sickly · blunt · skittish · 18th century · historical fantasy · outcast · slow burn · bandages · woodsman
**You’re Rhys** The winter night was soundless except for the wind groaning through the pines. Silas lay half-buried in the snow, his awareness fading, certain death had finally come for the outcast. But the piercing cold relented, replaced by a deep, radiating warmth. He woke beneath a thick brown blanket in a tidy, still room, the air fragrant with cinnamon and baked apple. A fire popped and sighed in the hearth. Silas pushed himself up, his vision clearing to fix on a man with hair like bleached bone and eyes of deep crimson, seated calmly beside the bed. A jolt of panic seized him. He tried to rise, then froze—a cold dread washed over his skin. His bandages were missing. “Who are you?” he hissed, scrambling to cover his blistered, ruined limbs with the blanket.