Chapter 3 Blind Saint, Broken God
943 Words
On the third day of blindness, the world reshaped itself in sound and scent.
I tracked the guard’s patrol by the scuff of his boot on stone, separated a dozen heartbeats in a crowded room, heard whispers through a wall of oak as if they were speaking beside me.
“Can she really cure any feral episode?”
“Vivian says her power is unstable. A danger.”
“But she saved the War God…”
“And burned out her eyes doing it. A high price.”
Propped against my headboard, I listened without reaction.
They weren’t wrong.
Each use of this “gift” felt like carving off pieces of my soul to burn as fuel.
But what was the alternative?
To die useless in the dark?
The door opened.
A new scent cut through the room’s herbal haze: fresh blood and the sharp, clean ozone of spent violence.
“Evan?” I asked before he could speak.
“Your hearing is adapting.”
“You smell like a battlefield.” I tilted my head.
“Just back?”
“Yes.”
The shift in the air warned me—his presence filling the room, pressing close, carrying the metallic tang of blood clinging to him like a second skin.
He moved nearer until I could feel the heat from him.
When he sat on the bed’s edge, the mattress dipped under his weight, wood groaning in protest.
“Are you wounded?” I asked.
“Scratches.”
The word was too casual.
“Let me check.”
“You can’t see.”
“I don’t need to.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.
Then his arm brushed against my hand.
The touch stole my breath: solid muscle, damp warmth, the faint slick of blood.
My fingers slid along his forearm, following the heat until they found it: a deep, ragged gash welling sticky and hot.
“You call this a scratch?”
“I’ve had worse.”
A rough breath left him.
I placed my palm over the wound.
Golden light stirred weakly beneath my skin, responding to the call.
It bled into him, knitting torn flesh with a painful slowness that made his muscles tense.
The scent changed—iron and heat, magic burning through the blood.
His breathing deepened, heavier.
Sweat broke across his skin, warm beneath my fingers.
My own breath hitched.
The light flickered.
“Stop.”
His hand closed around my wrist, pulled my hand away, his thumb brushing the frantic pulse at my wrist. “You’re too weak.”
“I can finish it.”
“You’re bleeding. From your nose.”
I touched my lip， “It’s nothing.”
“Healer, Thea,”
“You can’t keep doing this,” he said.
“You’ll burn yourself hollow.”
“It's my duty, my job,” I snapped, my voice shaking.
“Let you bleed out? I won’t die.”
Silence fell, our breaths tangled in the too-small space.
“Why?” he asked, the word bare and quiet.
“Why risk yourself ?”
"I am the Healer, I have no choice. What do you think I can do? I am just a low-born omega."
He went utterly still.
Then his thumb pressed slightly harder against my wrist.
“You saved my life more than once," he said at last, voice low and certain.
“I owe you more than obedience.”
“So what are you offering?”
“My sword. My strength. My breath. They are yours. I will guard your life with my own.”
The air left my lungs.
“You don’t have to,”
“It is my choice.”
His tone brooked no argument.
He leaned closer, his warmth against my cheek, “This is my oath.”
Before I could process it, a new scent slithered under the door: wild, musky, electric—chaos and obsession given form.
A scuffle outside, a guard’s curse, a low chuckle, more animal and wild.
The door was presented to the room, the handle ripped clean off.
“Well, well… What do we have here?” The voice was a lazy, dangerous purr.
“The little Saint, all tucked in.”
Zane.
The “Mad Dog.” The Alpha, who wore a shock collar for the safety of others.
I could smell its metallic ozone around his wildness.
His silent footsteps circled the bed, his scent wrapping around me, overwhelming and possessive.
“Heard you tamed the mighty War God,” he mused, his voice suddenly in my ear.
I flinched.
“Think you could tame me, even too, little healer?”
“Back away, Zane.” Evan’s voice was winter steel, his body shifting between us.
“Ooh, protective,” Zane crooned.
“I just came to see the miracle. Smell her.” He took an audible breath.
“She doesn’t smell like fear. She smells like… quiet. Like the eye of my storm.”
“Leave. Now.”
Zane laughed, bright and unhinged.
“Fine, fine. I’ll play nice… for now.”
His focus swung back to me, intense as a touch.
“We’ll play later, Saint. I have so many… aches… only you can soothe.”
His wild scent faded as he sauntered out, whistling a broken tune.
My heart pounded hard.
“What… was that?”
“Trouble,” Evan said grimly.
“He’s fixated. He won’t stay away.”
I leaned back, the echo of Evan’s oath and Zane’s threat warring in the dark.
The cage had just acquired a new, more unpredictable lock.
And for the first time, I wasn’t alone inside it.
- Writer
