Chapter 10: A Thread of Fate
First Steps After the Storm
Evelyne stirred. The dull ache in her side was a constant reminder that she was still alive. The weight of exhaustion clung to her limbs, but the fever had passed. She was healing.
Her eyes fluttered open to the dim light filtering through the wooden walls. The scent of herbs still lingered, mixing with the faint traces of smoke from the dying fire.
She shifted slightly, testing her strength. Pain flared up, but it was manageable. She turned her head—and saw Phileo sitting nearby, sharpening his sword with practiced ease.
"You're still here," she murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse.
Phileo glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're awake."
Evelyne swallowed, her throat dry. "Barely."
He stood and grabbed a small cup from the table, pouring water from a nearby jug. He held it out to her.
She tried to push herself up, but her body protested. Before she could struggle, Phileo sighed and leaned down, sliding an arm behind her back to help her sit. His touch was steady, careful.
Evelyne stiffened, her heart skipping at the unexpected closeness.
He didn't say anything—just pressed the cup into her hands. She took it, sipping slowly.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she spoke. "I should be dead."
Phileo didn't argue.
She exhaled shakily. "Why?"
Phileo met her gaze. "Why what?"
"Why did you save me?" Her voice was quiet but firm.
He looked at her for a long moment, then returned to his seat, resuming the rhythmic scrape of his whetstone against the blade.
"You took a blade meant for me." His voice was steady, emotionless. "It would've been wasteful to let you die."
Evelyne narrowed her eyes. "That's it?"
Phileo didn't respond.
A part of her wanted to believe him, but another part—one that had watched him sit by her side for four days—knew there was more to it.
She wouldn't push him now. But she would find out.
Evelyne ran a hand over her bandages. "The witch. You went to her, didn't you?"
Phileo didn't deny it.
Evelyne felt a strange unease settle in her stomach. "What did she ask for in return?"
Phileo's hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he continued sharpening his sword. "Nothing yet."
Evelyne frowned. "She will."
"I know."
Evelyne studied him. He wasn't worried. Or at least, he didn't show it.
"You shouldn't have done it," she muttered.
Phileo let out a dry laugh, finally looking at her. "Should I have let you die, then?"
Evelyne opened her mouth, but no words came.
He didn't wait for an answer. He slid his sword back into its sheath and stood. "You need to rest."
Evelyne scowled. "I've been doing nothing but rest."
"Then keep doing it."
Before she could argue, he turned and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
Phileo paused. "To get food."
Evelyne sighed. "Fine."
He left without another word.
Evelyne leaned back against the pillows. Her body was weak, but her mind was alert.
The memories of the fight with Nikolai played in her head—the cold steel, the blinding pain, the moment she collapsed.
She ran her fingers lightly over the bandages. The wound would heal, but the scar would remain.
A scar meant to be his.
Her hand curled into a fist.
This wasn't over.
Nikolai had attacked them with purpose. He had wanted Phileo dead.
Why?
She had too many questions. About Phileo. About her parents. About the secrets buried in the past.
And one way or another—she would find the answers.
Phileo walked through the forest, his mind unusually restless.
He had made a mistake.
He shouldn't have stayed with Evelyne for so long. Shouldn't have let himself linger in her presence.
But when he had seen her fighting for her life—when he had heard her call out for someone she had lost—he had found himself unable to leave.
She was dragging him into something he had spent years trying to escape.
And he wasn't sure he wanted to fight it anymore.
But there was one truth he couldn't ignore.
The past never stays buried.
And soon, it would come for both of them.