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The moment his weight vanishes, I sit back. Too fast—he stumbles, catches a tree trunk but still falls, hitting his knee with a solid thunk.

I lunge forward, offering a hand.

Then I freeze.

His pain. I feel it in the air—sharp, sour, sparking against my nose. Too strong to ignore.

I reach for my healing pouch. “Let me read your pulse—”

“No.” Firm. Cold.

He braces against the tree to pull himself upright, back turned.

I hesitate. That ‘no’ was more than cold. It stung.

I glance over. “Why?”

He faces me, tight-lipped. “I’m fine.”

He’s lying. The pain’s still there, clinging to the air like smoke.

“You’re not,” I murmur. “I can sense it.”

“Just... leave it.”

I open the pouch. “I can—”

“I said leave it!” The words lash out, but beneath them... a slight tremble?

I flinch. Not at the volume. At the wall that just slammed down between us.

I reach toward his arm, gently—

And he roars. “I’ll heal myself!”

My hand drops. I let the pouch flap fall shut. Silence blooms, and it tastes bruised and bitter.

He glares. Actually glares. After everything.

Something twists inside me. I step up close to that marble-perfect face, my pulse still ragged.

I breathe him in. Pain still shivers off him, but underneath... that mask. That magic. It pulses with scent. Ancient herbs, rare, exact. Detectable enough for me to name them, if I focused hard enough. “This isn’t your real face.” I say, breath hitching. My nose brushes his hair.

The air hums between us, charged and prickling.

“What are you doing?” he rasps, and clears his throat, too quickly.

“I recognise these herbs.” My voice is quieter now, my lips tingling from the proximity of his magic.

His nose flares.

I draw back slightly. “Were those redcloaks chasing you?” I tilt my head. “Are you a wanted criminal?”

He snaps, “What if I am?”

My breath stutters. Then I square my shoulders. A dangerous thrill flickers under my skin. “Then I guess I’ve become an accomplice—”

He’s already turning away. Already disappearing into the trees.