything inappropriate..." he murmured, almost as a warning to himself.
He bit his lip and took a deep breath.
Now was not the time for thoughts like that.
The woman was still breathing, and her wounds could still be treated. As long as that was true, then only one thing mattered—saving her.
Riven reached for the cloth he had soaked in warm saltwater earlier. He wrung it out gently, then pressed its corner to the bloody gash. Thick blood soaked into the cloth. His movements were delicate, like a careful caress. He worked slowly, wiping from the edge of the wound outward to avoid worsening the damage.
The woman groaned faintly. A sound barely audible—but enough to make Riven hold his breath.
"Hang on. The pain will pass soon..." he whispered, knowing she wouldn't hear him.
He continued cleaning the wound, working in silence. Every gesture was precise, controlled. Once the blood had been wiped clean, he picked up a dry cloth and gently dabbed the area, soaking away any remaining moisture.
Then he slid one hand beneath her back and carefully lifted her into a sitting position. Her body was light... too light. Like someone who hadn't eaten in days.
From Mira's pile, he chose the softest piece of cloth. With slow, careful movements, he wrapped it around the woman's midsection, binding the wound. He wound the cloth snugly across her belly and around her back, tight enough to hold, but not enough to hurt her.
He tied the ends in a double knot, firm and secure. When he let go, the cloth stayed in place.
Finally, he pulled the blanket up from the foot of the bed and tucked it gently over her body, up to her neck. He stared at her face for a moment—her brows slightly furrowed even in sleep, her lips slightly parted. Her breathing was shallow... but steady.
She was alive.
Riven let out a long breath and sat at the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Then he looked up.
At the doorway stood Mira. Her eyes were red, but not from crying this time—rather from emotion. She stared at him with a look soft and warm. Her lips curled into a small smile.
Pride.
That was the expression on her face.
Riven met her gaze and, for the first time that night, smiled back. It was faint, but genuine.
Then his eyes drifted back to the mysterious woman lying on the bed.
She was no ordinary woman. That much was certain. No commoner dressed like that, or had scars hidden beneath luxury. Even the jewelry at her neck and ears—though dulled and stained with blood—still looked more valuable than anything he'd ever owned.
"A noble…" he muttered. "Or someone even higher."
And now, that secret slept in their house.
Riven stood, brushing off his trousers, and turned to Mira.
"I need to step outside for a moment."
Mira blinked. "Outside? Why?"
"I left the weapons I collected in front of the house," Riven replied.
Her eyes widened a little. That worried look returned. "Don't stay out too long. I'm scared…"
Riven smiled softly and nodded.
"Don't worry. They're not far. I'll be quick. I promise."
Mira bit her lip, then finally gave a reluctant nod.
Riven walked to the front door. Before stepping out, he glanced back toward the room—making sure the woman was still resting and Mira still standing guard.
Then he pushed open the old wooden door and stepped into the silent night.
His boots brushed against grass as he walked. The cool wind bit at his skin, but tonight the world felt quieter than before—like everything was holding its breath.
He'd only taken a few steps when he saw the bushes near the side of the house. That was where he'd hidden the sacks of scavenged weapons. They looked untouched—just as he'd left them.
He moved faster, crouching beside the first sack. It was heavy with blades and rusted metal. As he picked it up, the clinking of weapons echoed faintly into the night.
Then he reached for the second sack—
And something moved.
Riven froze.
His head whipped toward the sound.
At first, he saw nothing—just darkness, and trees swaying gently in the breeze. But then, between the shadows, beneath the pale glow of the crescent moon… he saw it.
Someone was walking.
Or rather… dragging themselves forward.
Their steps were unstable. Their body swayed. Head down.
Riven squinted.
A thin body. Clothes torn to shreds. Hair matted to the face with sweat and dried blood. From afar, it was hard to recognize. But there was something in the way they walked—in the slight tilt of their head, the dragging of a wounded leg—
And then the moonlight lit their face.
The world around Riven fell silent.
His eyes widened.
He knew that man.