Amber woke to the sound of a low groan.
She sat up, brushing sleep from her eyes, and found herself still nestled beneath the forest canopy. The fire she had made had died down to embers, casting a soft orange glow over the clearing. Nate lay only a few feet away, draped in her spare cloak, his brow glistening with sweat.
He groaned again, shifting restlessly in his sleep.
The fever was worsening.
Amber scooted closer and placed a cool hand on his forehead. Too hot. She frowned, reaching for her satchel. Her herbs would help with the infection, but this was no ordinary wound. The skin around it had turned dark, almost charred, and veins of crimson pulsed outwards like cracks in burning earth.
A cursed blade?
No. Not cursed. Marked.
Amber blinked at the thought. It came from nowhere, unbidden—like a whisper that wasn't hers.
She glanced at Nate again. His face was twisted in pain, jaw tight, breath ragged. Despite the fever, he looked composed even in agony. Controlled. Like someone who had learned to mask suffering long ago.
"You're not just a traveler," she murmured.
Her fingers brushed the edge of his tunic. A symbol etched into leather caught her eye—half-buried in blood. She leaned in.
A silver hawk, wings outstretched over a crescent moon.
Amber's heart dropped.
That was the royal insignia of the Shadow Court.
Nate wasn't just a stranger. He was him.
The prince of the Western Shadowlands. Heir to the throne of a kingdom known for its cruelty, its thirst for power… and its long-standing feud with her people. Every warning, every nightmare tale whispered around village fires came flooding back.
And yet, she didn't pull away.
She couldn't.
Instead, her fingers lingered a moment longer before she tore her gaze away and reached into her satchel. She crushed a handful of silverleaf between her palms, whispering an old incantation her grandmother once taught her. The air grew still, listening. The leaves shimmered faintly in her hands, their oils glowing with soft, healing light.
She pressed the poultice gently to Nate's wound. He winced, his body tensing, but didn't wake. The light seeped into the wound, and slowly, the blackened skin began to fade, color returning like life to a dying tree.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Nate stirred. His eyes fluttered open—stormy grey, darker now in the firelight.
"You," he rasped, voice rough with sleep and weakness.
Amber nodded, hand still on his chest. "You were burning up."
"You stayed."
"Would you rather I hadn't?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, gaze unreadable. She could feel the intensity of it, like a current running beneath her skin.
"You're not from Eldwyn Hollow," she said, sitting back on her heels.
Nate's jaw tightened. "And you're not just a healer."
They sat in silence, their truths thick in the air between them. Finally, he sat up slowly, groaning as the effort pulled at his muscles.
"You saw it," he said. Not a question.
"The mark," she replied. "You're the prince."
Nate's eyes darkened, the firelight dancing in their depths. "That depends on who's asking."
"Someone who probably shouldn't be helping you," Amber said softly. "Your people—"
"Are not all like the stories," he cut in sharply.
"And mine?" she asked, lifting a brow.
He didn't answer.
Amber looked away, suddenly aware of how close they were. How his leg brushed hers. How his breath seemed to sync with hers. He was dangerous. That hadn't changed.
But he hadn't hurt her. Not when he could have.
And she hadn't walked away.
"Why were you out here?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I ran," he said simply.
Amber's gaze snapped back to him. "From your kingdom?"
"From my father." His eyes were heavy now, the weight of years and burdens pulling at them. "From the war he wants. From the crown he's forcing onto my head. I didn't want to be his weapon anymore."
Something in his voice cracked, and Amber felt her breath catch. She had expected arrogance, coldness, manipulation. Not this.
"Why did you help me?" he asked suddenly, eyes locking on hers. "Even after you knew?"
"I… don't know," she admitted. "Maybe because you didn't feel like the monster I was told you'd be."
He let out a soft laugh—bitter, low. "Maybe I'm just good at pretending."
"I don't think so," she said. "Pretending doesn't warm someone's blood when they speak. It doesn't make them flinch when someone's hurt."
Nate looked at her then—really looked at her. And in that moment, the air shifted again. The world narrowed to the space between their lips, the heat that simmered just beneath the surface.
Amber's heart pounded.
He leaned in—slow, deliberate.
She didn't move.
His hand came up, fingers brushing her cheek, then sliding into her hair.
Her eyes fluttered shut—
And a sudden snap of a twig in the distance broke the moment like glass.
Nate pulled back instantly, eyes sharpening.
Amber turned toward the sound, reaching for the small dagger hidden beneath her cloak.
Silence.
Too quiet.
Then another snap. Closer.
"Someone's coming," Nate whispered, already pushing himself to his feet. He reached for his sword.
Amber rose beside him. "It could be a scout."
He nodded. "Or a hunter."
"Or a spy."
Nate turned to her. "Can you run?"
"Can you?"
He smirked faintly. "Only if you're faster."
Amber grabbed her satchel, and the two of them darted through the underbrush, dodging branches and roots, weaving between ancient trunks. The pulse that had called her here beat harder now, like it was guiding her. Like it was trying to lead them somewhere.
After what felt like an eternity, they burst into a small glade surrounded by twisted oaks. At the center stood an old ruin—a crumbled stone arch glowing faintly with runes.
"The veil," Amber whispered.
Nate looked at her. "What?"
"A portal. Old magic. No one uses it anymore."
"It's still glowing."
She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the runes. The glow pulsed at her touch.
"I think it's meant for me," she said.
Nate moved beside her. "Then I'm going with you."
Amber turned to him, startled. "You don't even know where it leads."
"I'd rather walk into the unknown than back to the life I left behind."
The words lodged in her throat.
He took her hand—warm, firm, real.
And just like that, they stepped through the arch together.
Light swallowed them whole.