İlyara Pov
İlyara watched the fire die out. Just moments ago, it had been burning brightly; now, only dark smoke remained. It was just like her.
Had she ever truly shone at all?
At that thought, her lips curled into a bitter smile. Even if she had, who would have noticed?
A tear slipped from her eye and traced down her cheek. She wiped it away before it could fall.
She heard sounds behind her. Turning her head, she saw the uniformed man. He was taking something out of the leather bag on his horse.
The horse from last night came to her mind—the one she had stolen from that man. She lowered her head. Even it had left her.
I hope it found its way, she thought. It had carried her all the way here. She remembered how much she had pushed the poor animal. Maybe this was for the best.
The uniformed man walked past her and sat on one of the thick roots jutting out of the ground. His sword hung at his left side. İlyara had never seen him without it; even in his sleep, it remained by his side.
She watched it for a long moment… and realized she envied it.
It would never leave him.
When he shifted, she turned her gaze to him. He took a yellow button from his pocket. In his other hand, he held a needle and thread. She frowned slightly.
Was he going to sew?
She hadn't expected that, and, curious, she watched his hands. The uniformed man straightened his posture and deftly threaded the needle. İlyara couldn't help but admire it.
Then he stood up and took off his jacket. İlyara was about to look away, but stopped when she saw the deep scars across his back and abdomen. They looked old.
Someone with wounds like that should have died long ago, she thought. His skin had a faint purplish tint, which only made it stranger.
She lifted her gaze to his face, and for a brief moment, her chest tightened. What had he gone through?
The uniformed man passed the needle through the button and began to sew. At first, nothing seemed unusual—but something was wrong. He was pushing the needle through his own skin along with the fabric.
İlyara lifted her gaze to his face, yet there wasn't the slightest trace of pain. When she looked back at his hand, the needle and the yellow button had darkened, and a black liquid was seeping from his finger.
Was that… blood?
İlyara knew people called him a morhena, but she didn't fully understand what that meant. She couldn't take it anymore and stood up, walking toward him. When she reached him, she stopped and placed her hand over his.
At her touch, the uniformed man tensed and went still, lifting his head as their eyes met—only for him to turn away a moment later. İlyara didn't react; people always acted strangely around her anyway.
She crouched down and examined his finger. "Doesn't it hurt?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I don't feel pain."
İlyara lifted her head to look at him. He couldn't be serious… could he? Yet his expression remained completely serious.
"Alright," she said, her gaze returning to his finger. "Let me cut the thread first."
She reached for the small knife at his belt, and being this close to him made her heart suddenly race, her cheeks growing warm.
Get a hold of yourself, İlyara.
When she felt his breath against her neck, her skin prickled, but it wasn't just the closeness—his breath was strange, cold. Her hand paused for a moment before she quickly pulled the knife free and leaned back slightly.
Their eyes met again, and this time İlyara looked away, clearing her throat. "I'm going to cut the thread now. Then I'll pull it out slowly."
She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking. "You say you don't feel pain, but… if you feel even the slightest thing, tell me."
The uniformed man nodded. "I will," he said calmly, not taking his eyes off İlyara.
İlyara placed his hand on her knee, then lifted the needle, cut the thread with the knife, pulled it free, and set the needle aside.
She leaned closer to his finger and blew on it gently, and the uniformed man's breathing quickened. İlyara noticed, but said nothing.
"Your breath makes my skin prickle," he said. "It's… strange."
İlyara paused, unsure what to make of it. Had she affected him without meaning to?
It didn't matter right now, so she shook her head slightly and focused on his hand again.
She began to pull the thread out slowly, blowing on the wound with each movement. The uniformed man reacted the same way every time, and it made İlyara smile without realizing it—something that should have caused pain was making him feel something entirely different.
At last, the thread came free, and İlyara lifted it slightly. "There… that's it," she said with a faint smile.
When she noticed the way he was watching her, warmth spread through her. She tugged lightly at the collar of her dress and stood up.
"Now let's clean the wound. It might get infected," she said.
"No need," the uniformed man replied, holding his hand out to her. "It will heal."
İlyara frowned as she looked at the wound, then froze. It was closing—slowly, on its own.
Her breath caught as she lifted her head to look at him. How was that possible?
This world was far stranger than she had thought. She looked away.
"I'll use the drinking water to clean the button," she said, turning toward the leather flask.
She walked to the extinguished campfire and crouched down, bringing the button closer to her nose before cleaning it. She paused.
She had expected a metallic scent, but none came—only a sharp, heavy stench of decay that filled her nose.
Her stomach tightened.
She quickly opened the flask to keep from throwing up and began rinsing the button, washing away the strange black substance. Once she was satisfied it was clean, she set the flask aside, stood up, and returned to the uniformed man.
She leaned down, took the jacket from his lap, and sat beside him. "You should be more careful with your finger when you sew," she said as she threaded the needle.
The uniformed man watched her hands closely. "I'm starting now," İlyara said as she began sewing the button onto the jacket.
She paused for a moment, a thought crossing her mind. What was she doing right now? Was this really the time to be sewing—especially beside something called a morhena?
I must be losing my mind, she thought.
But right now, she didn't care what he was. She was able to sit beside him, and that felt strangely good.
For the first time, she didn't feel alone, and that didn't scare her at all.