By the third day, Andres could sit up on his own. His movements were slow, stiff, and painful but he insisted. Aurelia didn't stop him, only handed him a rolled-up cloth for support and watched from the hearth as he inched into an upright position, breathing heavily like he'd climbed a mountain.
"Congratulations," she said dryly. "You're now as mobile as a toddler."
He shot her a look. "One with a stab wound."
"Two, actually."
He blinked. "Two?"
She nodded, tossing a peeled tuber into the pot. "One on your side, another across your thigh. You were half-eaten when you got here."
"I don't remember much."
"You bled out all over my beets. Very inconsiderate."
"…Sorry?"
"You should be. Those were my best beets."
He let out a soft sound - half snort, half sigh - and leaned his head back against the wooden wall behind him. The room smelled faintly of rosemary and smoke. Despite the dull ache that ran along every bone, it was peaceful here, dangerously so, too peaceful for someone like him.
"I should go," he said after a beat.
Aurelia didn't even look up.
"And do what, exactly? Limp into the woods and let a fangbeast finish what it started?"
He winced. "I'll manage."
"You can't even manage your shirt buttons."
He glanced down at his rumpled, undersized shirt, one of hers, obviously, with sleeves rolled haphazardly at the elbow, looking like a crop top. He had tried to dress himself earlier and given up halfway through.
"…Still," he said, tone quieter now, "I can't stay."
She turned then, wooden spoon in hand, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Why not?"
He hesitated.
"Because I'm not your responsibility," he said finally. "I'm not anyone's responsibility."
Aurelia set the spoon down with a thunk.
"Wow," she said. "So noble. So tragic."
He frowned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is," she said flatly. "Look, I patched you up because I don't like watching people die when I can help it. That doesn't mean you're some burden weighing me down."
"I don't even know your name."
She blinked. "…You don't."
They stared at each other for a moment. Then she walked over and extended a hand.
"Aurelia," she said. "I live here. I cook terrible soup. I occasionally nurse stubborn half-dead men back to life."
He looked at her hand, then slowly took it. "Andres," he replied.
Her grip was firm, steady.
"I know," she said, a flicker of amusement in her voice. "It was there on your breastplate. Also you had mumbled it in your sleep one time, along with something about a… failed operation and someone named Eirin."
His fingers stiffened. Aurelia noticed, she said nothing, just stepped back and returned to the hearth, stirring the pot again like she hadn't just pressed her finger into a bruise.
"Anyway," she said lightly, "you're not leaving yet. You can barely stand. At least give it another few days."
He nodded, but said nothing because Eirin was the last name he wanted to hear and the first one that always haunted his sleep.
---
That night, after Aurelia went to bed on her cot by the door, Andres lay staring at the ceiling.
The wooden beams were old, cracked, and patched in places with iron nails. A few glimmerbugs clung to the rafters, their faint green light pulsing gently.
His body still ached. His mind more.
Eirin.
Her name had once meant everything. His commander. His partner. The one who'd stood at his side through storms and fire, sworn to the same code, the same war... until she hadn't, until she'd left him behind without blinking. He hadn't even heard the full explanation.
One moment he'd been bleeding, reaching out; the next, she was walking away, voice calm as winter, "Sorry, Andres. You're too broken now."
He didn't know how he'd survived, didn't remember much after the ambush, only blood, fire, and the sickening crunch of failure.
It must've been his men who got him out, what was left of them. Everything after that was hazy and unclear. He remembered thinking he had died only to wake up here in this place with this woman.
Somehow, Aurelia had taken him in. Not because she knew him, not out of duty, just because she could.
He owed her his life. But that wasn't something he could repay with quiet gratitude and awkward soup.
He needed a plan, he needed to leave before whoever had ambushed him came back to finish the job. He'd stayed too long already.
---
In the morning, he tried to walk without Aurelia's help. It did not go well.
He'd made it three steps toward the door before his leg gave out and he crumpled against the table with a loud thud.
Aurelia rushed in from the outside, arms full of firewood, and let out a groan when she saw him.
"Oh, come on!"
"I'm fine," he grunted, trying to push himself up.
"You are not fine. You look like a soggy tree branch."
"Need to build strength."
"You need to sit down and stop being an idiot."
She hauled him back to the bed with surprising strength, tucked the blanket back around him with exaggerated care, and plopped a mug of tea in his hands.
"You want to repay me? Stay put."
He didn't argue. This time.
---
By the fifth day, he could walk the length of the room without collapsing. He did it twice just to prove a point.
Aurelia clapped sarcastically. "Congratulations, walker of walls."
"I could probably make it to the garden."
"Oh no. That's level two. You haven't unlocked it yet."
They were bickering more now. She teased him like a pesky little brother, and he found himself almost enjoying it until he remembered why he hated needing anyone in the first place.
That night, she handed him a folded blanket.
"For what?"
"The cot," she said, gesturing. "You're not dying anymore. I'm taking my bed back."
He stared at her. "…You slept on that tiny thing this whole time?"
"Yes," she said. "Because someone was too unconscious to argue."
He blinked. "…Thank you."
She shrugged. "Don't mention it."
But he would, he would remember this, every part of it. And one day, when he stood on solid ground again, when he had his strength back, he would find out why Eirin had left him.
And maybe then, he could finally move forward.