Novak’s eyes flutter open, his vision blurred by the haze of an unfamiliar world. The air is cool, damp, and carries the faint scent of earth and smoke. His head throbs, a dull pulse that seems to radiate from somewhere deep within his skull. He blinks, trying to orient himself, and realizes he’s lying on a makeshift bed—a rough pallet of straw and furs that crinkles beneath his weight. The flickering glow of torches casts dancing shadows across the uneven walls of what appears to be a small cave, its ceiling low and jagged, as though carved by nature’s impatient hand.

  He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain lances through his ribs, forcing a grunt from his lips. His hands instinctively move to his side, where he feels the tight wrap of bandages beneath a loose, unfamiliar tunic. Confusion clouds his mind, thick and unyielding. Where is he? How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is… what? A road, perhaps. The crunch of gravel underfoot. The weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs. But beyond that, nothing. His memory is a blank slate, wiped clean by some unseen force.

  The cave is small but oddly lived-in. A wooden stool sits in one corner, beside a low table cluttered with clay bowls and a scattering of herbs. A woven basket rests against the far wall, spilling over with dried roots and leaves. The torches, fixed into crude iron brackets, sputter softly, their flames licking at the darkness. It’s not a prison, he decides, but it’s not a home either. It feels temporary, like a way station for someone passing through.

  A rustle at the entrance snaps his attention forward. The heavy cloak draped across the opening shifts, letting in a sliver of blinding sunlight. Novak squints, his heart quickening as a figure steps inside, the cloak falling back into place behind them. It’s a girl, young—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—with dark hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. Her clothes are simple, a tunic and trousers of undyed wool, but there’s a quiet confidence in the way she moves, her steps light but deliberate. She carries a wooden bowl in her hands, steam rising from its contents.

  “You’re awake,” she says, her voice soft but clear, tinged with relief. She crosses the cave in a few strides and kneels beside him, setting the bowl on the ground. Her eyes, a warm hazel, study him with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. “How do you feel?”

  Novak opens his mouth to answer, but the words catch in his throat. His body aches, a deep, bone-weary pain that seems to seep from every muscle and joint. He feels like he’s been trampled by a horse—or several. “Like I’ve been run over,” he manages, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears.

  The girl’s lips curve into a faint smile. “You look like it, too. Here, drink this.” She lifts the bowl, cradling it carefully as she brings it to his lips. The liquid inside is warm, herbal, with a bitter edge that makes him grimace. He swallows it down anyway, if only because her steady gaze leaves no room for argument.

  When the bowl is empty, she sets it aside and sits back on her heels, watching him. “I’m Lila,” she says. “And you’re…?”

  “Novak,” he replies, the name coming easily even as his mind scrambles for more. It’s a start, at least. He shifts, trying to sit up again, but the pain flares anew, and he winces, clutching at his side.

  “Easy,” Lila says, her hand darting out to steady him. “You’re not ready to move yet.”

  He ignores her, stubbornness overriding sense, and swings his legs over the edge of the pallet. The cave spins briefly, the torchlight blurring into streaks of gold and shadow. “Where am I?” he asks, his voice sharper now, laced with the frustration of not knowing. “How did I get here?”

  Lila’s expression softens, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes—caution, perhaps, or pity. “You’re in my village. Well, near it, anyway. This cave is mine… sort of. I found you on the road a few days ago, about a mile from here. You were bloodied up, bruised, half-dead. I couldn’t just leave you there.”

  Novak frowns, trying to piece together her words. A road. Blood. Bruises. None of it sparks recognition. “You brought me here? By yourself?”

  She shrugs, a small, almost sheepish gesture. “I’m stronger than I look. And I had help getting you settled. The village healer patched you up. You were in bad shape—broken ribs, a gash on your head, more bruises than I could count. She’s good, though. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  He absorbs this in silence, his gaze drifting to the bandages peeking out from beneath his tunic. Someone went to a lot of trouble to keep him breathing. The thought is humbling, but it also leaves him uneasy. Why would strangers care so much about a man they don’t know? “Thank you,” he says at last, meeting her eyes. “For… everything.”

  Lila’s smile returns, brighter this time. “You’re welcome. But don’t thank me yet—you’ve got a long way to go before you’re back on your feet.”

  He nods, determined to prove her wrong. Bracing himself against the pain, he pushes to his feet, ignoring the way his legs tremble beneath him. For a moment, he thinks he’s done it—he’s standing, swaying slightly but upright. Then the pain surges, a white-hot wave that crashes over him, stealing his breath. His knees buckle, and he collapses, hitting the cave floor with a thud that jars his already battered body.

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  “Novak!” Lila is at his side in an instant, her hands surprisingly strong as she hauls him back onto the bed. “What did I say? You need to rest.”

  He tries to protest, but the words dissolve into a groan as she adjusts the furs around him, her movements brisk but gentle. Her face is close now, her hazel eyes locked on his, and there’s something in them—concern, yes, but also a spark of determination that makes him feel oddly exposed, as though she can see straight through him. “You’re not going anywhere until you’re better,” she says firmly. “Healer’s orders... and mine.”

  He wants to argue, to insist he’s fine, but those eyes pin him in place, warm and unrelenting, like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Fine,” he mutters, sinking back against the bed. “But I want to thank the healer. She saved my life.”

  Lila hesitates, then nods. “Alright. I’ll fetch her. For now, just… stay put. Please?”

  He grumbles something noncommittal, but the truth is, he doesn’t have the energy to fight her. Not when his body feels like it’s been stitched together with thorns. Lila lingers a moment longer, as if to make sure he won’t try anything foolish, then rises and moves to the table, busying herself with the herbs. The cave falls quiet, save for the soft crackle of the torches and the occasional drip of water somewhere in the distance.

  Novak closes his eyes, trying to summon memories that refuse to come. Who is he? Where was he going before the road, before the blood? The questions gnaw at him, but his mind remains stubbornly blank. All he has is this cave, this girl, and the ache of wounds he doesn’t understand. For now, it’s enough to keep him tethered to the present.

  The sun has shifted by the time the cloak at the entrance rustles again. Novak stirs, blinking against the torchlight as a new figure steps into the cave. This time, it’s an older woman, her hair a wiry tangle of gray streaked with white, pulled back in a loose braid. Her face is lined with age, but her eyes are sharp, a piercing green that seems to cut through the dimness. She wears a long robe of patched fabric, its hem stained with dirt and what might be dried blood. A leather satchel hangs from her shoulder, clinking softly as she moves.

  Lila trails behind her, casting Novak a quick, encouraging glance before retreating to the table. The woman—the healer, Novak assumes—stops at the foot of his pallet, her gaze sweeping over him with the precision of someone assessing a tool for flaws.

  “You’re the one causing all the fuss,” she says, her voice low and gravelly, like stones tumbling in a riverbed. “Up already, are you?”

  Novak pushes himself up slightly, wincing at the effort. “I wanted to thank you,” he begins, his words careful but sincere. “For saving me. I don’t know what happened, but—”

  Her hand shoots out, fast as a snake, and clamps over his mouth, silencing him mid-sentence. Her grip is surprisingly strong, her calloused fingers pressing against his lips. “None of that,” she says, her tone sharp but not unkind. “You want to thank me? Get better. Start pulling your weight. Your words are cheap on me.”

  Novak blinks, startled, as she releases him and steps back, folding her arms. He rubs his jaw, more surprised than offended. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?” he asks, frowning. “I’m not here to be a burden.”

  The healer’s eyes narrow, and she points a bony finger at his left shoulder. “Because of your mark,” she says flatly.

  Instinctively, Novak glances down, tugging the neck of his tunic aside. There, etched into his skin, is the mark—a curling, intricate design of black ink, shaped like a crescent moon cradling a single star. The mark of Montegeero. He knows what it means, even if he doesn’t know why it’s on him. In this world, every person bears a mark, a brand that ties them to their homeland. Montegeero’s people are known for many things—music, storytelling, a love of freedom—but they’re also branded with a less flattering reputation: laziness, a tendency to drift rather than build, to dream rather than do.

  He meets the healer’s gaze, his jaw tightening. “I’m not like that,” he says, his voice low but firm. “I’ll pull my weight. I promise.”

  She snorts, a sound that’s half amusement, half disbelief, and pokes him in the chest—not hard, but enough to make him wince. “You say that, boy, but do you believe it? Promises are easy. Keeping them is the trick.”

  Novak opens his mouth to argue, but something in her expression stops him. It’s not just skepticism; it’s a challenge, a dare to prove her wrong. He holds her gaze, refusing to look away, even as the pain in his ribs pulses with every breath. “I’ll keep it,” he says at last, the words heavy with conviction he’s not entirely sure he feels.

  The healer studies him for a long moment, her green eyes unreadable. Then she huffs, turning to Lila, who’s been watching the exchange in silence. “Keep an eye on this one,” she says. “He’s got spirit, I’ll give him that. But spirit doesn’t mend broken bones.”

  Lila nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I will, Miss Mara.”

  Mara—the healer—adjusts her satchel and heads for the entrance, pausing only to glance back at Novak. “Rest,” she says, her tone leaving no room for debate. “And don’t make me regret saving you.”

  With that, she sweeps the cloak aside and disappears into the sunlight, leaving Novak staring after her. Lila moves to his side, her expression a mix of amusement and sympathy. “She’s like that with everyone,” she says, settling onto the stool. “But she means well.”

  Novak leans back against the pallet, his mind churning. The mark on his shoulder feels heavier now, a weight he can’t ignore. Montegeero. Lazy. Drifter. The words echo in his head, mingling with the healer’s challenge. He doesn’t know who he was before the road, before the blood, but he knows one thing: he’s not going to be the man Mara expects him to be.

  “I’ll prove her wrong,” he mutters, more to himself than to Lila.

  She tilts her head, studying him. “I think you will,” she says softly, and there’s a quiet faith in her voice that makes his chest tighten.

  For now, though, the pain is winning. He closes his eyes, letting the cave’s cool darkness wrap around him, and vows to himself that when he rises again, he’ll be stronger. Not just for Mara, or for Lila, but for the man he needs to become—whoever that is.