Elya staggered into the village, her legs barely holding her weight. Each step sent a fresh wave of exhaustion through her, a deep ache that had settled into her bones long ago. Her clothes hung loose on her frail frame, torn and stiff with dried sweat and dirt. She didn’t know how many days had passed since she’d last eaten, only that the gnawing hunger in her stomach had become a dull, persistent pain. Her throat burned, dry and raw, as she forced herself forward, one foot after the other, toward the heart of the village.

  The well stood at the center of the square, its stone edges worn smooth from generations of use. She stumbled toward it, her body trembling with the effort. Her fingers barely had the strength to grip the rope, but she pulled, inch by agonizing inch, until the bucket reached the surface. She braced herself against the well’s edge and drank, gulping the water so quickly that it sloshed down her chin and soaked the front of her tattered tunic. It was cold and pure, but it did nothing to fill the hollowness inside her. Still, it was something.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and turned to the people moving through the square. The village was small, the kind where everyone knew one another, where outsiders were noticed immediately. They had already seen her. She could feel their eyes on her—quick glances, whispers exchanged under breath. No one approached. No one offered a word.

  Swallowing what little pride she had left, she stepped toward a group of women near a bread stall. “Please,” she croaked, her voice rough and uneven. “I just need something to eat.”

  The nearest woman, middle-aged, dressed in a faded green shawl, clutched her basket closer to her chest. “We have nothing for you,” she said quickly, not unkindly, but with finality. The others turned away, avoiding her gaze.

  Elya tried again, moving toward an older man stacking crates outside a shop. “Just a piece of bread. Anything,” she begged.

  The man’s face was lined with years of hard work, his expression unreadable as he studied her. For a moment, she thought he might give her something, might take pity on the wretched figure standing before him. But then his lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head. “We don’t want trouble,” he muttered, turning his back to her.

  The words cut deeper than she expected.

  She moved through the village, asking, pleading, her voice growing weaker with each rejection. Some ignored her entirely, walking past as though she were nothing more than a shadow. Others muttered apologies but offered no help. Hunger curled inside her like a beast, gnawing away at the last of her strength.

  Then came the offers.

  A group of men stood near the tavern, mugs in hand, their faces flushed from drink. They watched her with the kind of interest that made her skin crawl. One of them, broad-shouldered and leering, took a slow step toward her.

  “You look half-dead, girl,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “A warm bed might do you some good.”

  Laughter rippled through the group. Another man, thinner but no less predatory, smirked. “Come inside. We’ll take care of you.”

  Elya’s stomach twisted. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, willing herself to stand tall. “No.”

  The broad-shouldered man feigned a look of disappointment. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, taking a slow sip from his mug. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

  More laughter. She turned and walked away before they could say anything else.

  The shame burned hot in her chest, but not as much as the hunger.

  By the time she reached the edge of the village, her limbs felt leaden, her head light. She had nothing. No food, no kindness, no hope. The road stretched before her, endless and unyielding. She had no choice but to keep walking, to drag herself forward despite the weakness threatening to pull her down.

  Her steps were slow, unsteady. The cold crept in, her body trembling despite the layers of grime clinging to her skin. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to move. If she stopped, she would never start again.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, dragging the last remnants of warmth with it. The cold settled in swiftly, curling around Elya like an unwanted embrace, wrapping her in layers of invisible ice. Her limbs felt sluggish, unresponsive, as if her body had already begun surrendering to the inevitable. She forced herself forward, but each step was agony, her joints screaming, her feet dragging through the dirt like lead weights. The hunger gnawed at her insides, a hollow ache that made her feel like she was folding in on herself.

  Each breath she took was shallow, barely enough to fill her lungs. The air tasted metallic, sharp against her throat. Her vision blurred, the road ahead shifting in and out of focus, tilting unnaturally as though the ground itself had turned against her. The shapes of trees and distant structures swayed, distorting and melting together, their outlines flickering like dying candlelight. Her mind struggled to grasp reality, but every moment she remained upright felt like wading through a dream rapidly dissolving at the edges.

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  She walked because stopping meant death. She knew this in some distant, logical part of her mind, but logic had long since been drowned out by the relentless throb of hunger and exhaustion. Her thoughts wavered between the present and distant memories, fractured glimpses of warmth and safety. A soft bed. A voice calling her name. The scent of fresh bread drifting through the air. But none of it was real. Not anymore.

  Her vision swam, and suddenly, she was somewhere else. The cold vanished, replaced by the soothing heat of the sun on her skin. She was floating, water cradling her body, weightless and serene. The rippling waves kissed her bare skin as she drifted effortlessly, the sky above endless and welcoming. She laughed, stretching out her arms, reveling in the sensation of warmth wrapping around her like a long-lost embrace.

  Then she was sitting at a grand feast, golden platters of roasted meats, fruits glistening with juice, bread still steaming from the oven. She tore into it, the flavors bursting on her tongue, filling the empty void inside her. More food appeared as she ate, limitless, bountiful, a gift made just for her. The hunger she had lived with for so long was finally gone, replaced by the intoxicating bliss of satisfaction.

  And then she was standing among mages, the greatest of them all. A flick of her wrist, and fire danced at her fingertips, bending to her command. The elders nodded in respect, their eyes alight with admiration. She was no longer weak, no longer an outsider. She was powerful, untouchable, first among them.

  The visions flickered and wavered like smoke in the wind, just out of reach. Then, cruelly, reality slammed back into her. The warmth evaporated, the feast rotted in her mouth, the magic slipped through her fingers like sand. The cold returned with brutal force, and she was once again staggering through the night, barely able to keep herself upright.

  The world around her tilted. She stumbled, barely catching herself before crashing onto the dirt path. The stars above stretched and wavered as though they, too, were slipping beyond her grasp. She pressed a hand to her temple, trying to ground herself, but even that felt distant, her own touch a ghostly whisper against her skin.

  She kept moving, each step a battle, her feet dragging through the dirt. But her body betrayed her. Her legs gave out, sending her crashing forward, her cheek pressing into the rough earth. The impact barely registered, dulled by the overwhelming haze consuming her senses.

  She tried to move, to lift herself up, but nothing responded. Her arms were heavy, her fingers twitching uselessly in the dirt. The cold seeped into her bones, numbing everything but the dull ache of finality.

  This was it.

  The realization settled in, a quiet acceptance that whispered through the corners of her mind. She had nothing left. No warmth, no strength, no hope. The world would not save her. The stars above blurred further, their light dimming as darkness wrapped around her.

  She closed her eyes.

  Consciousness came slowly, pulling her from the abyss in languid waves. Her body swayed with movement, the sensation foreign yet oddly soothing. There was warmth, not the cold grip of the earth where she had fallen, but something softer, layered, pressing against her aching bones. The scent of dried herbs and damp wood filled her nose, a sharp contrast to the iron-tinged air she had known before.

  A voice, quiet and firm, broke through the haze. "Rest. You're safe for now."

  Elya's eyelids fluttered, but the exhaustion anchoring her to sleep was relentless. She barely had the strength to move, to confirm whether this was yet another hallucination or something real. Her fingers curled weakly against the blanket wrapped around her, soft and thick, a luxury she had not known in far too long.

  She was inside a healer’s cart, its gentle rocking confirming movement. The rhythmic creaking of wooden wheels over uneven ground lulled her senses, a stark contrast to the merciless cold she had known just hours before. Someone had found her. Taken her in. Wrapped her in warmth when she had been moments from fading into oblivion. The realization was almost too much to process. Her mind, still sluggish with exhaustion, struggled to grasp the simple fact: she had expected to die, alone and forgotten, swallowed by the dark road. But instead, she was here, still breathing, still alive.

  The faint scent of dried herbs mingled with the rich, earthy dampness of the cart’s wooden interior. She could feel layers of fabric tucked around her, insulating her frail body from the lingering chill. The warmth felt unreal, foreign against her frozen skin, and for a moment, she feared it would be ripped away, that she would wake to the biting cold of the road once more.

  The unfamiliar comfort was overwhelming, almost suffocating. She had spent so long wrapped in hunger and exhaustion that even the softness of the blanket felt too much, too indulgent. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as she fought the urge to sink into the sensation, to let herself believe she was safe.

  Was this kindness, or some cruel trick of her mind? Had she truly been found, or was this another cruel mirage conjured by her desperate mind? The uncertainty gnawed at her, but her body was too weak to fight it. She wanted to believe, to surrender to the warmth and the gentle rocking of the cart, but fear lingered beneath the surface, whispering that it could all vanish in an instant.?

  Her fingers curled weakly into the folds of the blanket, a desperate attempt to hold onto reality. If this was another hallucination, she would not let it slip away without a fight. Yet, the rocking motion continued, steady and real, each gentle sway confirming that she was no longer alone on the road to death. The warmth seeped deeper into her skin, chasing away the last remnants of the bitter cold, but her body still ached, exhaustion pressing down like a heavy weight. Her breathing slowed as she tried to absorb it all—the scent of herbs, the rhythmic creak of the cart’s wheels, the distant murmur of voices outside. It was real. It had to be real.

  A fresh wave of uncertainty rippled through her, tightening her chest. If someone had found her, taken her in, what would they want in return? Kindness was rare in her world, and trust was dangerous. But her body refused to listen to the alarms screaming in her mind. She was too weak to move, to escape even if she wanted to. And so, for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself drift, surrendering to the motion of the cart, to the fragile hope that she was safe—at least for now.