The village emerged from the morning mist like a half-remembered dream.
Sidharth stumbled down the last slope, vision swimming with exhaustion and blood loss. His feet had gone numb hours ago—which was mercy, considering the state of them. Each step left dark prints in the frost-brittle grass. The shard in his pocket pulsed against his ribs, a second heartbeat that felt stronger than his own.
Twenty buildings, maybe thirty. Of timber and stone, built low against the wind. Thin gray ribbons rose from chimneys. Thatched roofs showed their patches and repairs. A mill wheel turned slowly beside the half-frozen stream. Fields lay fallow, waiting for a spring that might never come this far north.
No walls, Sidharth remarked absently. No guards. Either desperate or foolish.
Or both.
His legs gave out fifty yards from the nearest house.
He went down hard, catching himself on his hands. Blood dripped from his nose—when had that started bleeding? The ground tilted sideways. His stomach heaved, but he had nothing to throw up. He'd eaten last. when? Before the trial? Before the brand?
Get up, he told himself. Get up or die here.
His body ignored him.
The branded mark on his shoulder blade burned as if someone was stamping it with a hot iron once more. And deeper than the pain, something else: a spreading hollowness through his chest, like something essential was being carved out of him, bit by bit.
The Seer had said during his sentencing, thinking Sidharth unconscious. Three years if he's strong. Less if he's not. The Forsaken brand is slowly killing him.
The edges of Sidharth's vision began to darken. The morning sun felt far away and cold. His cheek pressed against frozen earth, and it almost felt comfortable. Sleep. He could sleep here. Just for a moment. Just—
"Ancestors preserve us, is that a body?
The voice cut through his fading consciousness. Young, male, fearful.
"Don't touch it!" Another voice, older. "Could be plague. Could be marked."
"We can't just leave him—"
"We can and we will.The Duke's men come through here next week. They find a dead exile in our village? You want to explain that?"
Footsteps crunched closer. Then stopped.
"Look at his back." The older voice was softer now. "That's a Forsaken brand."
Silence, heavy and condemning.
"Then he's already dead," the younger voice said quietly. "The brand will eat him in weeks."
"All the more reason to leave him. Come on, Ravi."
The footsteps retreated.
Sidharth tried to speak, to call out, but his tongue was too thick. Darkness pulled at him like a tide. He felt the shard's pulse grow fainter, as if it too was fading.
Not like this, he thought desperately, I didn't survive exile to die in a ditch.
But his body had other ideas. And the darkness swallowed him whole.
When Sidharth woke, he was warm.
That alone was so unexpected he didn't move for several heartbeats. Just lie still, cataloging sensations. Soft surface beneath him—a bed? Wool blanket over him, rough but clean. The smell of herbs and wood smoke. Distantly, the crackle of a fire.
Pain came next. His feet throbbed with dull, insistent agony. His shoulder blade felt as though it housed burning coals. But the killing cold was gone. The emptiness in his chest had receded, replaced by not quite strength, but potential of strength.
He opened his eyes.
Wooden ceiling. Low beams crossed with dried herbs hung in bundles. A small window let in afternoon light—he'd lost hours, then. The room was tiny, barely bigger than the bed he lay on. Shelves lined one wall, packed with clay jars, glass bottles, mortared roots, and things he couldn't identify.
A room of the herbalist. Or healer.
Sidharth struggled to sit up. His body shrieked in protest, but it obeyed. He was shirtless, he realised— they'd taken off his exile rags. His feet were bandaged in clean linen, and someone had applied a poultice on the brand on his back. He could smell it: wintermint, thornroot, something bitter and sharp.
The shard. Where was—
He found it on a small table beside the bed, next to a clay cup of water. The shard pulsed softly, as if greeting him. Relief flooded through him—irrational, maybe, but real.
"You're awake."
Sidharth's head snapped toward the voice, his hand going instinctively to his belt—which wasn't there. Neither was his sword hilt. He was unarmed and helpless.
A woman stood in the doorway. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair braided back from a strong-boned face. She wore a simple work dress, dyed deep green, with an herbalist's apron over it. Dirt under her fingernails. Calluses on her hands. Eyes the color of honey, currently narrowed in assessment.
She had a bowl in one hand and a knife in the other. The knife was small, meant for cutting roots, but still sharp.
"Easy," she said, noticing the tension within him. "I pulled you inside. Cleaned your wounds. Fed you broth while you were half-conscious. If I wanted you dead, I'd have left you in the ditch with the others."
"The others?" Sidharth's voice came out as a rasp.
"Ravi and his father. They were for leaving you. I disagreed." She set the bowl on the table-more of that herbal smell-and tucked the knife into her apron. But kept it close, he noted. "I'm Madhubala. This is my house. You're in Thornvale-border village, three days north of the Frostmark Gate."
Thornvale. Of course, it would be called that.
"Why?" Sidharth asked. "Why help me? You saw the brand."
Madhubala's expression didn't change. "I did."
"Then you know what it means. Anyone who gives aid to a Forsaken shares their curse. You've—
"I know what it means." She crossed her arms. "And I decided I don't care much for kings who call mercy treason. Now drink that water before you pass out again. You're severely dehydrated."
Sidharth stared at her. At the casual way she'd dismissed royal decree. At the stubborn set of her jaw. At the complete lack of fear in her eyes despite the branded monster in her bed.
Who was this woman?
He reached for the water with shaking hands. Drank. It was cool and clean and tasted like life itself. He drained the cup, then another she poured for him from a pitcher.
"Slowly," Madhubala warned. "Your stomach will rebel if you rush."
Too late. Sidharth felt nausea well up, but managed to keep it down. Barely.
"Where are my things?" he asked when he could speak again.
"Your rags are being washed. That piece of metal tied to your belt is over there." She nodded to a corner where his sword hilt leaned against the wall. "And that. whatever it is". She gestured to the shard. "That I almost threw away. It screamed at me when I touched it. Actual screaming, inside my head. What is that thing?"
"I don't know," Sidharth admitted. "I found it in the wastes. It's—complicated."
"Complicated." Madhubala's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Fine. Keep your secrets for now. But you'll tell me eventually. I don't harbor mysteries under my roof without knowing what they are."
"This is your house?"
"My grandmother's. She's been dead for three years. Taught me her craft before she went." Madhubala sat on a small stool beside the bed, studying him with unnerving directness. "You were dying when I found you. The brand is consuming you from the inside. I've slowed it down but I can't stop it. No one can. That's what the Forsaken mark does—ensures exile ends in death."
Sidharth's chest tightened. To have it spoken so candidly made it real in a way it hadn't been until now.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"At your current rate? Six months. Maybe eight if you're lucky." She said it without cruelty. Just a fact. "The brand feeds on life force. Eventually, there won't be enough left to sustain you. You'll simply. stop."
Six months
Intellectually, Sidharth had known the brand was a death sentence. But part of him had hoped—foolishly—that exile meant survival. That he could build something new out here. Start over.
Six months wasn't long enough to start anything.
"I'm sorry," Madhubala said, and she sounded like she meant it. "I wish I had better news. But I won't lie to you. You deserve truth."
Sidharth nodded slowly and looked at his bandaged hands, still shaking slightly. "Then why help at all? If I'm dead anyway?"
"Because you're not dead yet." She stood, began gathering items from her shelves. "And because whatever time you have left shouldn't be spent dying in a ditch. Even exiles deserve that much dignity."
She prepared something, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle and adding liquids from various bottles. The room was filled with sharp, medicinal scents.
"What happened?" she asked, not looking at him. "What did you do to earn a Forsaken brand?"
Sidharth was silent for a long moment, the memory still hurt, fresh and raw.
"I saved someone," he said finally. "During the Autumn Purge. A girl with silver marks. The King declared all marked ones to be descended from Fallen Ones. Ordered them killed. I. disagreed."
Madhubala's hands went still. "You protected a marked one?"
"She was thirteen. Terrified. The soldiers were going to kill her in an alley like an animal." His voice hardened. "So yes. I protected her."
"And they caught you."
"I didn't run. Didn't hide. What would be the point?" Sidharth met her eyes. "I knew what I was choosing. Knew the cost. I'd do it again."
Something shifted in Madhubala's expression. The assessment became something else-respect, maybe. Or recognition.
"My grandmother had silver marks," she said quietly. "On her wrists. Faint, barely visible. She spent her whole life hiding them with bracelets and long sleeves." She poured the mixture into a cup, brought it to him. "She died afraid someone would discover her secret. Even here, even in a forgotten village, she lived in fear."
Sidharth took the cup, wherein the liquid was steaming softly. "I am sorry."
"Don't be. Just understand-what you did? That matters to people like me. People who loved someone with those marks. People who know that 'fallen bloodline' is just an excuse for fear." She paused. "The girl. Did she survive?"
The question he'd been dreading.
"I don't know," Sidharth said, the words tasting like ash. "They took her when they arrested me. I never learned what happened."
Madhubala's face softened. "Then choose to believe she lived. That your mercy meant something. It's easier than the alternative."
Sidharth drank the mixture. It was bitter and hot, burning his throat but immediately a warmth spread through him. His head cleared. The pain in his feet lessened.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Thornroot tea. With additions. It'll help with the pain and give you back some strength. But it's temporary. You need real rest, real food, real time to heal." She took the empty cup. "You'll stay here. Sleep in this room. Help me around the house and garden when you're able. In exchange, I'll keep you alive as long as I can."
"I can't—" Sidharth started.
"You can't pay me?" She raised an eyebrow. "Obviously. You are a branded exile with nothing but bloodied feet and one mysterious crystal. I'm not asking for payment. I'm asking you to help around the house. Fair trade."
"The others. Ravi and his father. They won't—"
"They won't say anything. The Duke's men come through here every few weeks, collect taxes, cause trouble. But they're not due for another five days. By then you'll be strong enough to hide if needed. And." She hesitated. "Most people in this village don't love royal decree. We're too far from the capital for their laws to feel real. We make our own rules out here."
Sidharth wanted to argue, wanted to explain the danger she was in, but his body was already pulling him back toward sleep, the thornroot tea and exhaustion combining into an irresistible weight.
"Why?" he repeated, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Why risk this for a stranger?
Madhubala was silent for a moment. Then: "My grandmother used to say the world teaches us to look away from suffering. That kindness is bred out of us slowly, through fear and convenience. She taught me to look at suffering instead. To choose the harder path."
She pulled the blanket higher over him.
"You chose to look at that girl's fear instead of away from it. That tells me what kind of person you are. And I'd rather share a curse with someone like that than live safely with cowards."
Her words followed Sidharth down into sleep, deep, dreamless, for the first time since his exile.
When he woke next, it was evening. The room was dim, lit by a single candle. And through the window, he could see them—
Thornvines grew up the outside of the house in patterns they definitely hadn't followed before. Black stems with small silver flowers that glowed faintly in the darkness.
They hadn't been there when he arrived.
Sidharth touched the shard in his pocket—Madhubala had placed it back with his things. It pulsed steadily, like a satisfied purr.
"What did I bring to this place?" he whispered. The thornvines over the window stirred as if to answer.