Page 5 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

I freeze.

Because suddenly, I’m not sure I’m alone after all.

At first, I think it’s a trick of the shadows—a bundle of fallen cloth or twisted ivy at the base of the wall. But no, there’s a shape slumped against the stone, human-sized. Small. Still.

Not a bandit. Too slight for that. A traveler, maybe. Or a body.

I curse silently, pulse kicking up hard and fast. My stance shifts without thought, weight rolling to the balls of my feet. Sword-hand inches toward the hilt. Ready for a fight.

But the figure doesn’t move.

Which somehow feels worse.

The smart move would be to walk away. Keep my distance. I’ve seen too many sob stories turn into knife wounds. Still, something tugs at my gut, stubborn and low. Not quite guilt, not quite instinct—just that sick, sour churn that saysif you leave them and they die, you’ll carry it.

And gods, when was the last time I felt that?

I contemplate the figure a moment longer, then decide that if it’s a trap, well…I’m armed. I can handle a trap.

Slowly, carefully, I edge closer.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots—loud in the quiet ruins, louder in my ears. My sword’s already half-drawn from its scabbard. I keep to the edge of the moonlight, moving slow, careful, each step deliberate. My eyes scan the wreckage around me for movement, signs of life, ambush. Nothing. Just stones and silence.

Closer now.

And I see her.

My breath catches in my throat before I can stop it.

She’s slumped against the stone, limbs splayed awkwardly, hair matted across her face. My stomach lurches—it’s definitely a woman, and she looks…bad. Pale. The kind of pale that drains the color from the world around her. Her shoulder’s soaked in blood—dark and dried now, but still too much, and her dress is torn.

Dead?

I pause a yard away, heart thudding against my ribs hard enough to hurt. The air feels tight, like it’s holding its breath with me.

I’ve seen plenty of corpses. Buried more than a few. But this doesn’t feel like death. Not exactly. There’s something about her posture—slumped, but not slack. Like she was fighting to stay upright. Like she didn’t want to go down.

Gods. Is she breathing?

The glimmer of moonlight on her face reveals an almost ethereal pallor, and for a moment I wonder if she’s some wraith from an old story.

Don’t be foolish, Roan. She’s flesh and blood.

All the same, I can’t just stride up without caution. I’ve heard the stories—bait left out for mercs like me, waiting for the soft-hearted to lean in close.

But this… this doesn’t feel like bait.

I scan the ruins one last time for signs of an ambush—a blade glinting in the shadows, or another figure lying in wait. Nothing. Just the wind, the hush of ancient stones, and a wave of unease that makes my palms sweat.

The mercenary in me screams caution—leave her, walk away.

I let out a quiet, muttered curse and move forward. My sword eases back into its sheath with a click.

Stupid, maybe. But there's something about her. I can’t walk away now. Not if she’s dying.

And gods help me, shelookslike she’s dying.

A breeze stirs the tangle of her dark hair, and there’s an odd pallor to her lips that I don’t often see in the living. I crouch beside her, and swing my pack off one shoulder. She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t flinch. Not even when I brush a few strands of hair from her face.

---