The Beautiful Stranger

Lydia knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for his wrist. His skin was cold, almost lifeless. She pressed two fingers on the inside of his wrist and closed her eyes. A faint pulse. Slow. Weak. But there.

"You're alive," she whispered, voice cracking.

She tried to lift him, pushing her hands under his arms. He didn't move. His body was too heavy, and she was too small. She tried again. Nothing. Her arms gave out, and she fell to her knees beside him.

"Wait here. I'll get help. Just hold on," she whispered, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.

Lydia stood, ran to her horse, and mounted quickly. She gripped the reins tightly and urged the horse forward. The night air stung her face. The forest path was narrow and dark, but she didn't stop. Daria had mentioned a house nearby. A couple who lived by the edge of the woods.

Minutes passed like hours until finally, she saw a small wooden house with smoke rising from the chimney. She pulled the reins, jumped down, and ran to the door. She knocked hard.

The door opened.

A woman, Mira with strong eyes and a red scarf stood there. "You must be Lady Lydia," she said. "Daria told us you might come."

"Yes, please—he's hurt. He's dying. Please help me! There's a man in the forest. He needs help!"

Her husband, Pavel came from behind her. He was broad and tall, with grey in his beard. The woman grabbed a cloth. The man took his coat.

"Lead us," he said.

They followed Lydia back into the woods. When they reached Ivan, Pavel knelt and checked him quickly. He didn't say a word, just lifted him carefully onto his back.

"He's heavy," Pavel grunted, "but I've carried worse."

Lydia ran beside them, holding the lantern as they moved through the forest. Back at the house, Pavel carried Ivan inside and laid him on a small bed in a warm room lit by a few oil lamps.

"Take off those bloody clothes," Mira said. "My Lady, help me."

They removed his torn shirt and armour, revealing wounds that hadn't stopped bleeding. His body was covered in scars—some old, some fresh.

The woman cleaned the wounds while Lydia held a cloth against one on his side. Blood soaked through it fast.

"He must be strong to survive this," Pavelsaid from the doorway, arms crossed.

"He's alive because of you," Mira added, glancing at Lydia.

They looked at his clothes, then at each other.

"He's from the palace, isn't he?" Mira asked.

"Looks like a guard," Pavel said. "I'll go there first thing in the morning to report. But I'll stay up tonight. Just in case."

"I'll boil some water and clean the rest of these clothes. My Lady, watch over him," Mira said.

Lydia nodded.

"If he starts burning up," Mira continued, "wet a cloth and cool his body. Fever can come fast."

Lydia sat beside him. The room was quiet now, except for the soft crackle of the fire and Ivan's shallow breathing.

She looked at him. His face was pale, lips dry, but even like this, he looked peaceful. His hair was brown and a little curly. His body was full of old scars—on his chest, shoulders, and arms. She wondered how long he had been fighting. How much pain he had carried.

Her heart beat faster.

She touched his forehead. It was a little hot. She took the cloth Mira gave her, dipped it in cool water, and pressed it gently against his skin.

She moved slowly, wiping his chest, then his arms. She was careful not to touch the wounds. She didn't know why she was doing it so gently. Maybe because he looked so… fragile.

Her fingers brushed his hair.

Suddenly, he stirred.

His lips moved. His eyes opened a little. Just a crack. He looked at her—but not really. His eyes were distant, blurred.

"…Mother?"

Lydia froze.

He blinked slowly, his eyes barely staying open. "Is it… you?"

She didn't speak. Her throat felt tight. He couldn't see her clearly—only her shape and the light behind her hair.

His hand moved slightly, trying to reach her. Then he passed out again.

Lydia sat there, holding the wet cloth, staring at him.

Minutes Later

Lydia kept sitting by the bed, watching him. The cloth in her hand had gone warm, so she dipped it in the bowl again and wrung it out. She touched his arm, slowly, as if she was afraid to wake him. Her fingers trailed over one of the scars on his shoulder. It was old—faded and deep.

"How many battles have you fought?" she whispered.

Her fingers moved to his collarbone, then paused. She didn't know why she was so curious. Maybe it was because he looked so different from anyone she had ever known. So quiet, so broken. And yet… strong.

She brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered there for a moment longer than it should have. She moved her fingers slowly down to his jaw.

Then—

"Mm-hmm." A quiet voice behind her cleared a throat.

Lydia gasped and pulled her hand away quickly. Her face turned red as she turned around to see the woman from before—Mira—standing at the door with her arms crossed and a knowing smile.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" Mira said, walking in with a folded blanket in her hands.

"What? No—I mean—yes—but no! I wasn't—I was just—" Lydia fumbled, trying to find her words.

Mira chuckled. "You don't have to lie. It's written all over your face."

"I was just making sure he's okay," Lydia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mira nodded, setting the blanket down. "Of course. And I'm sure he's very grateful. If he ever wakes up, I'll make sure to tell him a pretty girl saved his life."

Lydia looked down, trying to hide her face.

Mira leaned against the wall. "You should get some rest. Dawn's not far. If you want to catch the ship to Velinograd, you'll need your strength."

Lydia didn't answer right away. She looked back at the man on the bed. His chest rose and fell slowly. He was still out cold, but his face looked a little more at peace now.

Mira smiled. "Don't worry. When he wakes up, I'll tell him you sat here all night, staring at him like a lovesick deer. Who knows he may come looking for you."

"I wasn't staring!" Lydia said quickly, but her voice cracked at the end.

Mira laughed softly and left the room, leaving the door half-open.

Lydia stayed for a little while longer. She looked at his hand resting on the blanket, then at his face. She wanted to know his name. She wanted to know who he was, what happened to him, and why he had so many scars. She didn't even know why she cared. But she did.

Her eyelids grew heavy. She shifted in the chair, leaned her head on the edge of the bed, and soon, her breathing slowed.

She fell asleep like that, beside him.

Meanwhile, far from the quiet house in the forest, back at the Andreyevna estate, the night was still.

Alexander suddenly sat up in bed. His heart was racing, and he didn't know why. Something felt wrong. He rubbed his eyes and got up. The halls were quiet, but he didn't stop to think. He walked straight to Lydia's room.

He knocked once.

"Lydia?" he called softly.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

He frowned and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, and the window curtains swayed in the breeze. The bed was empty. Blankets untouched. The pillows still fluffed.

He stepped inside, eyes scanning every corner.

"Lydia?" he called again, louder this time.

But she wasn't there.

He stared at the empty bed. His chest tightened.

She was gone.