The lost fae

The woods weren't supposed to be this quiet they never was this quiet.

Elira stepped carefully between twisted three roots, her basket of herbs swinging lightly from her elbow. The dusk had fallen faster than usual, but the silence—that was new. No birdcalls, no crickets, not even wind brushing through the leaves something was off she could tell she didn't know how but it was like the forest told her.

That's when she heard it.

A low groan. Whispered across the air.

She froze. A few more steps and the trees thinned—and there he was. Slumped against the base of a tree, clutching a blood soak through fabric, his silver eyes were glassy with pain.

"Hey—hey, stay with me!" she rushed forward, dropping her basket of herbs, hands hovering before she dared to touch. "What happened to you?"

His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Don't... touch me." He seethed through shallow breath.

But she did.

And the forest breathed.

Leaves rustled though there was no wind. A glow sparked where her fingers brushed his skin. And somewhere, distant but real, a horn sounded—low, mournful, and ancient.

He blinked up at her, suddenly more alert than before . "You're not human..."

She yanked her hand back. "What did you say?"

He laughed, then winced. "They'll come for you now. They'll smell what you are."

"What I am?"

Elira shook her head, brushing hair from her face as she leaned in closer. "You've lost too much blood. You're not making any sense."

She reached for the leather pouch tied to her belt, her fingers fumbling to unstopper the small vial of golden salve her mother had taught her to make. It wouldn't do much for deep wounds, but it was better than nothing.

His hand suddenly shot out, clamping around her wrist with surprising strength.

"Don't," he rasped, his eyes boring into hers. "It'll make it worse."

"You're bleeding to death!" she snapped, yanking free. "Either I help you or you die here. Those are your choices."

The man—if he was even that—slumped back against the tree trunk, silver eyes fluttering half shut. "I've already died once," he muttered. "That part's easy. It's the coming back that hurts."

Elira swallowed hard, her skin crawling.

She dipped her fingers into the salve anyway, pressing it to the worst of the gash along his side. The fabric was shredded, his skin clammy and burning with fever. But as soon as her hand touched him again—

The glow sparked brighter.

It rippled beneath her fingers like moonlight trapped under water, racing along his veins and spreading across his skin in silvery tendrils.

She scrambled back with a gasp. "What in the stars...?"

The glow faded as quickly as it came, like it had never been there at all—like her eyes had tricked her. Her breath came in fast, uneven bursts, and her fingers trembled, still tingling from the contact.

No.

Not now. Not here. This wasn't the time to lose her mind.

Elira squeezed her eyes shut, willing the crawling sensation under her skin to vanish. She forced herself forward again, pushing away the memory of glowing veins and slit pupils. "You need help," she muttered under her breath. "We'll deal with the... whatever that was... later."

She hooked her arms beneath his and hauled him upward with a grunt. He was heavier than he looked—taller, too—but something about the way he leaned against her told her he could barely stand, let alone walk. His breath brushed her ear, ragged and shallow.

"I told you... it's not safe," he rasped.

"Yeah, well," she panted, dragging his arm over her shoulder as she took one stumbling step forward, "neither is bleeding to death in the woods, so here we are."

The path back to the village was rough and overgrown, especially at night. The stars were just starting to blink to life overhead, and already she could feel the shift in the forest's mood—the way shadows grew longer and the air colder. The quiet wasn't normal. Every step felt watched.

Elira adjusted her grip, half dragging, half carrying him as they staggered through the trees.

"Just a bit farther," she said aloud—to him, to herself, maybe to the woods. "You'll be okay. My mother, she knows how to treat wounds. She'll know what to do."

Thorne didn't answer. His head lolled toward her shoulder, barely conscious now.

The sight of her cottage came into view at last—warm lamplight glowing faintly through the shuttered windows, smoke curling from the chimney. Relief washed over her, nearly buckling her knees.

She kicked the gate open with her foot, practically collapsed them both onto the porch, and banged her fist against the door.

"Mama! Open up—I need help!"

The door creaked open a moment later, and her mother appeared, robes trailing behind her, brows furrowed. "Elira? What—?"

"I found him in the forest—he's hurt. Badly. I didn't know what else to do—please, help me get him inside."

Her mother's gaze dropped to the bloodstained man slumped against her daughter. Her expression shifted—just for a heartbeat. Something cold and sharp flickered across her face. Recognition? Fear?

But then it was gone. She stepped aside.

"Bring him in. Quickly."

Elira struggled to move Thorne over the threshold, her mother already bustling to clear the long oak table in the middle of the room. Herbs, salves, and rolls of bandages began to appear like magic from cabinets and shelves.

"Lay him here," her mother said curtly, nodding to the table. "And then we need to talk."

Elira blinked at her. "Talk about what?"

Her mother didn't answer. She was already peeling away the ruined fabric from Thorne's side.

Elira stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, watching the glow of the hearth flicker against her mother's drawn face.

And for the first time... she wasn't sure her mother was surprised to see a man bleeding out on her kitchen table.