The Fallen Heir,

Edric could feel his horse's labored breaths through the reins, each weary step mirroring his own exhaustion. It had been days since he left the kingdom behind, yet the weight of betrayal clung to him like a second skin. His armor—what was left of it—had grown heavy, a burden on his shoulders that had nothing to do with the battlefield wounds he carried.

The forest stretched around him in hushed stillness, branches arching overhead like silent sentinels, filtering sunlight into dappled patches on the earth. The scent of damp moss and pine filled his lungs, mingling with the remnants of last night's rain. Here, among the rustling leaves and unseen streams, the world seemed at peace—so unlike the war raging inside him.

Sometimes, when the wind shifted, he thought he heard Eleanor's laughter. That soft, lilting sound that had once been a balm to his darkest thoughts. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her at Theobald's side, veiled, silent, untouchable.

His jaw tightened. He forced himself to focus on the path ahead, anything to drown out the storm of memories.

He dismounted, loosening the saddle straps, giving his horse a chance to rest. He ran a hand over the beast's mane, feeling the rough lather of sweat beneath his palm. The stillness of the moment, the golden light filtering through the canopy, should have brought him peace.

It didn't.

Then he heard it.

A faint rustle. Footsteps. Careful, deliberate.

His hand drifted instinctively to his sword hilt. His gaze sharpened, sweeping through the thick foliage. A lone figure moved along the path—a woman, small in frame, navigating the uneven ground with a simple wooden stick.

He stilled, watching.

Her head tilted slightly, as if listening to the rustle of leaves that accompanied his movement. And then he realized—her eyes weren't tracking him.

She was blind.

Edric remained motionless, observing how her fingers skimmed the air ahead of her, how her grip on the stick tightened as if sensing something was near. She was alone. Vulnerable.

Or was she?

He took a slow step forward, boots crunching softly on fallen leaves. She stiffened at the noise, her body tensing.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, his voice low so as not to startle her. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Her lips parted slightly. Surprise flickered across her face before fading into something more guarded.

"Who's there?" she asked, her voice careful, edged with wariness.

"Just a traveler," he said, raising his hands in a peaceable gesture, though he knew she wouldn't see it. "I mean you no harm."

She took a step back, her grip on the stick tightening. "I don't want trouble."

"Nor do I."

He kept his movements slow, deliberate, allowing her to follow the sound of his voice. "Are you lost?"

A mirthless laugh escaped her, quiet but bitter. "I have nowhere to be lost from."

The words hung between them.

Something in her tone—something **raw, hollow, too familiar—**unsettled him.

Edric exhaled, stepping toward his horse, running a hand down its neck in a calming gesture. "These woods can be dangerous," he said. "Let me help you."

Her sightless gaze shifted slightly, but she didn't move. "Why?"

"Because..." He hesitated, then sighed. "Because I know what it's like to have nowhere to turn."

Her breath hitched ever so slightly.

For a long moment, she was silent, standing there in the dappled light, the weight of her own mistrust warring with exhaustion.

Then, at last, she whispered, "My name is Adelina. I was trying to reach a monastery beyond these hills. Maybe they'll give me shelter."

The tightness in Edric's chest deepened.

A monastery. A place to disappear. To exist, rather than live.

Something in her quiet resolve spoke to the emptiness in him, to the same desire to fade into the backdrop of the world. She was like him—a drifter. Betrayed by those who should have cared for her.

Eleanor's face flickered in his mind. A sharp pang of loss, bitter and angry.

But for a moment, just one moment, that memory receded beneath this new, fragile thread of connection.

He extended his arm. "Then let me take you there, Adelina. If that is your wish."

She hesitated, fingers lifting slightly as if searching. When they brushed against the rough fabric of his coat, he felt her tremble.

"You're shaking," he said quietly.

Her chin lifted, her voice unsteady but firm. "I don't know you. And I've learned not to trust men so easily."

A pang of sorrow shot through Edric.

"You're not alone in that," he said grimly.

His voice must have held something unguarded, something honest, because she stilled, then exhaled, long and weary.

With tentative fingers, she found his arm again, curling her hand lightly around his sleeve.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words carrying a hesitant weight, a flicker of trust not yet fully given.

Edric inclined his head, guiding her carefully toward the horse.

As he helped her onto the saddle, something unexpected happened.

For a brief second, her fingers brushed against his—light as a feather, but something in the touch stayed with him.

It wasn't longing.

It wasn't desire.

It was recognition.

As if, just for a heartbeat, they understood each other's ruin.

The forest around them seemed to exhale, releasing some unspoken tension. Step by step, they began their cautious journey forward, two strangers bound by solitude and sorrow, daring to find in each other a reason to keep going.