Aurelia had never been a morning person.
But there was something about the quiet of dawn in the village that she'd grown to appreciate, soft wind threading through the half-ruined fence, the smell of dew on scorched earth, and the way the glimmerbirds chirped like they didn't know the world had ended.
She stood by the garden, plucking herbs with dirt-streaked fingers and humming to herself. Behind her, she heard the unmistakable shuffle-thump of stubborn boots. She didn't turn.
"You're supposed to be resting."
"I'm walking," Andres replied.
"You're limping."
"Progress."
She sighed. "If you keel over in my spinach patch, I'm using your corpse as compost."
"Duly noted."
Still not turning, she held out a hand behind her. He placed a basket in it without needing to be asked.
They worked in silence for a while, her harvesting greens, him trailing behind like a reluctant assistant. He never asked what she planned to cook. She never asked why he needed to move so much. She knew the type, restless, unsettled, the kind of man who didn't know what to do with stillness. He wasn't ready to be still yet.
And probably, neither was she.
---
Later, when the sun crept higher, they sat beneath the shadow of her crooked porch roof, sipping tepid broth and watching the wind sweep red dust across the distant hills.
"You grew up here?" Andres asked.
Aurelia paused mid-sip. "In this village? No."
"Where then?"
She hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I used to live somewhere… far," she said. "Lots of rules. Shiny floors. Heavy doors."
He glanced at her, curious. "Sounded important."
"It was stifling."
He didn't press. Instead, he let the silence return, soft and unintrusive, like the lull before a summer storm. But inside, something shifted. A puzzle piece clicking into place.
She was smart, resourceful, and far too trained in stitching wounds and managing supplies for a random farm girl.
He wouldn't ask yet but he'd remember.
---
Three more days passed.
Andres regained strength like a man starved, eating double rations, pushing himself to walk laps around the clearing, using the axe to split firewood even when his hands shook.
"I don't need help," he grunted one afternoon, chopping at a stubborn log.
Aurelia raised a brow, leaning against the doorway with arms folded.
"You're about to fall over."
"I'm fine."
"You missed the log three times."
"I'm just warming up."
She snorted. "You're not bread dough, Andres."
Still, she handed him a cup of water and didn't argue when he slumped onto a tree stump moments later, panting.
His pride bruised worse than his ribs.
But every night, he slept more soundly, dreamed less.
And every morning, he woke up feeling a little more like himself.
---
It wasn't until the tenth day that he asked the question she'd been expecting.
"Why did you help me?"
They were by the stream, her soaking laundry in a wooden basin, him awkwardly perched on a rock nearby, watching her fight a particularly stubborn stain on his shirt.
Aurelia paused, hand still in the water.
"I didn't plan to," she admitted. "Your men brought you here. They looked desperate, and I felt you were someone worth saving."
"…But?"
She shrugged. "You looked pathetic."
"Wow."
"And miserable."
"Even better."
"And weirdly… hopeful. Like someone who hadn't quite given up yet."
He looked away, jaw tight.
"You don't know me."
"No," she said. "But I know that look. I used to wear it."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned back and let the cold splash of the stream lick at his boots.
And for the first time in days, he smiled.
A little. But it was there.
"Thank you...."
She paused, and then continued like nothing.
---
That night, the village had a fire gathering, one of the few traditions they clung to.
Aurelia dragged him to the edge of the circle, ignoring his scowl.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, watching the children dance around the flames.
"It's called joy. You should try it sometime."
"I don't dance."
"You don't anything. You just brood."
"I do not brood."
She glanced at him. "You absolutely brood."
He crossed his arms. "I'm serious."
"So am I."
He looked at her, really looked. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, curls puffed out like a halo. Her skin glowed gold and ember under the firelight, her eyes bright and amused.
He was caught staring.
She raised an eyebrow. "See something interesting?"
He looked away quickly. "Just… trying to figure you out."
"You'll need more fire for that."
And she smiled, this big, blinding, toothy thing, and something inside his chest pulled tight.
He was in trouble. And he knew it. Maybe she knew it too.
---
Back at the cottage, after the fire had died and the villagers returned to their homes, Andres stood on the porch alone, staring out at the night sky.
The stars here were different. Sharper. Like they knew the world had changed and didn't care.
He heard the door creak open behind him.
"You okay?" Aurelia's voice was soft.
He nodded. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime."
"Only when I overdo it."
She stepped beside him, silent for a beat.
Then, "Your wounds are healing well."
"I've had worse."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
He chuckled. "Didn't mean it to be."
A gust of wind tugged at her sleeves.
She folded her arms. "You'll leave soon."
It wasn't a question.
He glanced sideways at her.
"Yes."
Silence.
"I figured," she said.
"But I'll repay you. Somehow."
She snorted. "Repay me? With what? Broken swords and pride?"
He smiled faintly. "With something real."
She looked up at him.
And for a second, their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them like static.
Then she looked away.
"Just make sure you don't collapse before you reach the edge of town."
"I won't."
"I'm serious. If you drop dead ten feet from here, I'll pretend I've never seen you."
"…I believe you."
They both laughed then, quiet, breathless, uncertain, but real, and for the first time since waking up in this strange little village, Andres Morn felt something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Hope.