River

The river slowed us down, and Yun was losing blood fast. His face was pale, his lips pressed tight together to stop from crying out. I couldn’t see much — everything on my right side was a smear of shadow and pain — but I kept moving, pulling him when he stumbled, whispering nonsense to keep myself from falling apart.

That’s when I heard it — the soft crunch of boots along the riverbank.
I froze. Yun slumped against me, too tired to stand on his own.

A shadowy figure stepped into view, carrying a bow strung across her back and a short sword on her side. She pulled down her cloak, and her red hair blazed against the darkness, impossible to miss.

For a terrifying second, I thought she might be another kind of danger. My heart pounded so loud I thought he could hear it.

Then she sighed, "Come on," she said, jerking her head toward the woods behind her. "Before something else smells the blood."

I hesitated, every story my mother ever told me about strangers screaming in the back of my mind.

But Yun could barely walk. And I had no idea where we were anymore. She jumped into the water, lifted up Yun like a bag of wheat and continued on.

I nodded, too tired to argue.

Her home was a squat little cabin built from rough-hewn logs, tucked into the side of a hill. Inside, a girl a little older than us sat by the fire, sharpening a knife. She jumped up when she saw us. Her hair was dark and tied back in a smooth braid, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She looked at the lady carrying Yun, then at me — her eyes wide with quick understanding.

“I’ll get the medicine," she said, dropping the knife and grabbing a bundle from the wall.

The lady said nothing, just hung her bow by the door and started stirring the fire.

The girl — who I later found out was her niece — knelt beside us and unwrapped a roll of cloth and herbs. She worked fast, her hands surprisingly sure. I winced when she peeled back the blood-soaked rags around Yun’s arm, but she didn’t flinch.

"He’s lucky," she muttered, cleaning the wound. "If it had been any deeper, he’d have lost the arm."

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just watched her work, blinking back the burning in my good eye.

When she reached for me, I almost pulled away. But her touch was careful, gentle in a way I hadn’t felt since my mother’s hands.
She cleaned the torn mess around my eye without a word, not asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

“You’ll live," she said finally, voice soft but certain. "But..." she hesitated, looking down. "You might not see out of it anymore."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I already knew.

The fire crackled beside us, warm and steady. The lady passed us rough blankets and a piece of bread each, then retreated out of sight.

No questions.

Just space to breathe.

For the first time in days, I felt my body start to loosen, the terror draining out of me like water from a broken cup.

I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and leaned back against the wall, already half-asleep.