I was fourteen. No longer the barefoot child who had first glimpsed him on the peak, but a young woman whose curiosity had only grown sharper with the years. I had watched him from afar for nearly a decade—seen him heal the sick, comfort the dying, move through our village like a blessing made flesh. But I wanted more than glimpses. I wanted to know him.

  So, I followed him.

  Higher and higher I climbed, past the tree line where the pines grew gnarled and sparse, past the snow line where my feet should have frozen but somehow didn't, past the point where any sensible mortal would have turned back. The air grew thin and sharp, each breath a blade in my lungs. But I pressed on, driven by something I couldn't name—something that felt like destiny.

  I found him standing before a frozen waterfall, its cascade arrested mid-plunge, ice gleaming like a thousand suspended diamonds in the eternal twilight of the mountain's crown. He was facing away from me, his dark hair stirring in a wind that didn't seem to touch anything else. He wore no cloak against the cold, no protection against the altitude that should have killed any man. He simply stood there, motionless, as if he were part of the mountain itself.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "You should not be here, child." His voice was like the wind through the high pines—both gentle and forbidding. He didn't turn. "This place is not for mortal lungs."

  I stepped forward, my shoes leaving prints in snow that should have been pristine but welcomed me anyway. "I am not a child." My breath plumed in the air, visible evidence of my mortality, my fragility. "I haven't been a child for a long time."

  He turned then.

  The sight of him still struck me, even after all those years of watching from afar. He was beautiful in a way that had no business existing in the mortal world—lean and tall as a blade, his skin pale as the mountain's peak, his hair black as a raven's wing. But it was his eyes that stole my breath. They were not like stars; they were stars, holding the cold, ancient fire of distant constellations. And in that moment, they were fixed on me with an intensity that should have sent me running.

  I met his gaze, my voice steadier than I felt. "And you are not just a healer—the Slànachadair, as the villagers and elders call you. I've known that since I was seven years old."

  Something flickered in those star-flecked eyes. Surprise? Interest? I couldn't tell. "What do you think I am?"