CHAPTER TEN: FIRST LOSS

The dawn broke slowly over Windermere, casting a faint, pale light through the thick mist that still clung stubbornly to the village. The air was cold, biting against the skin, and the silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant cawing of crows. Inside the inn, the fire had long since died, leaving the room bathed in shadows, the scent of blood still thick in the air.

Rosé sat beside Helene, her heart heavy as she tended to the wound where Helene’s arm had once been. The fabric of her cloak was stained red, her hands trembling as she worked to bind what remained of the warrior’s severed limb. Helene had not spoken since the witch’s departure, her face pale, eyes distant, locked in a struggle with the pain and the loss that gripped her.

The warrior who had once stood so tall, so fierce, was now crumpled, her body fragile, as though her spirit had been shattered along with her arm.

Rosé could not help but feel the weight of guilt press upon her chest. She had begged for time, for mercy, but what had that mercy cost? Helene had lost more than just her arm—she had lost a part of herself, the part that had defined her, the part that had made her the warrior she was.

Rosé wrapped the bandage tightly, her throat tight with unshed tears. "Forgive me," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the dying embers. "I could not stop her. I—I was not strong enough."

Helene’s eyes flickered open at Rosé’s words, dark and weary, but there was still a spark of life within them. Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "Strong enough?" she rasped, her voice hoarse from the pain. "Thou dost not understand. Strength… strength is not merely in thy blade or thy body. It is in thy will. And thou didst stand, even when the world trembled."

Rosé’s breath caught, her eyes wide with surprise. "But—thou didst lose thy arm. I could not save thee…"

Helene turned her gaze away, staring at the flickering light from the hearth. "Aye, I did lose it," she murmured, her voice low, almost detached. "But the price I paid is not thine to bear. It was mine alone."

There was a long silence between them, the weight of it pressing down like the mist outside. Rosé wanted to argue, to deny what Helene was saying, but the truth was too clear. Helene had fought to the last, and in doing so, had suffered a loss so profound that Rosé could not begin to understand it.

But the warrior’s spirit—though shaken—was not broken.

Helene turned her head to face Rosé again, her eyes narrowing, the fire of determination flickering once more in their depths. "Lalana took mine arm," she said, her voice hardening, her gaze fierce despite the pain that wracked her body. "But she did not take mine heart. Nor mine purpose. This… this is but the beginning."

Rosé’s heart swelled with emotion, a mixture of admiration and sorrow. Helene’s spirit was as indomitable as ever, even in the face of such devastating loss. Yet Rosé could not shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at her, the fear that had taken root deep within her soul. How could they hope to face Lalana again, knowing the witch’s power, knowing what she was capable of?

"Thou speakest with such certainty," Rosé whispered, her voice wavering. "But how can we defeat her, Helene? She is more than a mere witch—she is the mist itself, the shadow that consumes all. What can we hope to do against such power?"

Helene’s expression softened, a flicker of warmth in her otherwise steely gaze. "Hope," she said, her voice gentler now. "Hope is the one thing she cannot take from us. Not unless we give it freely."

Rosé blinked, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "But thou hast lost so much already. How canst thou still hold onto hope?"

Helene smiled, though it was a smile tinged with sadness, with the weight of the battle she had fought—and lost. "Because," she said quietly, "hope is what kept me alive. 'Twas not mine sword, nor mine strength, but the hope that I might one day stand against the darkness, and live to see the light again."

There was a long pause, and Rosé found herself staring at Helene, at the lines of pain etched into her face, at the blood that still stained her clothes. And yet, despite everything, Helene still held onto that thread of hope, that unwavering belief that there was something worth fighting for.

"Thou art stronger than I," Rosé said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Helene chuckled weakly, a sound that was both painful and comforting at once. "Nay, little Rosé. Strength doth not lie in one alone. It lies in the bonds we make, in the resolve we share. 'Tis not mine strength that shall see us through this—it is ours."

Rosé felt a tear slip down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, not wanting Helene to see her cry. But the warmth in her chest grew, a flicker of hope that, against all odds, began to take root.

Helene’s eyes softened further, and her voice, though strained, was filled with something close to affection. "Thou hast the heart of a warrior, Rosé. Do not forget that."

Rosé opened her mouth to speak, but before she could respond, the door to the inn creaked open, and a gust of wind swept through the room, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and earth. Both women turned their heads toward the door, their senses on edge.

A figure stepped inside—a tall, cloaked figure, their face obscured by the hood that draped over their head. The air seemed to grow colder with their presence, the weight of the mist outside pressing in once more.

"Who art thou?" Rosé asked, her voice tense, her hand instinctively moving toward the dagger at her side.

The figure lowered their hood, revealing a gaunt face, pale and sharp, with eyes that glittered in the dim light. A man, older than Rosé had expected, with thin lips that curled into a knowing smile.

"I bring word from the king," the man said, his voice smooth, almost soothing, as he stepped further into the room. "And I come bearing a warning."

Helene’s eyes sharpened, her gaze locking onto the man with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "A warning?" she rasped, her voice still hoarse from pain. "What warning doth the king send?"

The man’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it, only the cold calculation of someone who held more knowledge than they were willing to share. "The witch, Lalana," he said slowly, savoring the words, "is not the only one with power in this land. Others watch from the shadows, waiting for their time to strike."

Rosé felt a chill run down her spine. "Others?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "What dost thou mean?"

The man’s eyes glittered with something unreadable, something dangerous. "This is but the beginning of a greater conflict," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "And soon, the mists shall part to reveal a truth darker than any have yet imagined."

Rosé’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions, with fear. But before she could ask anything more, the man turned on his heel and walked back toward the door, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of some dark omen.

"Prepare thyself, Rosé," he called over his shoulder, his voice echoing in the empty room. "For the first loss is but the prelude to many more."

With that, the door creaked shut behind him, leaving Rosé and Helene alone once more in the silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Rosé turned to Helene, her heart aching with fear and uncertainty. But Helene’s eyes, though filled with pain, were still alight with that fierce determination, that spark of hope that refused to die.

"The first loss," Helene murmured, her voice soft, almost resigned. "But not the last."

Rosé nodded, her throat tight with emotion. "But we shall fight," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. "Together."

Helene smiled, and though it was faint, though it was tinged with sorrow, it was real.

"Aye," she said, her voice barely more than a breath. "Together."