Dawn arrived quietly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace inside the small cottage.
A pale silver light slipped through the wooden window, falling across Sir Alaric Vayne's face. For a moment, he forgot where he was. There were no screams, no clashing swords, no smell of burning fields. Only silence.
And the soft sound of breathing.
He turned his head.
Elara sat on a stool near the window, her chin resting on her hand, eyes half-closed. She had not slept. Dried herbs lay on the table beside her, and the candle had burned itself into a pool of wax.
Alaric felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest.
Guilt.
"You should have woken me," he said quietly.
Elara stirred, blinking in surprise. Then she smiled—a tired, honest smile.
"You needed rest more than I did."
He pushed himself upright, wincing slightly. The wound still ached, but it no longer burned. He touched the bandage, careful, almost reverent.
"You saved my life," he said.
"I only helped it continue," she replied softly.
They sat in silence, the kind that was not empty, but full of things neither knew how to say.
Later that morning, Alaric stepped outside. The forest breathed around him—green, alive, untouched by war. Birds sang without fear. It felt wrong… and beautiful.
Elara joined him, holding two cups of warm herbal tea.
"You don't belong here," she said gently.
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
She handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed.
It was brief.
Accidental.
Yet Alaric's heart reacted faster than his blade ever had.
"Why do you fight?" Elara asked, staring at the trees instead of him.
He hesitated.
"For my king," he said finally.
She nodded. "And for yourself?"
The question struck deeper than she knew.
"I don't know who I am without my armor," he admitted. "I've worn it longer than I remember my own face."
Elara looked at him then, really looked.
"You're not your sword," she said. "And you're not your scars."
He laughed quietly. "You speak like someone who has never held a weapon."
"Maybe," she replied. "But I've held people as they died. That changes you too."
Their eyes met.
In that moment, they were no longer knight and healer.
They were simply two souls, equally tired.
That evening, Alaric prepared to leave.
He stood at the forest path, armor fastened, sword ready. War waited for him beyond the trees.
Elara stood a few steps away, hands clasped tightly.
"You'll come back wounded again," she said.
"Probably."
"And I'll patch you up again."
He smiled, then grew serious.
"Elara… I may not return."
She swallowed. "Knights always say that."
"This time feels different."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Then Elara reached into her pocket and pulled out a thin silver thread, tied around a small wooden charm.
"Take this," she said. "It's nothing magical. Just… a reminder."
"A reminder of what?" he asked.
"Of someone who believes you deserve more than war."
Alaric took it.
Carefully.
As if it were his heart itself.
"I can't promise I'll survive," he said.
She stepped closer. "Then promise me this—if you live, you'll find your way back here. Not as a knight… but as a man."
He nodded.
"I promise."
As he disappeared into the forest, Elara stood still, tears threatening but not falling.
She did not know why she believed in him.
She only knew that some promises were stronger than fate.
And fate, watching from the shadows, smiled cruelly.