Chapter 8: A Debt in Blood

The witch studied him for a moment, then stepped aside.

"Come in, Phileo."

Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, as if she had been expecting him.

Phileo hesitated for only a second before stepping inside. The hut was warm, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. Herbs hung from the ceiling, their sharp scents mixing with the aroma of burning incense. Shelves lined the walls, filled with vials of unknown liquids, dried plants, and books bound in cracked leather.

The woman moved gracefully, her dark silks whispering against the wooden floor.

"It's been a long time," she said, pouring something into a small cup.

Phileo ignored the pleasantries. "She's dying."

The witch's eyes flickered with interest. "She?"

"Evelyne," he said, the name tasting heavier on his tongue than before. "She took a blade meant for me."

A knowing smile played at her lips. "How poetic."

Phileo clenched his jaw. "Can you help her or not?"

The witch tilted her head, studying him with an expression he didn't like. It was the way a predator looked at something wounded—something interesting.

Then, without another word, she walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a small wooden box. She placed it on the table and lifted the lid, revealing a collection of dried leaves, powders, and small glass bottles.

"She's lost a lot of blood," she mused, sorting through the contents. "You've already sealed the wound, but that won't be enough. If she survives the night, the fever will kill her."

Phileo didn't flinch. "Then fix it."

The witch let out a soft chuckle. "You always were so demanding."

She pulled out a vial filled with a deep crimson liquid. "This will slow the infection and strengthen her heart." Then, she plucked a handful of dried herbs. "And these will help her fight the fever."

Phileo reached for them, but she pulled her hand back.

"There's a price, of course."

His eyes darkened. "I don't have time for your games."

Her smile widened. "Oh, but I do."

Phileo exhaled sharply, patience fraying. "What do you want?"

The witch leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

"A favor."

Phileo's fingers curled into fists. "What kind of favor?"

She tapped a long, delicate finger against her chin. "I haven't decided yet."

Silence stretched between them.

Phileo hated owing people.

Especially her.

But Evelyne didn't have time.

Finally, he spoke. "Fine."

The witch's smile was slow and satisfied. She placed the vial and herbs in his hand.

"Take good care of her," she murmured. "You might find she's more important to you than you realize."

Phileo didn't respond. He turned sharply and disappeared into the night.

Evelyne's body burned.

She was trapped in a haze, drifting between pain and something else—something weightless.

Memories flickered in and out of focus.

Her father's voice. Her mother's laughter. A childhood that had been ripped away.

Then—darkness.

A flash of silver.

A man standing in the rain.

The sensation of cold steel pressed against her throat.

Then—Phileo.

His eyes. His voice. The warmth of his arms carrying her through the storm.

She tried to open her eyes, but her body felt heavy.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard movement. The sound of water being poured, fabric being wrung out.

Then—cool fingers against her burning forehead.

"Stay with me, Evelyne."

His voice was close, steady.

Familiar.

Safe.

She wanted to answer. Wanted to fight her way through the fever and the memories threatening to drown her.

But the darkness pulled her under once more.

A Silent Guardian

Phileo sat beside her, watching her breathe.

The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the walls.

He had done what he could. Given her the medicine, cooled her fever, changed her bandages. Now, all he could do was wait.

Wait, and hope she survived.

His fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword.

Nikolai had meant to kill him.

Instead, Evelyne had nearly died in his place.

That was twice now. Twice that she had almost lost her life because of him.

Phileo exhaled slowly, forcing down the unease in his chest.

He couldn't afford to care.

Couldn't afford to let his guard down.

But as he watched Evelyne sleep—her face pale, her body still—he realized something unsettling.

Somewhere along the way, he already had.