Blindness?

One year later.

Nine's eyes pried open, slow and reluctant. White light bled through her vision, sharp and unwelcome. She shut them again, her lashes trembling. The brightness pulsed behind her lids like a warning—foreign, intrusive. She waited. When she opened them again, more carefully this time, the world came into focus.

Her head felt like stone. She groaned softly as she pushed herself up, every movement dragging like she was underwater. She looked around.

A bed.

She was lying on a bed—coarse wool, stiff stuffing. The room was tight but not suffocating. Bare wooden walls. A narrow shelf tucked in a corner. Two plain chairs with splinters running through their legs flanked a small wooden table. No decoration, no color. Just function.

In the center of the room, a pitfire crackled low, its embers breathing a quiet warmth into the cold air. Over it, a crude setup: two vertical poles jammed into the floor, joined by a horizontal rod across the top. A single strand of blackened metal hung from it, swaying slightly with the weight of a pot suspended over the flames. Steam curled lazily upward. A spoon protruded from the pot's edge, its handle dark with heat. The scent of root vegetables, smoke, and herbs clung to the air.

Nine pushed the blanket off and swung her legs to the floor.

Then it hit.

A sudden, violent rush of memory—like a dam bursting.

She choked on a breath.

Pain clawed up the back of her skull, white-hot and blinding. Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the floor, both hands clamped around her head. Her hair fell over her face, hiding the agony twisting her expression.

She could barely breathe. The air rasped in and out of her lungs, thick and sharp, like she was drowning on land.

Then came footsteps—measured, slow. Snow crunched beneath boots as someone stepped inside.

A man entered the room.

He was tall, lean. His clothing was layered and made for survival—thick brown furs lined with dark blue cloth, stitched with thread that looked hand-dyed. He wore a heavy outer coat trimmed with shaggy white wolf-hide, and across his chest, a belt made of coiled leather held small glass vials and a rolled cloth pouch. Snow clung to the hem of his cloak.

His hair was silver—striking, but not aged. Pulled back and tied at the base of his neck, a few loose strands framed sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. His eyes, however, were impossible. Silver. Not pale or gray, but silver, like molten metal catching light—alive, aware, and watching.

He didn't speak.

He walked to the table, picked up a wooden bowl, and crossed to the fire. With practiced ease, he lifted the pot's lid, stirred the contents once, then ladled soup into the bowl. The steam rose in soft plumes, warming his face.

He turned and walked toward her.

Nine's eyes flared red. Her eyelids twitched as if trying to reject what they were seeing. The pain in her skull was still there—raw, pulsing—but now it was matched by a sharp thrum in her chest.

Her gaze dropped.

Snow-covered boots stood before her. Then, slowly, she lifted her head—inch by inch—until she was staring up at the man.

He knelt slightly and extended the steaming bowl toward her, his expression unreadable.

Her instincts screamed.

She struck.

Her hand lashed out—quick, sharp. The bowl shot from his grasp, whirling through the air like a disc. It should have shattered against the far wall.

It didn't.

Just before the impact, it stopped. Frozen midair. Suspended like a puppet on invisible strings.

Her eyes darted to the bowl. Then to him.

His arm was still extended, but now wrapped in water—no, not water. Something colder. Liquid ice in the shape of rope, curling around his forearm like a serpent. It pulsed with silver light, the same color as his eyes.

Her gaze climbed back to his face.

He was staring at her, silent.

Silver flames burned in his irises.

"You're not mortal," she breathed. It wasn't a question.

A slow, a smirk stretched across his lips.

She punched him.

Or tried to.

He vanished.

Her fist slammed through empty air. She spun around, confused—then froze.

He was behind her.

Nine didn't hesitate. She launched at him again—this time faster, more calculated. A jab to the throat, a sweep at his legs, a feint to bait a counter. She moved like someone who had fought her entire life.

But he didn't take it seriously.

He dodged without effort, like wind slipping past stone. He tilted his head. Stepped sideways. Smiled. As if humoring a child.

And then—

He struck.

Fingers like lightning tapped her pressure points—knee, wrist, the back of her neck. Her body seized. She couldn't move. Couldn't even blink.

Still frozen, she stood rigid.

The bowl—forgotten midair—suddenly zipped toward him and landed neatly in his palm.

He brought it to her lips again and gently tipped the contents toward her mouth. She resisted. Held the soup there, refusing to swallow.

"Tch." The man scoffed, an amused grunt laced with mischief. "Playing hard, hmm?"

Two fingers tapped her neck. Her throat constricted. She swallowed against her will.

The soup went down warm and fast.

Her glare could've set forests ablaze.

He ignored it.

He turned, walked to a small wooden platform built into the corner of the room, and sank into a soft cushion with a quiet sigh. A low table rested in front of him—no more than a few inches tall. On it sat a tea kettle, a single wooden cup, and a well-worn chessboard.

He poured himself tea with the same calmness then he shrug the snow from his cloak

Then, his silver eyes flicked back to her. His hand rose, and again, that same rope of light extended, wrapping around her like silk chains. She was drawn toward him gently, until she stood across from him at the table.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, watching her closely.

She rolled her eyes, but held his gaze.

"I don't have any intention of killing you," he continued. "You were so focused on attacking that you didn't notice—the pain in your head is already fading. That medicine works fast."

He moved a pawn across the board with a flick of his finger.

He's right. The pain had dulled, somehow.

"What did you do to me?"

"I sealed your memories. They came rushing back the moment you woke—that's why it hurt."

Her eyes narrowed. He saw it.

"I had no choice," he said. "I saved you. Sealing your memories let your body heal faster. You should be thanking me."

"Why did you save me?"

He sipped his tea. "I grew a conscience."

His eyes peered over the rim of the cup. Watching her. Calculating.

"You could've killed me earlier," she said slowly. "You had every opportunity."

"But I didn't," he replied, voice even. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of preserving your soul. Recover first. That sword that killed you—it's not ordinary."

Her breath hitched.

A cold sweat broke along her spine. Her mind flashed—blood, steel, the roar of pain as a sword pierced her chest. Her heart—ripped clean out. The laughter. The sneer of the knight. Her scream.

Then silence.

"I'm glad," the man continued, dragging her back to the present. "You're not as weak as when I found you. you'll be able to defend yourself against the blindness coming soon"

"

"…Blindness?" Her voice cracked.