It had been two weeks since I brought the stranger home.
Two long weeks of sitting beside him, watching over him, waiting for signs that he'd wake up. Sometimes he twitched, mumbled things I couldn't understand, his face tightening in pain. Other times, he was so still I feared the worst.
But still... he breathed.
This morning was like the others—I left quietly to collect herbs, keeping to the safer paths near the stream. The storm had passed, but the forest still smelled like damp earth and magic. I was only gone an hour, maybe less.
When I stepped back inside the cabin, I froze.
He was sitting up.
His back pressed against the headboard, one hand gripping his head like the weight of it was too much, the other trembling slightly against the covers.
For a moment, I didn't move. My heart thudded against my ribs like a drum, louder than I expected. Then I dropped the herbs and rushed to his side.
"Hey—hey, easy," I said gently, grabbing the clay cup I'd prepared days ago, just in case. "Here. Drink this. It's for the pain… and the fever."
He looked at me then.
And Gods, his eyes.
Silver. Piercing. Like stormlight caught in glass.
He stared—not with fear, but calculation. Like he was trying to place me, read me, figure out who or what I was. His gaze swept over my face, my hands, my posture.
I didn't flinch.
Finally, he took the cup and downed the bitter mixture in one swallow, his throat working hard to keep it down.
A pause.
Then a breath.
Relief flickered across his face, almost too subtle to notice.
I stood still, steady, forcing calm into my expression.
Now's when the questions come, I thought.
Who am I? Where am I? What happened?
But instead… he said nothing.
Not at first.
He just kept staring at me, like he already knew me from somewhere he couldn't remember.
Even though he was awake, it was clear—his body wasn't truly his.
He tried to move, but his muscles twitched uncontrollably. His hands shook as if lifting a cup had drained all his strength. When he tried to sit up straighter, he winced—his back arching like every bone had been forged in fire.
I was at his side in an instant.
"Don't," I whispered, gently placing my hands on his shoulders. "You'll tear something."
He looked at me, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but frustration. I could tell. He wasn't used to weakness. He wasn't used to needing help.
But his body was betraying him.
It was like watching someone relearn how to exist. Every movement was slow, jerky. When I offered him water, he nearly spilled it. When he tried to speak again, his voice cracked and failed, like the poison still lived in his throat.
He was present, yes.
But trapped.
Paralyzed in pieces.
Broken in ways that had nothing to do with bones or wounds.
Whatever they injected into him... it wasn't meant to kill.
It was meant to strip him of control. Of his wolf. Of his will.
I could see it—his soul was there, full of strength and fury and something ancient. But his body was an enemy now. And whoever did this… they didn't want him dead. They wanted him to suffer.
It broke something in me, watching him like that.
So I did what I knew how to do. I took his hand in mine, pressed his fingers into my palm gently.
"Can you feel this?" I asked softly.
He nodded.
"Good. Then we start small."
And just like that, I became his anchor again. His guide. Teaching him how to chew, sip, sit… breathe.
Like a child rediscovering the world one limb at a time.
He was a prince once, I could feel it.
Now he was something else entirely.
A wounded storm learning how to rise again.