The journey to the outpost is grueling. Rain lashes against us, the wind howling through the jagged cliffs as we ascend higher into the mountains. My clothes are soaked through, but I don't slow down. The sooner we reach shelter, the better. Killian keeps pace beside me, his steps steady, but I don't miss the slight tension in his movements. He's injured. I noticed it back in the alley—how he shifted his weight, favoring his left side.
Still, he doesn't say a word about it.
The outpost looms ahead, a crumbling structure of stone and wood tucked between towering cliffs. It looks abandoned. It should be abandoned.
But something feels off.
I press my fingers to the hilt of my dagger as I step inside. The air is thick with dust, but the fireplace has been used recently. A faint scent of burned wood lingers. Someone was here. Maybe still is.
Killian tenses beside me, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. I scan the room, every muscle in my body tight, but no movement comes. Only silence.
"Stay here," I murmur, creeping forward.
I barely make it three steps before the floor creaks behind me. I whirl, blade raised—only to find Killian gripping his side, his face pale. He sways slightly before catching himself against the wall.
"You're hurt," I say sharply.
Killian exhales through his nose. "Not the first time."
I roll my eyes. "And if you bleed out? What then?"
He gives me a smirk that is more exhaustion than amusement. "Then I suppose you win, little warrior."
I grit my teeth. I should let him suffer. I should leave him to deal with his own wounds. But something in me won't allow it.
With a huff, I pull him toward an old wooden bench. He doesn't resist, which is how I know the injury is worse than he's letting on.
"Sit. Don't move."
I rummage through the abandoned supplies, finding what I need—a ragged cloth and an old flask of what smells like whiskey. Not ideal, but it'll do.
Killian watches me with an amused glint in his eyes. "You've done this before."
I don't answer. I kneel in front of him and reach for the hem of his shirt. He tenses, and for the first time since meeting him, he actually looks uncertain.
I arch a brow. "Are you going to lift it, or are we just going to sit here and pretend you're not bleeding?"
He exhales through his nose, then pulls his shirt up, revealing a deep gash along his side. The sight of it makes my stomach twist, but I keep my expression blank. I've seen worse. I've done worse.
The room is silent as I press the cloth against the wound, cleaning away the blood. Killian doesn't make a sound, but I feel the tension in him. His breathing is slow, controlled. I should be focusing on the injury, on the task at hand, but his proximity—it's distracting.
I shake the thought away and press harder. He grunts. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Immensely," I deadpan.
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Liar."
I glance up at him, and for a moment, neither of us speak. The fire crackles in the silence, casting shadows along the walls. Something about this moment feels dangerous. Not because of the wound. Not because of the storm raging outside.
Because of him.
I quickly finish tying the bandage and stand. "You'll live."
He rolls his shoulders, testing the tightness. "Pity."
I cross my arms. "You should rest."
"So should you."
I don't answer. Instead, I move to the window, peering through the cracks in the wooden shutters. The storm is growing worse, thick fog rolling in over the cliffs. We're trapped here for the night.
Behind me, Killian shifts. "This place," he says, voice quieter now. "You've been here before."
I glance over my shoulder. His gaze is unreadable, but there's something else there. Curiosity? Suspicion?
"Maybe," I say.
His lips twitch. "Another lie."
I ignore him and turn back to the window. But the unease I felt earlier still lingers. Something isn't right. And when I finally close my eyes, sleep tugging at my exhausted limbs, I don't dream of war.
I dream of him.
A loud crack jolts me awake.
I sit up, hand flying to my dagger, senses instantly on alert. Killian is already awake, sitting against the far wall, watching the door.
"Someone's here," he says, voice low.
I don't ask how he knows. I feel it too.
A shadow moves outside the window, barely visible through the mist. My pulse quickens.
Killian reaches for his sword. "Looks like our night just got more interesting."
I tighten my grip on my blade.
Whatever is coming—we face it together.