It looked like overkill for a human.

  She dug through her bag and pulled out a glass jar filled with greenish-brown paste. As she twisted the lid, the scent of cool mint and damp earth filled the air, sharp and clean, like crushed leaves after rain.

  Setting the jar to the side, she wrestled to position the figure onto his back, where she could get a better look at the wound.

  The moment her hand touched his arm, a strange sensation pulsed through her, an urge to protect him. Fierce and immediate. It struck so suddenly, it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

  If he died here, now, it would break something in her.

  Something she didn’t even know existed.

  Panic prickled at the edge of her thoughts. Was she getting sick? Cursed? Enchanted?

  The feeling wasn’t natural. It couldn’t be.

  He was a stranger. But her soul was acting like it had known him forever.

  Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her supplies, bandages, a flask of water, a small steel dagger, and the cleanest rags she had. Working quickly but carefully, Imogen began to clean the wound, trying not to think too hard about the blood, the depth, or how close to death he might already be.

  She reached for the dagger, holding the blade just above the flickering flame of her candle. The steel turned a dull gold as the heat seeped into it.

  Imogen exhaled.

  “Listen, I know what you’re thinking,” she muttered to the unconscious man. “This is going to hurt. It might wake you up… or it might toss your body into complete shock and kill you.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “But this is the only way I can help. Just….. please don’t die, dammit.”

  With that, she pressed the heated blade to the wound.

  The hiss was immediate, sickening. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, sharp and nauseating.

  She flinched at every twitch of his body, every involuntary gasp or wince. It was like she could feel it with every nerve screaming through his unconscious form.

  She was nearly done when a hand shot up and grabbed her wrist.

  Imogen froze, her breath caught in her throat. His eyes shot open icy blue and sharp. Suddenly checking his surroundings, prepared for anything.

  His grip was firm but not cruel, as though instinct guided him more than intent.

  Gold meets ice.

  Her eyes, wide with shock and glowing in the candlelight, reflected fear, pain and something deeper she didn’t dare name.

  His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. His gaze didn’t waver, drawn to hers like a compass to true north.

  “…What… are you?” he rasped, voice raw, barely audible.

  The question wasn’t accusatory. It was wonder and disbelief.

  Imogen blinked, heart pounding. She didn’t have an answer.

  She just knew something had changed in that instant, something unknown, fated.

  She pulled her hand back quickly, breath still shaky. She began to gather her things, fingers fumbling slightly with the fabric of her bag.

  She left the jar of Numbroot paste and the small stack of bandages beside him.

  “I’m glad to see you’re alive,” she said, her voice tight. “But I have no clue what’s going on here or what game you’re playing.”

  She rose to her feet, brushing off her knees, trying to push down the strange, gnawing feeling in her chest.

  “Apply the Numbroot three times a day,” she continued, avoiding his eyes. “I can’t afford to leave more than a day’s worth. There are soldiers crawling all over these woods, and I don’t have time to deal with…”

  She hesitated, throat tightening.

  “…whatever this is.”

  Her eyes flicked back to his for just a heartbeat; as if daring him to acknowledge it too.

  The strange pull between them.

  The ache in her chest, like she’d left something behind the moment she stepped away from him.

  “I don’t even know you,” she added, quieter now. “But it feels like… I should.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She shook her head, forcing herself to focus.

  “I’ve never seen armor like yours,” she went on. “Or the dragon sigil etched into it. If you’re smart, you’ll cover that up. The soldiers were fighting a dragon earlier, and I’ve got a gut feeling you’re associated with it.”

  At those words, the man suddenly jolted upright, wincing as he pushed himself against the cave wall for support.

  His voice, deep and rasped but rich with urgency, cut through the space between them.

  “What dragon?” he demanded, eyes blazing.

  “Where did you see him? What color was he? Was he hurt? Killed?”

  His voice cracked on the last word, anger flaring, but underneath it… a thin thread of fear.

  Imogen was taken aback by the raw desperation in his voice.

  For a moment she just stared, unsure of how to answer.

  “I… I only heard the roar,” she said finally, her voice softer now. “Off in the near distance. There were soldiers shouting in the background, but I never saw the dragon.”

  She hesitated, watching as his expression flickered pain and barely contained fear shadowing his features.

  “But if it was your ” She stopped herself, choosing her words carefully. “If he’s out there, he might be in trouble.”

  She bent to tighten the strap on her bag, then straightened, eyes meeting his.

  “If you can move, head southwest from the cave entrance. You’ll cover more ground if you follow the ridge trail. With luck, you’ll reach him before they do.”

  Her voice held no softness, only urgency.

  “You don’t have time to waste. But unfortunately you could bleed out before you get there. With all your body has been put through you might not even make it halfway.”

  Imogen turned toward the cave mouth, forcing herself to leave

  But the sound of metal scraping against stone made her pause.

  She turned. He was trying to stand.

  His hand slipped against the wall, knees buckling. He caught himself with a grunt, face pale with pain, blood already soaking through the bandage she’d just applied.

  “Gods, you’re stubborn,” she muttered.

  He didn’t look at her.

  “I have to get to him.”

  “I told you, your body isn’t ready for this. You’ll bleed out before you make it halfway.”

  He shook his head, jaw clenched tight.

  “I don’t care.”

  Then, quieter and half to himself he added,

  “If my magic wasn’t so weak, this wound would’ve closed by now…”

  Imogen froze mid-step. Magic?

  She glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking her way. There was no trace of boasting in his voice. Just frustration and worry. Something worn thin and something about that tugged at her more than she wanted to admit.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, a sudden pressure rising there tight and unfamiliar.

  Damn it.

  She dropped her bag to the floor again and stepped toward him, already reaching for more bandages. “Sit. Down,” she snapped. “I didn’t just cauterize your damn hip so you could rip it open again chasing after a dragon.”

  He looked up, startled by her tone, and their eyes locked, icy blue on molten gold.

  “You’ll help me?” he asked, hesitant.

  Her hands moved, firm and quick, tying fabric with practiced precision.

  “Just until you can stand without looking like death,” she muttered. “After that… we’ll see.”

  They stepped out into the trees, the mist catching on her lashes. Branches above them shivered under the touch of rain, and the world beyond the cave felt quiet. Expectant.

  “You’re lucky I don’t leave you here,” she muttered, eyes scanning the trail. “Helping a half-dead stranger with dragon sigils, mystery magic, and a tendency to fall over dramatically wasn’t on my to-do list tonight.”

  He gave a low, breathless chuckle. “I fall with style.”

  “Right,” she said dryly, shifting under his weight. “Let me know when you’re ready for a graceful exit next time.”

  His body leaned a little more into hers warm and solid despite everything and she hated the way it made her heart flutter.

  Like she was sixteen again.

  And stupid.

  “You didn’t have to,” he murmured.

  His voice had softened again, a rasp with edges smoothed by fatigue.

  “But you did.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her eyes stayed forward, watching the trail.

  But her grip on him didn’t loosen.

  After a pause, he added,

  “You feel it too… don’t you?”

  She froze. His voice was warm, brushing her skin like heat through wet fabric.

  Her breath caught, thoughts tangled.

  What was the matter with her? Why did this stranger make her feel like her soul had just remembered something her mind couldn’t name? Then a roar split the forest.

  Low and thunderous, it rolled through the trees like a storm, sending birds scattering in all directions. Imogen jerked, eyes darting toward the sky. The sound didn’t just echo

  It ached.

  She barely had time to process it before the man beside her straightened. Not in panic. With purpose.

  His posture sharpened, his grip on her loosening as if preparing to move.

  “That’s him,” he said, voice low but steady, every word laced with restrained urgency.

  Imogen turned to him. “That dragon?”

  He gave a single nod, his gaze already scanning the treetops.

  “He’s in pain. I feel it.”

  He took a step forward, his body protested, muscles locking with pain, but he pushed through it with a quiet growl in his throat.

  No dramatics. No stumbling. Just determination.

  Imogen instinctively reached out to steady him.

  “You’re still healing. You’ll tear it all open again!”

  “I don’t care.” He didn’t snap. He didn’t even raise his voice. But something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.

  “I need to get to him,” he continued. “And I will.”