As the night wore on, the storm raged with unrelenting fury. Outside the sturdy walls of her cottage, the wind howled like a wounded beast, whipping through the towering trees of the ancient Vhengal forest. Heavy rain lashed against her windows, each droplet striking like a tiny hammer, and, at times, the sound it made against her roof was nearly deafening.
Throughout the night, Amriel sat in her chair by the fire with Meeko curled up at her feet, the warmth of the flames battling the chill that seeped through the walls. She strained to hear his breathing above the relentless din of the rain, which pounded against her cottage like an army of tiny fists, driven by the howling winds outside. Each gust felt like it could tear the very roof from her home, yet amidst the chaos, his breaths persisted—raspy and uneven but undeniably present.
Finally, in the early morning hours, the tempestuous rain subsided, leaving behind a lingering dampness that clung to the air. The dawn crept in gently, unfurling across the horizon like a delicate tapestry, streaked with bands of vibrant yellow and deep crimson that filled the once-dark sky.
In the gentle morning light, Amriel peered down at the man still sleeping on the bedroll beside her chair. His chest rose and fell steady, rhythmic pattern. By the look of the color slowly returning to his face, she allowed herself a glimmer of hope that they might have escaped danger, at least temporarily.
Taking the metal fire poker from its resting place beside the fire, Amriel stoked the flames back to life, coaxing them into a gentle blaze that flickered and danced. Satisfied with the warmth it provided, she turned her attention back to the man’s wounds.
Crouching beside him, her eyes widened in surprise as she carefully unwrapped the bandages. To her astonishment, the wounds appeared to be healing remarkably well, the edges looking less inflamed than she had feared. The dark, angry red of infection was absent, replaced by a clean, pink hue that suggested regeneration. She had expected some improvement, but this was beyond what she had hoped for.
Her brows knitted in confusion as her gaze drifted to the man’s face. What she saw was unexpected: his features, once etched with pain and strain, now appeared smooth and relaxed in slumber. The tension that had marked his expression was gone, replaced by a serene stillness.
He looks peaceful, she thought to herself.
“What are you?” she murmured softly, checking his pupils once more for any signs of pressure in his head. “And why aren’t you awake by now?”
Amriel anxiously chewed on her bottom lip, a knot of worry tightening in her chest. She had no idea who—or what—he was, but already she felt a deep investment in his well-being as if their fates were intertwined.
As she slowly began to rise, a glint in the corner of her eye caught her attention. The arrowheads.
With careful hands, she reached over and retrieved the arrowheads she had extracted from his abdomen. The metal was cold and unyielding in her grasp. As she held them up to the flickering light, she studied their shape and the dark stains that marred their surfaces, but it was something else that caught her attention.
Upon closer inspection, Amriel noticed an intricate network of blue veins shimmering through the metallic arrowheads, reflecting the dance of the flames. This was no ordinary metal; its beauty was unnerving. She had never encountered anything like it before. The shimmering veins hinted at an otherworldly quality, and her heart raced as the realization struck her: a witch, or more likely a mage, had imbued these arrowheads with magic.
Why did they feel the need to use magic-infused arrows on you? she wondered, a knot tightening in her stomach. Such enchantments came at a hefty cost. The strength required of the mage or witch who had cast this magic would have been immense, and such power did not come cheap.
This meant someone had deemed it worth the sacrifice to use not one, but two of these arrows on him. Or perhaps it had been necessary.
A sudden chill crept up Amriel’s spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. Swallowing hard, she shook her head, trying to dispel the growing unease. Surely not. This is not what fallen angels were supposed to look like.
Where was the tortured flesh, burnt black from their fall to earth? Where were the brands forced upon them by those who would banish them, marking him as one of the forsaken? She had explored every inch of his scalp; she was pretty certain she would have noticed a pair of horns.
No. No. You can’t be. A surge of anxiety quickened her heartbeat as she realized the implications of her thoughts. Simon. I should go get Simon. He should be awake by now.
As she prepared to leave, Amriel slipped on her light wool coat and secured her belt tightly around her waist, sliding her blade back into its sheath. With a final glance back at the man, the questions swirling in her mind like the smoke from the fire, Amriel left her cottage with Meeko leading the way.
The moment Amriel stepped outside of her cottage, she could see the modest house Simon shared with his wife, Maeve, and their twin daughters.
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Hugging her coat close, Amriel took a deep breath and dashed off across the open field, feeling the cold wind whip through her hair. The blades of grass tickled her ankles as she sprinted along. Beneath the thin soles of her leather shoes, the well-traveled path connecting their homes felt familiar. She knew every footfall of this path like she knew the back of her hand.
Amriel pounded on the oaken door of Symon’s home with perhaps more force than she intended, and the surprise on Symon’s face when he opened the door was unmistakable. His raised eyebrows communicated all she needed to know. The inviting aromas of breakfast wafted toward her, and her stomach growled in protest at the realization that she had gone far too long without food.
“Ah, good morning,” Symon said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “To what do I owe the honor of your early morning disturbance?”
His words might have sounded sharp, but the warmth behind them was evident in his dark blue eyes, which sparkled with mirth. He glanced her over quickly, and the slight arch of his brows suggested she might appear a bit disheveled.
How wild do I look? Amriel wondered, sweeping a self-conscious hand through her tangled locks. Yet, just as quickly, she decided she didn’t care.
Simon chuckled, shaking his head as if he could read her thoughts. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen you like this, Riel, and I doubt it will be the last. What mischief did you get into last night? Who did you help this time?”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice called from inside the house. “Simon, who is it?”
“It’s just me, Maeve! Good morning!” Amriel replied, craning her slender neck to peek around Symon’s solid frame. Maeve stood at the family hearth, her face lighting up with a wide smile that matched the sparkle in her blue eyes. She paused in her stirring, her delight palpable as she spotted Amriel.
“Amriel!” said Maeve delightedly. She was stirring a pot of something that smelled absolutely delicious over the hearth. “Good morning! Would you care to join us?”
Simon let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance. Knowing better than to block her entrance, he stepped aside, the floor creaking in protest as he moved to let her into their home.
Inside, the Halivard family was already busy preparing for the day’s adventures—an undertaking filled with energy and excitement, especially with five-year-old twin girls, Ave and Chloe, in the mix. The modest two-story house, earned through Symon’s hard work as an apprentice blacksmith, had a kitchen and eating area on the main floor and a loft-like second floor where the family slept. In the middle of the room, seated at the ash wood table, were the twins. Dressed and ready for their day and bubbling with curiosity.
The scent that wafted over to where she stood in the doorway was so enticing that she found it incredibly hard to say no. Nevertheless, she felt a strong sense of responsibility not to leave the man alone for too long.
“I would love to, Maeve, but I have a bit of a situation back at the cottage. I need Simon’s help for a moment. Can I borrow him?” asked Amriel, flashing a smile at Simon’s daughters, where they sat patiently at the table, awaiting their breakfast.
The four-year-old twins, Ava and Chloe, erupted into giggles, their faces lighting up with joy. They were spitting images of their father, sharing his dark skin and large blue eyes that sparkled with mischief. Thick black hair, lovingly styled into neat braids by their mother, framed their cherubic faces, making them look like little replicas of Symon. Maeve often joked that if she hadn’t given birth to them herself, she might have questioned her place in their family tree.
“Of course! I’ll pack his breakfast to go,” Maeve replied, her brow furrowing with concern as she took in Amriel’s disheveled appearance. “Is everything okay? You look a bit pale. Let me pack some of this for you too.”
Maeve hailed from the farthest northern reaches of the kingdom, where snow-capped mountains kissed the sky. Her creamy white skin and rich auburn hair set her apart from the sun-kissed locals of the south.
“Thank you, Maeve. I’d really appreciate that. I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Amriel said, forcing a smile that she hoped appeared genuine. The last thing she wanted was for Maeve to sense her underlying worry and anxiety. Though only a few years older, Maeve had a nurturing instinct that was hard to shake.
“I’m right here, you know,” Simon chimed in, his tone dry yet playful. The twinkle in his dark blue eyes hinted at the humor beneath his words.
Simon had already slipped on his shoes, ready to start the day. His imposing figure, a product of long hours at the forge, could be intimidating at first glance. But anyone who knew him well understood that a soft and generous heart resided beneath that rugged exterior.
“Everything is fine,” Amriel assured, forcing a smile. “I just need a bit of brute force.”
“Ah yes, well, that’s something Simon has in spades,” Maeve replied with a teasing smile. “Just don’t ask him to solve any problems involving numbers, or to cook a chicken. You’d be in for a disaster!”
Simon feigned indignation, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’ll have you know I can handle numbers just fine! It’s the chicken that always seems to elude me.”
Maeve laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, get on with it you two. Just make sure he gets to work at least somewhat on time. I know how it can get when you two get into one of your projects,” said Maeve.
All of them were of an age with one another, the three of them had grown up in the northern outer district of the capital city. Amriel had been friends with Simon first. Their fathers had been close as brothers. Maeve joined them a couple of years later after her family relocated to the capital from the north. There was an immediate connection between them. The sweet and adventurous nature of the northern girls was irresistible.
From the cupboard, she retrieved two bowls and carefully ladled some of the steaming food from the pot hanging over the fire into each. The aroma of freshly boiled oats filled the kitchen. Despite feeling nervous, Amriel’s stomach emitted another loud growl, causing her mouth to water. Amriel momentarily forgot about her worries as she watched Maeve delicately drizzle honey over the oats before she poured thick, clotted cream on top.
Amriel swallowed hard, and nodded her head, “I promise he’ll be at work on time. I need help to move something that’s heavy. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Still here, ladies. Still here,” Symon chimed in once more.
The large man slipped his coat on and affectionately kissed his wife and daughter’s cheeks goodbye. The door creaked on its hinges as he opened it for them and a gust of cold air rushed in against their faces.
"After you," Simon said, gesturing out the door.