THE BRIDE OF FLAMES

THE WOUNDED MAN

The morning air was filled with the crisp scent of pine and a hint of frost. Winter Samaya made her way quietly through the forest, her boots sinking into the soft, still-damp earth left behind by last night’s snowfall. The silence around her was almost eerie, broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant call of a crow.

She reached her father’s old garden, the one he had planted years before, rows of cabbages, turnips, and fruit trees now heavy with the season’s last yield. She filled the sack after the sack, her breath visible in the cold air. Five full sacks sat neatly beneath the old oak tree, and for a moment, she stared at them, feeling the weight not of the harvest, but of memory...

Her father used to hum while working here.

Now the forest only hummed with wind...

Out of nowhere, a sound shattered the quiet, first a rustle, then the rapid thud of footsteps. Winter spun around abruptly.

A man burst through the trees, blood smeared across his arm and side. His clothes were tattered, and his face was ashen.

“Please… help me…” he gasped, collapsing before her.

Winter froze, eyes wide. The sight of blood jolted her from her numbness. She ran to him, kneeling beside his trembling form. “Hey! Can you hear me?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes fluttered closed.

Without a second thought, she pulled him toward the small wooden cabin at the edge of the garden, the old resting place of her father. The door let out a creaky protest as she pushed it open, and the familiar scent of woodsmoke and herbs welcomed her inside. Gently, she laid him on the bed, her hands trembling as she ripped strips of cloth to bandage his wounds.

Two days went by. Outside, the snow piled up, wrapping the world in a thick layer of quiet. Winter watched over him silently, never probing, only speaking when it was truly needed.

Then, one morning, the injured man began to move. His eyes fluttered open, still hazy, and found her shadowy figure by the window.

“You are…?” His voice was hoarse, uncertain.

Winter turned slightly, her expression is unreadable. “I am no one,” she said flatly.

He tried to smile despite his weakness. “I can’t see your face clearly… but thank you... for saving me.”

She looked away. “You’re welcome. Eat this food, and you may leave once you regain your strength.”

Her tone was distant, almost cold, but her hands trembled slightly as she placed the bowl on his lap.

Then the wounded man picked up a spoon, tasting the warm stew. His eyes widened. “This is delicious… what do you call it?”

Winter glanced at him briefly. “It’s made from our crops in the garden.”

“Our?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, her voice almost breaking. “My father’s garden. He planted everything here before he… passed.”

The man’s gaze lingered on her, not just in gratitude but in awe. Even through his blurred vision, he could see the strength in her eyes—the loneliness she hid behind the calm. Something inside him stirred, a feeling he couldn’t explain.

The man’s gaze held on to her, not just out of gratitude but also in sheer admiration. Even with his vision blurred, he could see the strength shining in her eyes... the loneliness she masked behind her calm exterior. Something deep within him stirred, a feeling he couldn’t quite put into words.

He didn’t just see his savior, but he can feel that he is safe with her, in her place.

After the wounded man finished eating, Winter approached him again and took the empty bowl.

“Great, you finished the food. Do you want more?” she asked softly, careful not to sound too eager.

He shook his head. “No, no… I’m full. Thank you.” He gently stretched his arms and legs, wincing as pain tugged at his wound.

Winter sat down across from him, folding her hands together. “I found you bleeding under the oak trees a few days ago. You were barely breathing. Where did you come from… and who hurt you?”

The man hesitated, eyes flicking toward the small window where sunlight streamed through the cracks.

“I’m a…” His voice trailed off. He took a slow breath, as if weighing his words. “…a farmer. From the other town.”

Winter frowned slightly. “A farmer?” She glanced at his hands, it's rough, yes, but the cuts on his palms didn’t look like those of a man who handled tools every day. “That’s strange. Farmers don’t usually wander into these woods alone.”

He forced a weak smile. “You’re observant.”

“And you’re avoiding the question,” Winter replied, crossing her arms. “If someone’s after you, I deserve to know. You brought danger to my home.”

His smile faded. He lowered his gaze to the floorboards. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” Winter said firmly.

The man looked up, and for the first time, his eyes revealed a glint of fear… or guilt.

“Let’s just say,” he whispered, “the people who hurt me… won’t stop until they find me again.”

A chill ran down Winter’s spine. The forest outside seemed to grow darker.

“Then,” she murmured, gripping the bowl tightly, “you better heal fast… because if they come here, I’ll need to know whether to hide you, or run from you.”

The man didn’t answer right away. He stared at the flickering light of the small oil lamp beside him, its flame trembling as though it too sensed the unease between them.

“You shouldn’t get involved,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a warning. “People who help me… usually regret it.”

Winter frowned, clutching the bowl closer to her chest. “Regret it? You think I saved you just to throw you out now?”

He met her gaze, steady, guarded, but not unkind. “You saved me because you’re good. But goodness can get you killed out here.”

For a moment, only the sound of the wind filled the cabin, brushing against the old wooden walls like restless ghosts.

Winter placed the bowl on the table. “You don’t know me,” she said. “I’ve seen worse than blood and fear. If you were meant to die, you would’ve died under those oak trees.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile crossed his lips. “You speak like someone who’s lost too much.”

Her eyes softened but she looked away, pretending to busy herself with the fire. “Maybe I have.”

He shifted, wincing as a pain shot through his shoulder. “Then you know what it’s like… to be hunted by your own past.”

Winter turned to him slowly. “Is that what this is? You running from your past?”

He hesitated again , his silence was heavier than any answer.

“I can’t tell you everything yet,” he said finally, his voice breaking slightly. “But when I can… you’ll understand why I was bleeding in your woods.”

Winter studied him in the dim light, his torn clothes, his tired eyes, the scars that looked older than his wound. There was something more than fear in them, something like grief.