His to Ruin

Elira was elbow-deep in goat intestines when Mistress Halra yelled for the third time that hour. “Elira! If that poultice smells like burnt feet again, I will tan your hide and use you as a poultice!” With a tired sigh, Elira straightened from the blood-slick table and wiped her hands on her apron, which was already an artwork of various stains and splatters. “It’s not burnt,” she called back. “Just… well-seasoned!” In the back of the dim, herb-crammed apothecary, a feverish farmer moaned on a cot, smelling faintly of mildew and regret. Elira moved quickly, grabbing the mortar of herbs she’d mashed hours ago. She was trying to remember whether she’d added silverroot or bloodwort when she heard her master’s footsteps—sharp, fast, and dangerous. Mistress Halra stormed into the room, eyes blazing, her long white braid swinging behind her like a battle flag. “I told you to use silverroot! Bloodwort slows the heart—you trying to kill this man or just turn him into soup?!” “Honestly,” Elira muttered, “soup might be a mercy at this point.” “What?” “Nothing! Silverroot, yes. Got it. Going to fix it right now.” The farmer groaned again. “You hush,” Elira told him gently, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. “You’re not dying. Probably.” Mistress Halra threw her hands in the air. “Why do I even bother training you?” “Because I’m cute, cheap, and the only one who doesn’t run away when someone vomits blood on their boots?” The older woman glared at her. Elira smiled sweetly and turned back to the herbs, fingers nimble from years of grinding, measuring, and sneaking extra doses of honey when Halra wasn’t looking. The clinic stank of sweat, sickness, and boiled roots—a smell Elira had once hated, but now found weirdly comforting. Until the door creaked open. And everything changed. She didn’t see him at first—just the way the shadows shifted. The way the hearth flames dipped low as though suddenly cold. The way every breath in the room held itself like prey sensing a predator. She turned. And saw him. Tall. Unmoving. Dressed in a long black coat that looked expensive, worn like armor. Skin pale as winter fog. Dark hair tousled like it had been dragged through a storm—and golden eyes. Eyes that didn’t look at her. They looked into her. Something inside her stilled. “Do you need something?” Mistress Halra asked stiffly, moving to block the stranger’s view of Elira. He didn’t blink. “Elira.” Mistress Halra went pale. Her hands trembled. Elira took a step back. “How do you know my name?” “I’ve been searching for you.” “Well, that’s flattering,” she said, voice too high. “But I’m not available. I’m already seeing someone—his name is goat guts, he’s clingy but reliable.” His gaze didn’t flicker. “Elira, you’re coming with me.” She stared at him, then at Halra, who looked like she might actually faint. That was alarming. Mistress Halra had once stitched a soldier’s face together with her teeth because they’d run out of needles. “What is this? Who the hell are you?” “I’m the reason you’re still alive,” he said. “And the reason you’re about to stop running.” “I wasn’t running,” she snapped. “I was living. Big difference. Running involves effort and I’m more of a… slow shuffle kind of girl.” “Elira,” Halra whispered. “Go.” She blinked. “What? No! Are you seriously telling me to walk off into the night with a creepy golden-eyed stalker in a floor-length cloak?! What happened to stranger danger?!” “You were never meant to stay here,” Halra said, voice low and sorrowful. “You know it. You’ve felt it. The dreams. The heat in your hands. The way your body doesn’t bleed like it should.” Elira’s heart pounded. “You said those were side effects of moonroot tea.” Mistress Halra gave her a sad look. “You lied to me?” “I protected you,” she said. “But it’s over now. He’s come for you.” The man took a step forward. Elira instantly moved back, grabbing the nearest weapon—a wooden spoon. “I swear, if you try anything, I’ll… I’ll baste your eyeballs!” His lips twitched. It might have been a smile. Then everything went dark. Not night-dark. Shadow-dark. It rolled into the room like smoke, swallowing the fire, the walls, the windows, until all that was left was her heartbeat and his golden eyes, burning like stars. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. And yet—she wasn’t afraid. There was something familiar in the darkness. Like she’d been here before. Lived here, once. “Elira,” he said, stepping into her space, and gods, he smelled like smoke and something forbidden. “You have no idea what you are.” “Okay, great. Existential crisis later,” she whispered. “Right now I’m trying very hard not to faint into your murder cloak.” “You’re not human.” That made her blink. “I… I bleed. I bruise. I stub my toe and scream obscenities like everyone else.” “You’re not human,” he repeated, voice almost gentle now. “You were hidden, masked, but your power’s bleeding through. They’ll come for you soon. Worse than me.” “Wait—you’re bad, but you’re not the worst?” He said nothing. “Awesome. Cool. Can I go home now? Feed the goat? Possibly vomit?” He raised his hand. The shadows curled around her legs. “Nope!” she yelped, throwing the spoon. It bounced off his shoulder like a leaf. “Elira, stop,” Halra said. But it was too late. The darkness pulled her under—and the last thing she heard was the soft hum of magic and his voice in her mind: “You were mine before you were born.”