Chapter 5

Little by little, I began to blend into the life of the city. I picked up their rough northern way of speaking and learned to stomach the food they favoured.

In time, I almost felt as though I had been born to this place.

The Charlotte who once lived in Valdrada, tiptoeing through her days clinging to a man's empty promise, all of that felt like a tale from some distant former life.

Edward? I had not spared him a single thought in weeks.

One afternoon, I was returning from a house call and passed by the training grounds in the heart of the city. Dust churned in great swirling clouds, and the air rang with the battle cries of soldiers.

Thousands of Hawthorne's Legion were assembled there, drilling in tight formation under the pale northern sun.

They had stripped to the waist despite the biting wind, swinging their blades in perfect unison, their energy fierce and relentless.

Upon a raised platform stood a man. He wore burnished silver armour and stood tall and motionless, like a sentinel carved from stone.

His face was hidden behind a silver mask, revealing only a pair of cold, sharp eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth.

Those eyes were like the winter stars over Vastmarch, keen as frost, carrying a chill intensity that seemed to see through everything and everyone.

Even from a distance, I could feel the weight of his presence pressing down upon the air itself.

It was Alexander Hawthorne.

I lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching him with a hunger I could not disguise, unable to tear my gaze away.

This was the man for whom I had abandoned everything, the man I had crossed half a kingdom to find.

He was unlike any man I had ever encountered.

He was nothing like my father, refined and bookish, nor was he the sort to affect tenderness while hiding a cold heart, as Edward had.

He was a blade drawn from its sheath, keen-edged and perilous, bearing the scent of blood and smoke.

He inspired awe, and yet, strangely, a sense that everything was firmly in hand.

When the drills concluded, he vaulted down from the platform. His movements were crisp, effortless, without a single wasted motion.

He swung into the saddle in one fluid motion and was about to ride off.

And then something unforeseen occurred.

Out of nowhere, a small child, no more than four or five years old, darted directly into the path of Alexander's horse.

The beast reared back with a panicked whinny, its forelegs kicking high above the boy's head. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

It seemed certain that those hooves would come crashing down upon the child.

In that splintered instant, Alexander moved, swift as a striking falcon.

He leaned low from the saddle and swept the child up into his arms in one clean gesture.

The whole thing was over before anyone could draw breath.

By the time the crowd grasped what had happened, he was already seated tall and steady in the saddle, as though nothing had occurred.

The child was wailing in his arms, utterly terrified.

A woman came stumbling forward in a panic, then clutched at the hem of his cloak, her voice cracking with terror. "My lord General, mercy! I beg you, spare us."

Alexander said nothing. He merely looked down at the small, weeping creature cradled against his cuirass.

Then, with one hand, he unfastened a waterskin from his belt and pressed it into the child's hands.

The gesture was not particularly gentle. It was stiff, even a little awkward.

But as if by some quiet magic, the boy's sobs subsided.

He clutched the worn leather flask with both hands, his wide eyes fixed with open curiosity upon the masked face before him.

Alexander returned the child to the woman without a word.

He let his cold, commanding gaze sweep slowly across the gathered crowd.

And then, for the briefest heartbeat, his eyes paused in my direction.

A shiver coursed through me, and I dropped my head by instinct.

When I looked up again, he was already riding away.

All that remained was the silhouette of his dark armour and silver helm, fading into the distance at the far end of the long street.

My heart would not quiet, no matter how I tried to steady it.

It was the first time I had ever seen him so near.

He seemed to possess more warmth than the rumours ever credited him with.

He was not merely some cold-blooded god of war who knew only how to deal death.

And that realisation made the wild notion burning in my chest blaze all the brighter.

*****

Days passed, and custom at The Healing Hearth continued to flourish.

Before I quite knew it, I had become something of a familiar face in Frostgard. The locals had taken to calling me "Healer Charlotte."

But deep down, I understood it was not enough. I remained worlds apart from that untouchable man who stood at the summit of this city.

I went on waiting for my chance.

Three months after I first set foot in Vastmarch, that chance at last arrived.

A skirmish had erupted beyond the walls of Frostgard.

Hawthorne's Legion had returned victorious, but they brought back with them several hundred wounded soldiers.

The main infirmaries in the city were utterly overwhelmed, every bed claimed and every orderly run ragged.

The army surgeons were stretched far beyond their limits, barely able to manage the chaos.

It was then that the General's command issued a summons, calling for every healer in the city.

Any soul with skill in medicine was to report to the military encampment and lend aid in tending the wounded.

When I saw that notice posted upon the market board, my heart began to pound so fiercely I could feel it in my throat, and my palms grew damp.

I knew, with a certainty that hummed in my very bones, this was it. My chance had come at last.