The Door to Eternity

Amriel knew enough to recognize excellent craftsmanship when she saw it; years befriending a blacksmith gave her some sense of it, at least.

At first, she tried to undo the buckles carefully, working through the layers caked in blood, sweat, and grime. But they were slick, stubborn, and unyielding. Frustration prickled at the edges of her resolve as her fingers slipped for the third time.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath.

Her gaze flicked to the blade lying beside her. "You can be angry with me later," she told the unconscious man, voice low and grim. "If you survive."

The knife sliced through the thick leather bindings with grim efficiency. The smell of sweat and blood filled the room as she peeled back the damaged armor, revealing two wounds that wept dark, persistent trails of blood.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Her healer's instincts flared to life, shoving back the creeping tendrils of doubt. This is bad, but there's still a chance, she thought, forcing herself to catalog the injuries with practiced detachment. A slim one, but it's there.

Her fingers brushed lightly against his clammy skin, feeling the tension beneath as his body instinctively fought against pain and blood loss.

Good, she thought grimly. You're not done fighting yet.

Amriel squared her shoulders, resolve hardening like tempered steel in her chest. She knew what needed to be done. It would be brutal and messy, but there was no room for hesitation now.

She was a healer. And healers didn't walk away from the wounded.

"All right," she murmured, voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "Let's get these damn arrows out."

The removal of the arrowheads would undoubtedly be excruciating. She felt a twinge of gratitude that he was unconscious, but she needed him to remain that way. He was a big man and clearly a fighter. The last thing she needed was for him to awaken in the midst of the procedure, thrashing in agony or attacking her, driven by instinct and pain.

Which left her with one option: Horissa Vharia. The Gentle Sleep.

"I should have enough," she said aloud, reassuring herself as much as the unconscious man. Thank the gods she'd gathered some earlier.

Moving quickly, Amriel measured out a small portion of the plant, grinding it into a green paste with swift, practiced motions. The pungent scent filled the room, earthy and sharp.

She fetched her healer's kit, a pile of clean cloths to stem the bleeding, and the flask of scotch Simon had left behind during his last visit. The memory of his wry grin flickered briefly in her mind — "For emergencies," he'd said with a wink.

"This counts," she muttered dryly.

Settling once more by the stranger's side, Amriel took a steadying breath. Gently, she pried his mouth open and placed the paste beneath his tongue, her fingers lingering just long enough to ensure it wouldn't be spat out.

"Stay under," she whispered, a plea wrapped in command. "You'll thank me for it later."

While she waited for the herb to take effect, she opened her healer's bag, revealing an array of gleaming tools that caught the flicker of firelight. The sight steadied her nerves — each instrument carefully chosen, each a testament to countless battles fought and won against death.

Get it together, Riel. You've done this before, she reminded herself. You'll do it again.

Death wasn't welcome here tonight.

Picking out the tools she felt she might need, Amriel ran each of them through the flames dancing inside the hearth, sterilising them.

The stopper on Simon's flask of scotch popped loose with a soft thup, releasing a sharp aroma that stung her nose. Pouring a measure into her empty teacup, she eyed it warily before steeling herself and knocking it back in one swift gulp.

Fire seared down her throat, leaving a smoky burn in its wake. She coughed, her eyes watering.

"Gods, how the hell does Simon drink this swill?" she rasped, shaking her head. The warmth spread through her chest, dulling the edge of her nerves.

Next, she poured some of the flask contents over her hands, and grimaced as the liquor slicked across her skin, stinging faint cuts she hadn't realized were there. She tilted the flask again, letting the amber liquid wash over the man's wounds.

Simon's gonna kill me when he finds out.

But that was a worry for another time.

The stranger didn't stir. His breathing remained shallow but steady, the Horissa Vharia holding him under its gentle thrall. Amriel let out a slow breath of relief. If he stayed under, she could get through this without wrestling a thrashing giant.

Carefully, she probed the wounds, wincing as her fingers traced the jagged edges. The arrows hadn't gone deep—thank the gods. There was a chance they missed anything vital, and she should be able to extract these on her own. Of course, that would be the least of their issues if she couldn't stop the bleeding or keep any infections at bay.

Amriel picked up her pliers, the metal cool despite its time in the flames. Her hands were steady now, instinct overriding fear as she clamped onto the first arrowhead. One slow, deliberate tug, and it slid free with a slick, wet sound.

And that was when she sensed it.

Enchanted. These arrowheads were imbued with magic!

Caught between the tips of her pliers, the metallic arrowhead gleamed darkly, slick with blood.

Amriel's pulse quickened and her cobalt eyes narrowed as they flickered to his face once more.

"Who, or what, are you?" she murmured out loud to herself. Then she reminded herself there was still another one embedded in his flesh.

Focus Amriel. Finish the task at hand.

Setting the arrowhead aside for late inspection, she set about extracting the second arrowhead. Blood welled fresh from the wounds. Grabbing a clean cloth, she pressed down hard, whispering a silent plea to the gods that the bleeding would stop.

To her surprise—and unease—it clotted faster than she'd expected, dark crimson fading into dull patches on the fabric.

Strange, she thought, her brows knitting together. But she wasn't in a position to question blessings right now.

Following her training, she knew it was better not to stitch these kinds of puncture wounds closed. If there ended up being an infection, it would need to drain, so instead she cleaned the wounds thoroughly and bandaged him with more clean cloth.

Finally, she leaned back, her muscles aching from the tension. The man remained deeply asleep, his breathing evening out into a steady rhythm. Color was already returning to his face—a sign, perhaps, that they'd bought a reprieve.

Her gaze drifted back to the arrow heads she had just dug out from the man's body.

Amriel hesitated, then picked one up between her thumb and forefinger. The metal was cold—oddly so, given how it had come from his body then lay before the fireplace.

Turning it over, she narrowed her eyes. Beneath the coating of blood, veins of shimmering blue twisted through the surface, like tiny rivers caught in perpetual motion, hinting at an otherworldly quality, and her heart raced as the realization struck her.

Why did they feel the need to use magic-infused arrows on you? she asked as her brows furrowed and a knot tightened in her stomach. Such enchantments came at a hefty cost. The strength required of the mage or witch who had cast this magic would have been immense, and such power did not come cheap.

This meant someone had deemed it worth the sacrifice to use not one, but two of these arrows on him. Or perhaps it had been necessary.

A sudden chill crept up Amriel's spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. Swallowing hard, she shook her head, trying to dispel the growing unease. Surely not. This is not what fallen angels were supposed to look like.

Where was the tortured flesh, burnt black from their fall to earth? Where were the brands forced upon them by those who would banish them, marking him as one of the forsaken? She had explored every inch of his scalp; she was pretty certain she would have noticed a pair of horns.

Her mind raced, drawing connections she didn't want to make. Perhaps she should talk to Kortana, the Leader of the Witches Coven at the Academy. And one of her mother's oldest friends.

Setting the arrowhead down, she rose to wash the blood from her hands and tools before she reassessed the situation.

Sleep wasn't an option tonight. Not for her.

Gently, she stoked the fire and settled into her chair under her own blanket, drawing her knees up close to her chest.

The storm outside howled like a wounded beast, wind tearing through the ancient Vhengal forest and slamming rain against the windows with relentless fury.

Each gust rattled the shutters, threatening to tear the roof clean off, yet amidst the chaos, she strained to hear his breaths—raspy but persistent, a fragile reminder that life still lingered within him.

What next? she wondered, resting her chin on her knees. What else could the world throw at me now?

The storm raged on through the night, a constant drumbeat against her senses. Sleep pulled at the edges of her awareness, but Amriel fought it off, keeping vigil as dawn crept in slow and tentative.

Finally, in the early morning hours, the tempestuous rain subsided, leaving behind a lingering dampness that clung to the air. The dawn crept in gently, unfurling across the horizon like a delicate tapestry, streaked with bands of vibrant yellow and deep crimson that filled the once-dark sky.

Amriel sat curled in her chair, knees drawn close, a threadbare blanket draped over her shoulders. The fire had burned low in the night, but its embers still pulsed, casting a dim, flickering glow across the room. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the damp earthiness of rain-soaked air creeping through the cracks in the cottage walls.

Her eyes flickered to the man lying on the bedroll beside her. His breathing was steady now, no longer the ragged, uncertain struggle it had been hours before. The pale, waxen hue of his skin had given way to something warmer, something living.

He had survived the night.

Rising from her chair, she carefully reached over and place another small log on the fire. The iron poker rested beside the hearth, its handle warm in her grip as she prodded the smoldering logs beneath the new one. Flames curled to life, licking at the dry wood, casting wavering shadows against the walls. The warmth rolled outward.

Satisfied, she turned back to him. The bandages she'd wrapped with meticulous care the night before should have been stained through by now—seeping red, soaking into the cloth. But they weren't.

A prickle ran down her spine.

She had spent the night braced for the worst, expecting fever to take hold, for his body to rebel against the trauma. But his wounds…

They weren't behaving like wounds at all.

Kneeling beside him, she hesitated, then carefully peeled away the cloth bandages.

Her breath caught.

The gashes where the arrows had pierced him were no longer raw and jagged. There was no sign of infection. In fact, the torn flesh was already knitting together, taking on the look as if they were weeks old.

Amriel swallowed, her fingers hovering over his skin.

"What in all the hells…?" she murmured, barely aware she'd spoken aloud.

A soft chirp sounded beside her, and she glanced down to find Meeko crouched close, his thick black tail flicking lazily. His silver eyes were fixed on the man—not with fear or wariness, but something more like curiosity.

Amriel exhaled sharply through her nose. "I don't know either," she muttered, running a hand through her tangled hair.

Her gaze drifted upward, studying his face. The tension that had marred his features was gone. Now, his expression was… serene.

She pressed the back of her fingers lightly against his forehead. No fever. His body was warm, but not unnaturally so. No sign of distress, no hint of the delirium she'd expected. She then checked his pupils again. They were responsive, no sign of trauma, no pressure behind the eyes.

First the enchanted arrows. Now the impossible fast healing.

A heavy weight settled in her gut.

"Who," she whispered, fingers curling into her palms, "or what are you?"