The Door to Eternity

Rising from her crouched position by the hearth, Amriel stretched, her muscles stiff from tending the fire. The warmth licked at her back as she made her way across the cottage to the modest corner that served as her kitchen. The scent of drying herbs mingled with the earthy tang of rain drifting through the partially open window above the sink.

She reached for the dented, well-loved kettle resting on the worn countertop. Its surface gleamed faintly in the firelight, marked by years of faithful service. Filling it with cool water from the clay pitcher nearby, she returned to the hearth, carefully setting the kettle over the young flames. The fire hissed and popped, the heat beginning to draw the chill from the air.

With the kettle warming, Amriel turned to her shelves, where neat rows of jars held her carefully crafted tea blends. The collection was as much a testament to her curiosity as it was to necessity. Each jar bore a handwritten label, though she hardly needed them—she knew the contents by sight and scent alone.

Tonight called for something grounding yet uplifting. After a moment's deliberation, she selected a blend that combined the earthy richness of roasted nettles, the delicate essence of marrow root, and the sweet tang of dried goldberries. The scent was bright and hopeful.

As she measured the blend into her teapot, her gaze drifted toward the shelves where her books stood like familiar companions, their spines worn from years of handling. Each title whispered the promise of an adventure or a comforting return to stories she'd read countless times before.

A smile tugged at her lips as she imagined the perfect tale for tonight. Perhaps one of the ancient myths filled with gods, betrayals, and hard-won victories—or maybe a whimsical adventure set in far-off lands, where improbable heroes triumphed against impossible odds. The right story could make even the fiercest storm seem distant, its fury muted by the magic of imagination.

Her fingers hovered over the spines, pausing on a thick, leather-bound tome with scuffed edges and a faded cover. It bore no title, but she didn't need one to recognize it. Her father's gift—a collection of folktales and fables that had been her steadfast companion through countless stormy nights. Holding it now, she felt the familiar weight settle in her hands, a bittersweet comfort that carried echoes of his warm laughter and patient storytelling.

Returning to her armchair by the hearth, she tucked herself into the worn cushions, pulling a scratchy woolen blanket tightly around her shoulders. The fire crackled and danced, casting flickering golden patterns across the cottage walls. Its warmth seeped into her, chasing away the last remnants of the storm's chill.

Meeko, sprawled lazily on the rug at her feet, let out a contented sigh. His thick, velvety coat shimmered in the firelight as he stretched, his tufted ears flicking lazily. The rhythmic vibrations of his purring filled the room, a gentle melody that wrapped around Amriel like a second layer of warmth.

She ran her fingers absently through his fur, savoring the simple peace of the moment. The tempest outside raged on, fierce and untamed, but here within these stone walls, life held its own quiet magic—one born of stories, firelight, and the steady companionship of a loyal friend.

Amriel exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders loosen as the weight of the day faded into the background. Flipping open the worn pages of her father's tome, she let herself sink into the familiar comfort of a tale older than time itself.

Outside, the storm howled—but inside, all was safe, warm, and wonderfully still.

Just as Amriel's mind began to sink into the familiar cadence of the ancient tale, a sharp knock cut through the cottage like a blade, shattering her fragile sense of peace. Her breath hitched, fingers tightening instinctively around the worn leather cover of the book.

Meeko's head snapped up from his relaxed sprawl. His silver eyes sharpened, the soft rumble of his purr replaced by a low growl vibrating deep in his chest. The forest cat rose with a fluid grace, muscles taut, fur bristling along his arched back.

Amriel's pulse quickened. For a moment, she sat frozen, straining to distinguish the knock from the chaotic symphony of rain and wind. Maybe it had been nothing more than the wind slamming against the door?

But then it came again—this time much louder, deliberate, impossible to ignore. The door rattled unnervingly on its hinges.

Meeko was already on alert.

The forest cat had moved from his spot near the hearth, his powerful form coiled with tension, standing protectively between her and the door. Thick black fur bristled along his arched back, and a guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest—a sound that cut through the storm's chaos like a blade. His sharp silver eyes gleamed in the firelight, fixed intently on the trembling wood door. Claws gleamed wickedly as they flexed against the floorboards.

Seeing his reaction, Amriel's spine tingled with fear. She closed the book carefully, setting it aside as if reluctant to abandon the world of fables entirely. Reality pressed in with a force that left her tense and wary. The next knock was harder, urgent, sending tremors through the wooden door and a chill down her back.

Who in all the realms would be out in this weather?

The words slipped from her lips, barely audible beneath the storm's fury. Simon or Niamh would have just walked in by now. They never knocked, not after years upon years of familiarity and shared trust.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but she swallowed it down. After the strange events of the past few days, the idea of a Fallen Angel knocking politely on her door didn't seem quite so absurd anymore.

The door rattled violently on its hinges, and her gaze snapped to the belt hanging beside the entryway where her blade waited in its worn leather sheath.

Her mother's voice echoed in her mind—sharp, commanding, unyielding.

Never hesitate. Be ready for the unexpected, Amriel. The forest respects neither the weak nor the unprepared.

She could almost feel Nythia's hand guiding her through relentless drills, the sting of bruises earned during countless lessons in combat. Lessons she had hated at the time but clung to now with desperate gratitude.

Throwing aside the blanket, she darted across the room, heart pounding against her ribs. Her fingers closed around the familiar hilt of her blade as she pulled it from its sheath. The cold weight settled into her grip, grounding her in its undeniable purpose.

This wasn't just a weapon—it was a reminder of promises made, of survival fought for. The polished steel reflected the flicker of firelight like a living oath: Never powerless again.

"Who is it?" she called, forcing her voice to steady despite the tight knot of fear in her throat.

Silence answered. Only the storm screamed in reply, wind shrieking through cracks in the wood, rain striking the glass like a thousand fists demanding entry.

The door rattled again, a sharp jolt that reverberated through the small space, shaking the beams overhead.

Amriel widened her stance in the center of the room, muscles taut, blade gleaming in the flickering light. Her free hand curled into a fist at her side, steady despite the thundering rhythm of her heart. Beside her, Meeko prowled closer, his growl a steady, primal threat.

Her thoughts raced through grim possibilities.

Another slam against the door. Wood groaned under the force, the hinges rattling with ominous protest. Whoever—or whatever—stood out there clearly had no intention of leaving quietly.

Her grip tightened on the blade as she took a measured breath, forcing the chaos within her to still.

The door shuddered under another series of blows, louder than the last, threatening to splinter.

Jaw clenched, Amriel hesitated at the threshold, her fingers hovering over the latch.

But hesitation was weakness. You fight on your terms, Amriel. Always. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, resolute as ever.

Taking a steadying breath, she slid the latch free and pulled the door open—slowly, cautiously.

The storm struck instantly, lashing rain and biting wind slamming into her. The cold stole her breath, droplets stinging her face as she squinted into the tempest beyond the threshold. Water streamed across the stone floor, carried by the gusts that tugged at her hair and clothing.

Through the swirling chaos, a figure loomed—hooded and hunched against the gale. Lightning split the sky, illuminating pale features for a fleeting heartbeat: sharp cheekbones, rain-plastered dark hair, and desperate emerald eyes glinting through the gloom.

The man stumbled closer, sodden clothing clinging to his lean frame like a second skin. The storm swallowed most of his voice, but a single fractured plea escaped:

"Please…"

The word cut through her defenses, raw and desperate. It clawed at something deep inside her, even as instinct screamed danger. Compassion warred with caution, and her grip on the blade at her side tightened.

What kind of danger begs for shelter on a night like this?

The wind shifted suddenly, lifting the stranger's sodden cloak—and Amriel saw it.

The dark bloom of blood seeping between his fingers, clutched tightly against his side.

Her breath hitched. The healer within her flared to life, instinctively cataloging the injury. Blood loss—significant. His pallor confirmed it. At the rate he was bleeding, he wouldn't last much longer. And only the gods knew how far he'd come to reach her doorstep.

But survival instincts clashed hard against compassion, a familiar and unwelcome tension. She'd seen too much betrayal, lived through too many hard lessons to trust appearances alone.

The storm roared, driving him forward with a fierce gust. He stumbled, slamming his free hand against the door frame to steady himself. The impact reverberated through the cottage, sharp and jarring, like the knell of an approaching threat.

The door, caught by the force of his movement, swung wide on its hinges. Rain sliced through the opening, slamming against shelves laden with books and scattering loose herbs across the dirt floor.

Amriel cringed but didn't retreat. She moved swiftly, instincts honed by countless drills snapping into place. In one fluid motion, she raised her blade. Firelight danced along its polished edge, casting flickering reflections across the chaotic room.

Her stance squared, muscles taut, heart thundering in her chest. The primal command surged through her veins: Survive.

The stranger staggered fully across the threshold, hunched and bleeding. Water streamed from his cloak, pooling around his muddied boots. Each breath he drew was raw and labored, rattling through his chest like a broken bellows.

Time stretched unbearably thin as Amriel assessed him—every ragged inhale, every faltering step.

Compassion tugged harder, demanding action. She knew that kind of pain, that raw, helpless fight for every breath. And yet—

Trust is a luxury.

Meeko's growl rumbled low and steady beside her, the forest cat poised to strike. Amber eyes flicked between Amriel and the intruder, waiting for her cue.

She swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to lower her blade. Her voice, steady despite the storm raging both outside and within, cut through the charged silence.

"Who are you?" she demanded, eyes locked on his blood-slicked hand.

The man sagged against the wall, breath shuddering from his lips. His emerald gaze met hers again, filled with something raw and unspoken.

"Help me," he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. "Please…"

Amriel's grip on the blade faltered—just for a moment.

She had seconds to decide: take the risk or turn him away.

Emerald eyes burned through the chaos, locking onto Amriel with an unsettling mix of desperation and defiance. No plea lingered in his gaze—just fierce, stubborn determination, the look of someone clinging to survival with fraying threads of willpower.

Instinct stiffened her spine. The weight of the blade in her hand was grounding, though it did little to quiet the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Stay back," she warned, voice low but steady despite the tremor rippling beneath her skin.

The man didn't stop. Either he hadn't heard or didn't care. He staggered forward, knees wobbling under his own weight. His fingers were slick with blood, crimson seeping between them in relentless rivulets that stained his side and splattered onto the dirt floor.

Amriel took half a step back, every nerve on edge, tension winding through her body like a taut bowstring.

"Fha'lear," he rasped.

The strange word cut through the charged air like a dagger, sharp and raw. The sound prickled against her senses, unfamiliar yet heavy with meaning she couldn't grasp—but felt deep in her bones.

Her pulse quickened, the urge to strike surging through her limbs, but hesitation stalled her blade.

Then the fight drained from him entirely. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud that reverberated through the cottage.

Silence swallowed the space—save for the crackle of the fire and the relentless howl of the storm beyond. Even Meeko had gone quiet, his growls fading into wary observation as he cautiously crept closer to the fallen man.

Her mind raced. He could be a threat. This could be a trap. But if I let him die...

She had seen death before—watched the light fade from eyes that once burned with purpose. But there was something in those desperate emerald eyes that lingered in her memory, tangled up with echoes of choices she couldn't unmake.

The blade wavered, then lowered. Her breath escaped in a ragged exhale.

"Not quite how I imagined my night going," she muttered, voice rough.

Meeko chirped softly, as though to second her grim observation.