"Hang on. The pain will pass soon..."
Darkness still veiled her mind when a faint glimmer of light pierced her eyelids—and with it, a whisper of a voice. Her body felt light… too light, as if it were no longer tethered to the world. But the burning pain in her stomach—sharp and searing—dragged her back to reality.
Ashtoria let out a weak groan.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her vision was blurry, clouded by the haze of unconsciousness. Yet within that fog, she saw a shadow… a young man with messy black hair and olive skin, kneeling beside her.
His hands were stained with blood—her blood.
Strong, nimble fingers pressed a ragged cloth against the wound in her stomach, trying to staunch the bleeding. His face looked serious yet calm, his gaze sharp but devoid of malice.
But to Ashtoria, that meant nothing.
Touch. That was what she felt. A stranger's touch on her body.
Every instinct screamed. Push him away. Get him off. Kill him if necessary. She had never… never allowed anyone to touch her like this.
Not after everything.
Her body tensed—just slightly, because the strength she had left wasn't even enough to lift her own hand. Her breath was ragged. Her eyes trembled, trying to say, ,"Don't touch me." But what came out was a faint, broken gasp.
Suddenly, her vision began to fade again.
Consciousness slipped. The world tilted. But before she was swallowed by the dark once more, the man's voice followed her—a low, gentle murmur that slipped through the pain and paranoia like a warm breeze:
"It's alright. You're safe now."
Ashtoria wanted to protest, to tell him that there was no such thing as safe. But everything turned black again, and the world slipped from her grasp.
.
.
.
The morning light filtered softly through cracks in the wooden walls, illuminating the dust motes drifting in the air. In the stillness, Ashtoria's eyelids began to twitch.
She opened her eyes.
A rough wooden ceiling greeted her gaze. Not marble, not gold—nothing like the palace chambers she once knew. Just old, timeworn planks nailed together without care.
Her senses were still sluggish, but the faint ache in her stomach pulled her back into the present. She took a deep breath—and this time, it didn't burn. Her head was still heavy, but her thoughts began to clear.
Slowly, she sat up.
A thin, grey blanket slipped off her shoulders, revealing that her upper body was now clothed in a coarse tunic—simple, but clean, and faintly scented with soap.
She lowered her gaze and examined her abdomen. A clean bandage wrapped tightly around her midsection. Dried blood clung to the edges of the fabric. Someone had treated her carefully while she was unconscious.
Someone.
A hazy image of the black-haired man with olive skin surfaced in her mind.
So did his voice… calm, steady, the one she heard before slipping back into darkness that night.
Ashtoria frowned.
Who was he?
Why did he save me?
Did he know who I am?
Why wasn't he afraid…?
The questions shot through her like arrows. Her paranoia, which had briefly quieted, now returned with full force. In her life, kindness never came without a hidden blade. She had learned that every hand that offered help could just as easily deliver betrayal.
And worse still… the way I look.
A body covered in scars, skin pale as death, and hair red as blood. Was the man not afraid… or just foolish?
Ashtoria clenched her jaw, suppressing the swirl of thoughts.
But staying here, doing nothing, would only feed her doubt. She needed to see the man for herself—and find out why.
With light, silent movements, she rose from the bed. Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor. She moved like a shadow, the instincts of a killer still intact, even if her body hadn't fully recovered.
She walked down a short hall and paused as she noticed a door slightly ajar.
Peering through the gap, she saw a young girl crouching by a basin. The child was washing a round shield, caked in mud and dried blood. Around her lay several other weapons—a short spear, a wide-bladed sword, and a dented arm guard.
The girl was focused, occasionally puffing her cheeks to blow away strands of hair that fell into her eyes. But Ashtoria could tell from the girl's aura—this child wasn't a awakener. Not yet. But she had grown up surrounded by blood and steel.
'Not her,' Ashtoria thought, stepping away.
She opened the door to the back of the house and stepped outside.
Her feet were silent as she followed the faint trail into the woods. Morning dew still clung to the leaves, and the songbirds in the canopy fell quiet as she passed, as if respecting the quiet wrath she carried. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, painting golden patterns on the moss-covered ground.
Her body was still weak, but her eyes were sharp. She was following the source of the aura she remembered—that man—and she would find out just who dared to touch her without permission.
Her steps halted as she reached a clearing between two large oak trees. In the small patch of open land beyond, the man stood alone.
Ashtoria narrowed her eyes, watching in silence.
He was young. His black hair was messy, falling over his brow. His olive skin was kissed by sunlight. He wasn't large, but his build spoke of hard labor. In his hands was a silver sword that looked ill-suited to the way he handled it—too fine a blade for someone who wielded it so clumsily.
His movements were… awkward. His swings were unbalanced, too wide, often losing power mid-stroke. Sometimes he'd stop mid-movement, muttering under his breath, and try the stance again. Like someone trying to teach himself how to fight… without a teacher.
And yet, despite the lack of skill, there was something about him that made Ashtoria freeze in place.
His eyes.
Focused. Intense. Unbothered by his own shortcomings. As if his will was sharper than the blade he held. And occasionally, when his swing hit the air with more control than before, his lips would curl—barely a smile, more like a flicker of relief.
Ashtoria stood in the shadows of the trees, unblinking.
She remembered his voice—the gentleness with which he tried to soothe her. His hands, wrapping her wounds. The clean clothes on her body. She should hate all of it. She should kill anyone who dared touch her without her consent.
But this man…
Without another thought, Ashtoria stepped forward.