THE SOVEREIGN'S DRAFT

Chapter 3: The Handsome Lumberjack

Aelin froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself up from the pile of scattered cedar logs, woodchips spilling from her tangled hair.

Standing a few paces away was a man. But calling him just a man felt like calling the sun a mild lightbulb.

He was absurdly, offensively handsome. He had broad, sculpted shoulders that stretched the fabric of a simple, rugged linen tunic, rolled up at the sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with fine hair.

His hair was a dark, messy waves of raven black that caught the violet twilight, and his eyes were a piercing, luminous shade of molten silver—so striking they looked almost unnatural. In his right hand, he held a massive, double-headed woodcutting axe with an ease that suggested it weighed no more than a feather.

He didn't look like a mythical prince or a glittering knight. He looked like a woodcutter. A ridiculously photogenic, broad-shouldered lumberjack straight off the cover of a high-fantasy romance novel.

Before Aelin could stammer out a coherent response—or apologize for dismantling his firewood—a wet, guttural shriek echoed from the top of the embankment.

The carnivorous orchid monster burst through the thicket, its four rings of needle-sharp teeth dripping with purple sap, its whip-like tendrils thrashing the air. It spotted Aelin, let out a furious hiss, and launched itself down the slope directly toward her.

"Watch out!" Aelin screamed, scrambling backward into the dirt.

"It’s a giant tooth-flower! It eats people! It has zero chill!"

The man didn't move. He didn't panic, he didn't draw a glowing magical blade, and he didn't cast a blinding flash of light.

He simply let out a low, tired sigh—the universal sound of a man whose evening quiet had been rudely interrupted.

As the monster leaped, its snapping jaw inches from Aelin’s face, the man stepped forward with a fluid, blindingly fast grace.

With a single, effortless flick of his wrist, he swung his heavy iron axe in a precise, horizontal arc.

CRACK.

The steel blade bit deep into the plant's main stem, severing its gaping flower head in one clean strike. The heavy blossom hit the dirt with a wet thud, while the remaining root-legs twitched violently for two seconds before collapsing into a motionless pile of dark green slime.

Aelin sat in the dirt, her mouth hanging wide open.

"You..." she breathed, staring between the dead monster and the man. "You just... knocked its block off. With a regular axe."

The man casually kicked a stray root away from his boot, wiping a drop of purple sap off the iron blade with a rag pulled from his belt.

"It’s a Bramble-Maw. They’re pests. They like to nest in the south ridge." He looked down at her, his silver eyes cold and analyzing. "And you are bleeding on my timber."

Aelin blinked, snapping out of her daze.

"I—what? I’m sorry! I was being hunted by a carnivorous dandelion! I didn't mean to ruin your wood pile!"

She pushed herself up to stand, but the moment she put weight on her left ankle, a sharp, white-hot pain shot up her leg.

Her knee buckled, and she gasped, pitching forward.

Before she could hit the ground, a strong, warm arm caught her by the waist, catching her weight with absolute ease.

The smell of cedar wood, fresh rain, and something warm and faintly metallic washed over her. Aelin found herself pressed flush against his chest, staring directly up into those mesmerizing silver eyes.

Close up, her writer's brain went into total overdrive.

Sharp, angular jawline. Shadow of stubble. Broad chest. Smells like pine and bad attitude.

"You're not from around here," he said quietly, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that she felt against her own ribs.

His gaze flicked over her modern outfit—her torn denim jeans, her muddy sneakers, and her graphic t-shirt.

"In fact, you shouldn't exist here at all."

"I took a bus," Aelin offered weakly, her voice small.

"I took a bus, followed a weird glowing blue light, fell through a shiny hole, and now I'm being judged by a lumberjack."

The man stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, his eyes dropped to her right hand. She was still desperately clutching her mud-stained leather notebook like a shield.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I think my ankle is sprained," she admitted, wincing.

He let out another subtle sigh, adjusted his grip, and effortlessly scooped her up into his arms, lifting her bridal-style. Aelin gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck. His muscles felt like carved granite beneath her fingers.

"Hey! Wait! I have legs—well, one working leg!" she protested, her face flushing crimson.

"I can hop!"

"You're slow when you hop," he replied bluntly, turning and carrying her down a narrow dirt path toward a small clearing.

"And I have stew on the fire."

As they emerged from the woods, Aelin’s breath caught in her throat.

Nestled in a serene, sun-dappled valley below was a quaint, picture-perfect village. Cobblestone paths wound between rustic wooden cottages with thatched roofs, surrounded by gardens of glowing, vibrant flora.

Villagers in simple tunic dresses and linen trousers were tending to livestock, chatting over low stone fences, and repairing roofs. It looked peaceful, isolated, and entirely ancient.

The man carried her past the outer edge of the village toward a secluded cottage sitting near a roaring waterfall.

"Is this your home?" Aelin asked, looking around.

"Are you... a woodcarver?"

"My name is Elowen," he said, ignoring her question.

"I chop wood. I carve furniture. I keep to myself."

Elowen, she thought, testing the sound in her head. A fancy name for a guy chopping logs in the woods.

He carried her into the cottage, setting her down gently on a sturdy oak chair beside a crackling stone hearth. The inside of the house was warm, smelling of savory meat stew and dried herbs.

Bundles of lavender and strange, silver ferns hung from the wooden rafters. Wooden sculptures—fantastically detailed carvings of birds, wolves, and intricate patterns—lined the wooden shelves.

Elowen set his axe near the door and knelt in front of her, entirely devoid of royal arrogance or grand posture. He gently lifted her left leg, resting her foot on his knee to inspect her swelling ankle.

His fingers were large, calloused, and surprisingly gentle as he carefully unlaced her muddy sneaker.

"Ah," he murmured, his thumb brushing the bruised skin around her ankle.

"Sprained. No broken bones."

"It hurts like hell," Aelin winced, clenching her teeth.

"It will stop," Elowen said softly. He reached toward a wooden bowl filled with a paste made of crushed green leaves and smeared a dab onto her skin.

Aelin prepared for a burn, but as soon as the paste touched her skin, a gentle, soothing warmth spread through her ankle. The swelling visibly decreased within seconds, the throbbing pain fading to a dull ache.

She gasped, leaning down to look closer.

"Magic? Did you just use magic?"

Elowen paused, his hands freezing for a fraction of a second before he smoothly pulled back, wiping his fingers on a rag.

"It's just herbal medicine. Old village remedies."

"Right. Old village remedies that cure a grade-two sprain in four seconds," Aelin said, her writer's suspicion flaring up. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know, for a simple lumberjack, you swing an axe like a trained assassin, carry grown women like bags of flour, and possess miracle ointment."

Elowen stood up, towering over her, his silver eyes completely unreadable. He walked over to the hearth, grabbed a wooden bowl, and ladled a steaming portion of stew into it before setting it on the table beside her.

"Eat," he commanded quietly.

"You talk too much when you're hungry."

Aelin looked at the stew, then at the impossibly handsome, stoic man standing in front of her.

She was stranded in an alternate universe, completely powerless, with zero clue how to get home. But as she picked up the wooden spoon, she realized one thing for certain:

Her writer's block was officially cured.