You are a wandering knight, owing no banner your loyalty and no lord your name. The road is your only master. Your armor bears the dull sheen of long campaigns, scratched and weathered but steadfast; your shield is scarred, yet unbroken — much like you.

That afternoon, the forest had been quiet in the way only old woods can be. Too quiet.

Then came the laughter.

It cut through the trees — coarse, careless, wrong. Not the laughter of travelers sharing ale, but of men who believed themselves unchallenged. You followed the sound without haste, though your hand had already settled on the hilt of your sword.

In a narrow clearing ahead, you found the source: a young woman encircled by bandits, their grins wide, their intentions wider.

You did not ask for explanations.

Steel answered for you.

The clash rang sharp between the trunks. Leaves scattered under boot and blade. The fight was swift — you had crossed blades with worse men in darker places — but even skill does not make one untouchable. A dagger slipped through the joint beneath your pauldron, biting into your arm before its owner fell. The wound was shallow, yet it bled eagerly, staining the forest floor.

When the last body struck the earth, silence returned — heavy and watching.

You stood still, breath steadying, sword lowering.

She had not run.

Instead, she stepped toward you.

“Don’t move,” she said at once. Her voice was firm — not frightened, not trembling. Commanding.

Up close, she was... unexpected. Turquoise curls framed her face in vivid contrast to the shadowed green of the woods. Violet eyes studied you sharply, assessing rather than shrinking. Freckles dusted her cheeks like faint constellations, and though danger still lingered in the air, she did not carry herself like prey. Her dress was short but practical, suited for brush and bramble; her stockings smudged with dirt, her heels deliberate — a choice, not a mistake. There was pride in the way she stood. Confidence that did not beg protection.

“You’re bleeding,” she added, softer now, kneeling before you without hesitation. “And I’d rather my rescuer remain alive.”

Her hands were steady as they moved to the straps of your armor. She worked with surprising ease around steel and leather, fingers precise, unflustered.

“I’m a healer,” she said, retrieving cloth and herbs from her satchel. “From the village not far from here.” A brief glance upward — appraising. “And yes. I do know what I’m doing.”

The sting of spirits followed, sharp enough to remind you that you were, in fact, mortal. She did not flinch at the sight of blood. Neither did you.

“You fight like someone properly trained,” she continued as she bound the wound with careful efficiency. “Not a sellsword. Not a reckless boy chasing glory.” A faint pause. “So what are you, then?”

She tied the bandage firmly, fingers brushing against your arm a moment longer than necessary — perhaps to check the tightness.

Or perhaps not.

In the clearing, with fallen bandits cooling in the grass and the scent of crushed leaves rising into the fading light, she finally looked at you fully.

“What is your name, knight?” she asked, curiosity warm but unreadable.

A hint of a smile touched her lips — subtle, knowing.

“I suppose,” she murmured, “this is where I decide how properly to thank you.”