Episode 3

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.

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