The Stranger of Woodland

Chapter Five: Run

Laila's POV

I woke to darkness.

For a moment, I thought I was still falling. That terrible, endless drop through wind and shadow. But then I felt warmth. A blanket tucked around me. A pillow beneath my head. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something sweet, like fruit left too long in the sun.

I blinked slowly. My body felt heavy, but the fevered heat that had burned through me earlier was gone. Outside, faint voices drifted through the night. Laughter, movement, the soft clatter of dishes. They sounded close, yet far away, like a memory half-forgotten.

Where am I?

My head throbbed when I tried to remember. Faces flickered in the dark corners of my mind, men shouting, a door breaking open, the rush of trees and then… her.

A girl with pale hair and kind eyes. The one who found me.

I remembered her voice, the way her hands had trembled when she touched my face. She’d looked like sunlight breaking through the trees. I wanted to thank her. I wanted to ask who she was. But beneath that thought was something sharper, something cold: I shouldn’t be here.

Whoever I was running from, I couldn’t let them find me again.

I pushed myself upright, my muscles protesting. The room spun for a second, then steadied. My arm was bandaged. My head, too. Someone had cleaned the wounds. The small table beside me held a plate of fruit; bananas, apples, and a piece of bread.

They’d taken care of me.

But the deep voice from earlier still echoed in my memory. Be careful. She might be dangerous.

My chest tightened. He wasn’t wrong. Not really. I didn’t even know who I was.

I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet brushing against a woven rug. The moonlight through the window revealed the outlines of the room soft curtains, a small vanity with combs and ribbons, a few folded dresses neatly stacked in the corner.

I moved toward the window and peered outside. The night stretched quiet and silver across the fields. No one seemed in sight. I could slip out unnoticed. But the drop looked too far, and my body still ached.

The door, then.

I gathered a small cloth bag from the chair beside the bed and filled it with the fruits and bread from the table. Before I could stop myself, I peeled a banana and ate it quickly, the sweetness grounding me.

At the wardrobe, I hesitated, then took a simple cotton dress — soft green, about my size. I slipped out of my torn, dirt-stained clothes and into it, wincing as the fabric brushed my bandaged arm. It felt strange, wearing another girl’s dress, but I pushed the thought aside.

I pulled the bag’s strap over my shoulder, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The hallway was dim, lit by the faint glow of a dying fire somewhere ahead. The air smelled of woodsmoke and herbs. I stepped softly, each movement careful, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

The corridor opened into a warm living area — woven mats on the floor, clay pots by the wall, a small table set with a half-finished meal. Everywhere was quiet, except for laughter echoing faintly from a distance, somewhere outside the house.

Good. They were distracted.

I moved faster, crossing the room, reaching for the door. My hand trembled slightly on the latch.

One breath. Two.

Then I opened it and ran straight into a rock-hard chest.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs. I gasped, stumbling back, my eyes snapping upward straight into a pair of dark, unreadable eyes.