It was a typical day in Elisabeth's life, gathering firewood, keeping the fire going, fetching water, cooking something warm, and, when time permitted, preparing her medicinal herbs to sell in the village. Falko, her wolfdog, followed her everywhere, even inside the cabin; if she moved, he did the same. Falko was her only company, along with an old book of poems.

But that day, the routine was broken. While she was heating water for tea, Elisabeth absentmindedly looked outside. At first, she only distinguished a dark, staggering silhouette emerging from the forest. Then, the figure became clearer, a man, dressed completely in black, collapsed in front of her cabin, leaving a scarlet trail on the snow.

Elisabeth dropped the cup she was holding and ran outside, with Falko hot on her heels. The winter wind lashed her face harshly, but she didn't care.

"Are you alright?" she shouted, although it was obvious that the man had lost consciousness.

His black hair and dark clothes contrasted violently with the whiteness of the ground. Elisabeth knelt beside him and brought her trembling fingers to his nostrils: he was still breathing. Falko, restless, circled the stranger growling, as if sensing a threat. But she didn't notice; her mind only screamed one thing: "If he stays here, he will die."

With superhuman effort, she managed to drag him into the cabin.

"You're too heavy," she muttered through her teeth, panting as she settled him on her bed.

The smell of blood enveloped her then. She looked at her hands, they were stained red. She ran to the kitchen, grabbed warm water, clean cloths, and a handful of antiseptic herbs. Upon returning, for the first time, she noticed the man's appearance. He had a perfectly sculpted face, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, and a muscular torso that revealed years of training.

"This is not the time for this," she scolded herself, concentrating on the wound that was bleeding on his side. It seemed to be made with a sharp weapon, perhaps a dagger or a knife. She cleaned the blood carefully, applied the herbs, sutured, and bandaged the injury with strips of cloth.

Falko, still wary, sat by the door, vigilant.

Elisabeth watched the stranger writhe in bed, his face contorted by pain and fever. "Who are you?" she wondered, running a finger over her own wrist, as if trying to calm an unease that she couldn't quite understand. "How did you end up like this, bleeding and alone in the middle of nowhere?"

Falko approached and rested his heavy head on her lap, emitting a low, continuous growl, almost like a lament.

"What's wrong, Falko?" Elisabeth murmured, stroking the animal's rough fur. "You're anxious... Don't you like the intruder?" The wolfdog fixed his yellow eyes on the man, his ears tense forward. "I know, but we can't throw him out now. He would die." Her own words sounded colder than she expected. "When he recovers, this will be just our refuge again."

A sudden spasm from the man startled her. He was shuddering under the blankets, his muscles tense, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness. Elisabeth leaned over him and placed the back of her hand on his forehead.

"Fever..." she whispered.

Looking down, she noticed that his pants were soaked, either from melted snow or sweat. "If I don't take them off, it will get worse." She swallowed, feeling an uncomfortable heat rise up her neck. "How am I going to do this? Taking a man's pants off... Not even in my most absurd thoughts..."

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath.

"Don't be silly," she scolded herself in a low voice. "It's out of necessity, not for... anything else."

With quick but clumsy movements, she unbuckled his belt and pulled off the wet fabric, avoiding looking more than strictly necessary. She had no men's clothing, so she covered him with two additional blankets and piled more wood on the fire. The soaked clothes—now tangled in her hands—smelled of iron, frozen forest, and something else, something that reminded her of rotten leaves under the snow. She washed them with hot water and hung them near the stove, where the heat began to raise a dense steam.

As she watched the drops fall to the floor, Falko lay down by the door, vigilant. Elisabeth didn't know if it was the crackling of the fire or her own voice that whispered:

"Wake up soon, stranger. I don't know how long I can protect you from what's chasing you."

After the uncomfortable moment, Elisabeth pressed her hands against her apron, as if with that gesture she could banish the blush that still burned her cheeks. She took a deep breath, seeking calm, and dropped into the wooden chair next to the bed. The flames from the fireplace drew restless shadows on the walls, mixing with the agitated rhythm of her own heart.

Falko, always attentive, curled up at her feet, resting his snout on her boots. It was their ritual, every night, she read him a poem. But this time, the voice would not only be for him.

"Today we have company, Falko," she murmured, turning the worn pages of the book with fingers that trembled slightly. "Although I don't think he's listening to us."

The poem she chose spoke of a lost love, of broken promises under the moon. The words flowed in a whisper, as if she feared waking the stranger:

"...and in the starless night, your name was the last lie, that my lips uttered..."

When she finished, the silence became denser. Elisabeth closed the book with a dry thud.

"That's horrible," she confessed, more to herself than to anyone. "Why remember the pain when it already hurts so much to live it?"

The man in the bed did not respond, but for an instant, Elisabeth imagined that his expression tightened, as if the words had touched some hidden wound in his unconsciousness. Falko let out a low moan, rubbing his head against her leg.

"I know," she stroked the animal's fur, without taking her eyes off the stranger. "Sad poems always taste like truth."

Outside, the wind howled among the trees, dragging snow against the windowpanes. Elisabeth didn't know if it was the cold or the weight of the poem that made her skin crawl.

A few kilometers from Elisabeth's cabin, the storm raged with fury. The riders advanced with difficulty, their black cloaks waving like shadows against the white blanket. In front, Sir Rolf Breener, with his face hidden behind a thick cloth, cursed under his breath as his horse trampled the virgin snow.

"Damn it! The snow has covered the tracks," he roared, clenching his fists around the reins. His breath formed dense clouds in the freezing air.

Beside him, Sir Gregor Hass, scanned the forest with a skeptical look.

"It's probably covered him too," he pointed with a gesture towards the thicket.

"That bastard is finally dead," Gregor muttered, adjusting the gauntlet of his armor.

But Rolf was not convinced. He turned to his companion, and although only his eyes were visible between the folds of the cloth, the glint of suspicion in them was unmistakable.

"Do you think that beast would die so easily?" he grunted. "We should keep looking for him."

Gregor pointed to the sky, where the flakes fell in spirals, becoming thicker and thicker.

"Don't you see this damn storm? Unless you're immortal..." he paused, spitting on the ground. "Wounded as he was, there's no way he can survive."

For a moment, only the crunching of snow under the horses' hooves and the moaning of the wind among the trees could be heard. Finally, with a grunt of frustration, Rolf pulled on the reins.

"Let the wolves take him then," he spat.

The men turned around, their silhouettes gradually disappearing in the blizzard, while the snow erased their footprints as if they had never been there.

The night had passed, and the man still hadn't woken up. Elisabeth sighed, running a hand over her tired face before approaching the bed. With careful movements, she took a cloth dampened with warm water and wiped the sweat beading on the stranger's forehead. Her fingers trembled slightly as she changed the bandage, replacing the medicinal herbs with fresh ones.

"It's all I can do for you," she murmured, watching the man's chest rise with difficulty.

A sudden thought made her shudder: "What if he dies? My God, what will I do with a corpse! Will they accuse a poor herbalist of his death?" She surprised herself by mentally calculating how deep she would have to dig in the frozen ground to get rid of the body, and the absurdity of the situation elicited a nervous snort.

She decided to distract herself with routine. She fed Falko, prepared a frugal breakfast for herself, and went out to collect herbs, although her mind kept returning to the cabin. Throughout the day, between drying plants and hauling firewood, her eyes unconsciously searched for any change in the man. But he remained still, his breathing barely perceptible under the blankets.

As night fell, while cooking a simple dinner, Elisabeth left the bedroom door ajar to keep an eye on the stranger. The aroma of onion soup filled the air, mingling with the smoke from the chimney. Suddenly, Falko burst into the kitchen, his fur bristling and barking fiercely towards the room, backing up until he bumped into Elisabeth's legs.

"Falko, enough!" she scolded, without taking her eyes off the pot. "Your food is almost ready, no need for this fuss."

Completely forgetting the presence of the stranger resting in her bed, she assumed that the dog was simply impatient to eat, but something in the stiffness of his body and the tone of his growls made her frown. Just as she was about to turn around, a creak from the room paralyzed her.

She gently put down the wooden spoon, replacing it with another utensil.

A stabbing pain in his side was the first thing he felt upon emerging from unconsciousness. His eyelids felt like lead, and when he finally managed to open them, the light of the fire made him squint. Wooden ceilings blackened by smoke, log walls... Where the hell was he?

The aroma of onions and herbs cooking mingled with the smell of damp wool and burning firewood. A female voice hummed something in the distance, interrupted by the deep barks of a dog. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his torso prevented him. Noticing that he was only wearing his underwear, a wave of cold that had nothing to do with the temperature ran through him. With clumsy movements, he wrapped himself in the rough sheet covering the pallet.

"Who dared to touch me without my permission?" he muttered through his teeth, scrutinizing the room with a hawk's gaze.

His fingers found a pair of pruning shears on a nearby table. He gripped them with determination, feeling the cold metal against his palm. As he stepped onto the wooden floor, it creaked slightly under his weight. He held his breath, but the dog's barking intensified.

He advanced stealthily towards the source of the sounds. In the kitchen, a female figure with her back turned stirred a pot over the fire. Her blonde hair, so long that it brushed the curve of her hips, shone with the reflection of the flames. The dog - a wolfish beast with yellow eyes - growled, baring his fangs, cornering against the woman's legs.

Just as he raised the shears, she turned around. The kitchen knife in her hand gleamed, menacing.

"What bad manners," she said with an irony that contrasted with the sharpness of her voice. "Is it customary in your land to point weapons at someone who saved your life?"

Her green eyes, vibrant as moss in spring, clashed against the stranger's blue ones, cold as the ice of a winter lake.

"And is it customary in yours to strip a wounded man and point knives at him?" he retorted, adjusting his grip on the shears. He noticed how the woman clenched her jaw, although she kept the weapon steady.

"I only took off your clothes to heal your wounds!" she protested, a flush rising up her neck. "Don't expect me to regret it."

The dog advanced a step, growling with every syllable his owner uttered:

"Put down those shears or Falko will show you how we treat the ungrateful around here."

The man hesitated at Elisabeth's words. The shears fell from his hands not by will, but because the pain betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he began to stagger like a tree about to be felled by an ax.

She dropped the knife instantly.

"Damn it!" She ran towards him and held him just as he was about to collapse.

But instead of gratitude, she received a growl full of venom:

"Who gave you permission to touch me?" the man spat, his voice laden with arrogance even though his face was contorted with suffering.

Elisabeth frowned, looking at him as if another head had just grown on him.

"I prefer to think you're delirious with fever," she said, turning towards the room.

"I'm more lucid than you'd like," he replied instantly, fixing her with blue eyes full of distrust.

She clenched her teeth until her jaw cracked.

"Do you want me to let go of you? Well, I'll let go," she threatened.

But she didn't. And she answered herself. "If he falls, I'll have to carry him again, and once was enough."

However, when she finally deposited him on the bed, she did so with deliberate brusqueness. The man writhed in silence, but his gaze... that cornered beast look could have made anyone back down.

"And he still has the nerve to look at me like that," Elisabeth thought, feeling anger burning her cheeks.

"Who are you? Who ordered you to do this?" he demanded with a commanding tone, as if he were used to his questions getting immediate answers.

She didn't dignify the question with an answer. She frowned again and left the room without looking back, ignoring his demands. Falko remained at the door, his fur bristling and growling with every movement of the intruder.

"Damn woman!" she heard the man curse. "And that infernal beast...!"

Minutes later, Elisabeth returned carrying a bowl of steaming water, a glass jar with a greenish content, and rolls of clean bandage. She placed them firmly on a chair next to the bed.

"You're bleeding again," she pointed out coldly, avoiding his gaze. "I must heal you before you bleed out like a pig at slaughter."

"And you dare to compare me to a pig?" the man growled, bringing a hand to his bleeding side. The pain clouded his vision for an instant, but he didn't take his blue eyes off her.

"And are you?" Elisabeth replied with a defiant voice full of sarcasm, crossing her arms. "I don't know who you are or what you did to end up like this. And frankly, I don't care. But if you want to live, you should accept my help without so much rudeness."

The stranger fell silent. His gaze descended towards the wound that stained the bandage red, then towards his own trembling hands. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. "If I want to return soon, I need to recover... I'll have to tolerate this woman for now. But I'll find out what she's up to."

As he thought this, he watched with resentment as Elisabeth, noticing his silent acquiescence, approached with precise movements. Her hands worked with surgical efficiency: she removed the stained bandage, cleaned the wound with warm water that burned like fire, applied an herbal ointment that smelled like a forest after the rain, and finally bandaged it with strips of clean linen. All without uttering a word.

When she finished, she left the room and returned minutes later with his clothes - now clean and perfectly folded - which she placed next to the bed.

"I can help you get dressed," she offered in a neutral tone, as if she were talking about the weather.

The man frowned as if he had been spat on.

"Damn it, no!" he snorted, recoiling as if her proximity burned him.

She shrugged indifferently.

"As you wish," she said, and left again, letting the wooden door creak shut behind her.

Still, as she walked away, she could feel the weight of that icy gaze fixed on her back. As arrogant and rude as the intruder was, a part of her understood him: after brushing with death, it was natural that he distrusted even his own shadow.

Elisabeth filled her bowl with the steaming soup, stopping mid-motion. The wooden spoon remained suspended over the pot as her eyes turned towards the closed room.

"The stranger must be hungry," she thought.

She reduced her own portion and set aside a generous serving for the unknown man. Falko, who didn't stop growling towards the door, received his food without taking his yellow eyes off that threatening threshold.

"Easy, boy," Elisabeth murmured, stroking the wolfhound's bony head. "I know he's ungrateful, but we can't let him die. Letting someone die when you can help them is one of the most detestable things a person can do."

A painful memory pierced her like a knife: her mother coughing blood onto the gray sheets, her father trying to push her away with skeletal hands. "Don't come close, daughter... I don't want you to see him." She, barely twelve years old, paralyzed in the doorway with tears in her eyes. Tuberculosis had taken them in a matter of weeks. No doctor came without upfront payment.

"Damn them all," she whispered, clenching the knife so hard that her knuckles turned white.

The sound of Falko licking his plate brought her back to the present. She took a deep breath, wiping her hands on her apron before preparing a tray: the bowl of soup, a piece of rye bread, and a glass of fresh water. As she lifted it, she noticed she was trembling slightly.

"Stupid," she scolded herself quietly. "He's not the one making you tremble."

Pushing the door open with her shoulder, the firelight illuminated the figure of the stranger propped up in bed. His blue eyes shone like ice, reflecting the flames.

"Don't move," she warned, placing the tray on his legs carefully. "If you open the wound again, I won't sew it up again."

The man disdainfully eyed the steaming bowl resting on his legs. His nose wrinkled slightly at the simple scent of onion and herbs, while his long, calloused fingers closed around the spoon without lifting it.

"It's not poisoned," Elisabeth said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

He looked up, frowning so deeply that a furrow formed between his dark eyebrows.

"Did you hurt your hands too?" she asked, ironically pointing out his immobility in front of the food.

The stranger opened his lips to reply, but at that precise moment, a spoonful of hot soup was unceremoniously shoved into his mouth. His blue eyes widened, mixing confusion, indignation, and the involuntary reflex of tasting the broth.

In front of him, Elisabeth maintained an impassive expression, although she couldn't hide the gleam of amusement in her green eyes.

"You have to eat to recover," she said, slowly and deliberately withdrawing the spoon. "And so you can leave my house as soon as possible."

The man grabbed her wrist with a speed surprising for someone in his condition. His grip was firm, though not enough to hurt.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" his voice was an icy whisper that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

"I'm helping you," she replied without blinking, convinced. "You were taking too long. The soup would get cold."

"Help?" he thought, releasing her wrist with a gesture of disgust. "She calls almost drowning me with a spoon like a toddler, help."

However, the comforting taste of the broth spread through his mouth, reminding him how empty his stomach was. He couldn't deny it, she was right, if he wanted to heal, he needed to eat.

"I can do it myself," he finally conceded, taking the spoon with an air of superiority.

Elisabeth snorted, satisfied to see that he finally gave in. As she left the room, she couldn't help but let a mischievous smile appear for a moment. Behind the closed door, the sound of the spoon scraping against the bowl confirmed that, however proud someone was, hunger always won.

Elisabeth waited behind the door until the metallic sound of the spoon against the bowl ceased. When she entered, she found the tray empty—not a drop of soup or a crumb of bread remained. A warm, small but genuine satisfaction ran through her chest.

"If you're cold, I can put on more wood," she offered, approaching the fireplace.

The man didn't answer. He only watched her with that glacial gaze that seemed capable of piercing armor. The blue eyes shone in the dim light like fragments of ice under the moon.

"I see not..." she murmured to herself, collecting the tray with quick movements.

In the kitchen, the icy water from the well reddened her hands as she washed the dishes. Falko settled at her feet, expectant, recognizing the nightly routine. Elisabeth dried her numb fingers before opening the book of poems at random. The page fell on "The Unseemly Desire."

"Your hands, softer than velvet at dawn..." she began to read in a clear voice, ignoring the title.

But upon reaching the third verse, a wave of heat flushed up her neck. The metaphors were becoming increasingly... explicit.

"This isn't appropriate for you, Falko!" she slammed the book shut, feeling her ears burn. The dog cocked his head, confused by the sudden change.

Elisabeth glanced toward the door of the room, "Did he hear any of that?" she wondered tensely. "I hope not..."

From the room, the stranger had followed every word. His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.

"She knows how to read... Curious. Peasants usually don't have that ability..."

A sharp pain in his side brought him back to his own reality: the memory of the ambush. That supposed friendly hunt with southern nobles that ended with masked men emerging from the trees. His own blood staining the snow. Pure betrayal.

"Ha," a dry laugh, laden with poison, escaped his lips as he pressed the wound. "They will burn to ashes."

The oath hung in the air, accompanied by the sudden silence from the kitchen. "Did she fall asleep?" He remembered what he saw of the cabin, it didn't seem to have another room or another bed.

"Who cares?" he clicked his tongue before closing his eyes, letting the pain and exhaustion drag him into a restless sleep.

The early morning enveloped the cabin in a thick silence when a sound broke the man's sleep. At first, between the haze of pain and fever, he failed to recognize it. But upon waking fully, he identified it—a muffled sob that filtered from the next room.

With a groan, he sat up in bed, feeling the fire of his wound run through his side. Every movement was agony, but something drove him forward. Leaning against the wall, he reached the threshold where a heartbreaking scene was revealed.

Elisabeth lay in a reclining chair near the fireplace, covered only by a threadbare blanket. Although her eyes remained closed, thick tears traced silvery paths down her cheeks. Her lips trembled, forming broken words:

"Brother... don't go..." her voice was a thread of anguish. "Please... don't..."

The man held his breath. "She's dreaming," he realized. An irrational impulse led him to take a step toward her, but immediately a deep growl echoed in the dim light. Falko, who was resting at his mistress's feet, had raised his head, baring his fangs under the yellow reflection of his eyes. The message was clear—one more step and he would attack.

"Damn beast," he muttered, stepping back with his hands up.

His eyes met those of the wolfhound in a silent duel. Finally, he turned on his heels, returning to bed with slow, painful movements. As he settled between the still-warm sheets, his last words were lost in the crackling of the fire:

"She'll be alright... I guess."

But as he closed his eyes, the image of those silent tears continued to burn in his mind, as persistent as the pain of his wound.