The forest was silent now, save for the occasional crackle of burning branches and the low hiss of insects. The smell of blood still lingered faintly in the air.
Oliver pushed aside the thick underbrush, his boots crunching over the leaves until his eyes caught a flash of silver and crimson ahead.
He froze.
Lying amidst the fallen leaves was Elisha, the princess—her once-white cloak soaked through with blood.
"Damn it…" he muttered, rushing to her side. Her breathing was shallow, but steady; her pulse faint, yet present. Relief flickered through him. "You're lucky I found you when I did."
He uncorked a potion and gently poured it over her wounds. The liquid hissed softly, the cuts knitting closed in glowing trails. She didn't stir.
With a sigh, Oliver sat back, glancing up at the night sky. The sun had long vanished behind the horizon; darkness blanketed the forest, broken only by faint moonlight.
"Looks like we're camping here," he murmured.
