Chapter 1

A strange noise woke Samona. It sounded as if someone was trying desperately to form a word, but could not manage to work their mouth properly. Something like a deep, wheezy "whaher."

"Whaher. Whaher." The sound kept repeating. It began to clear up a little, becoming slightly more distinct. Samona finally realized that the voice was saying "water."

Then she realized that the word was coming from her mouth. She was parched, her tongue feeling as if it was coated with sand.

She felt the brim of a cup against her lips, a few drips of water falling onto her exposed tongue. She swallowed the liquid as fast as she could, her throat burning from lack of use. The cup was quickly pulled away.

"I'll give you some more water in a few more minutes; if you drink too much at once, you will become ill." The voice was not very deep, but it was definitely male. Most likely human.

"You have been unconscious for more than three days," the voice commented, "I could have sworn you were dead for a while there."

"Apparently," Samona whispered in a hoarse voice, "I was not dead enough."

The voice snorted. "So eager to be dead, are you? I suppose I should have left you to your choice. Unfortunately for you, I have this sickening thing called a heart, and I actually listen to it. I see a girl slumped over with blood all around her, and my first thought is 'gee Charles, let's help!' Completely insane, isn't it?"

Samona opened her eyes slowly. Even her eyes felt weak, slow to respond to her commands. Through the fuzz of her disorganized mind, she managed to concentrate on everything around her.

She was lying on her back, feet elevated on a rock. She was covered in a thick layer of clothing and blankets, and a fire was roaring a few feet away. She was at the mouth of some sort of cave, the owner of "the voice" standing nearby, leaning against one of the cave walls and looking at her.

"Don't strain yourself," he said. "You have plenty of time to recover. If you begin to feel tired, go ahead and let yourself drift off."

Samona nodded slowly. She took stock of the man leaning against the wall, trying to figure out who and what he was. He stood about five and a half feet tall, with short and somewhat unruly brown hair. He was blue-eyed, with a slightly muscular and yet slightly overweight build. He wore light leather armor, designed for a traveler that needed freedom of movement with adequate protection against natural and not-so-natural hazards.

He slowly walked over to her, sitting down beside her. He took both of her arms out from under the covers, holding them gingerly.

An image flashed to her mind of a wizard apprentice standing over her, running his hands along her armor. She flinched away from the man.

"Shhh," he whispered, "s'okay. I just want to help. Please, let me help."

She nodded uncertainly, hesitatingly letting her arms be taken within his hands again. He ran his fingers along the deep gashes in her wrists, checking for any persisting bleeding.

"Your magic has only kicked in the past few hours," the man said, "so the wounds are relatively unhealed. I would not move my wrists too often if I were you."