Sif slowly opened his eyes, the haze of unconsciousness still clouding his mind. The air was cool and still, and the distant murmurs around him seemed far away, as though they were coming from a different world. His body felt heavy, each breath a sharp reminder of the pain that lingered. The dim light filtered through the wooden slats of the room, casting long shadows on the floor.
"I'm sure it's him… Sif the Fox of Blackreach. I fought under his command at the Battle of Berthol," one of the soldiers said, his voice filled with certainty.
Another soldier responded, "Didn't they take him to prison for treason and disobedience?"
A third voice chimed in, "We found a royal pardon in his bag. Looks like they released him."
Sif struggled to sit up, his vision blurry and his body reluctant to cooperate. The soldiers before him paused, their confusion apparent as they realized who stood before them—one of the heroes of the Great Conflict, now barely conscious and in a state of weakness.
The door creaked open, and a commander stepped in. His northern features were strong and weathered, with a gaze that held both authority and concern. He walked over to Sif's side and placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice firm yet calm. "Relax," the commander said. "You're in a military barracks, part of the Northern Division of the Empire. We tried to heal your wounds, but they haven't fully mended. Unfortunately, we don't have a healer here, so we've contacted a witch. Luckily, she's in the city."
The commander paused and studied Sif's face before continuing. "Tell me what happened. How were you attacked by those... things? What exactly happened?"
Sif took a shallow breath, his voice raspy. "I was with a merchant. We were attacked by... shadowy figures, cloaked in black. They were like ghosts. The merchant... he didn't make it."
The commander's expression grew thoughtful. "Do you know anything about the merchant?"
Sif hesitated, then spoke, his voice quiet. "He was transporting weapons... possibly for the resistance."
The commander's eyes darkened, a flash of concern crossing his face. "There were rumors he might have been supplying the resistance with arms, but I haven't received any reports of any of my men being involved in such actions."
Sif shifted slightly and asked, "How long was I unconscious?"
The commander replied, "About a day. You've been out for quite a while."
As they spoke, a group of soldiers began to gather around, watching Sif with a mix of awe and curiosity. The commander noticed them and immediately barked, "Back to your posts. That's enough."
The soldiers quickly dispersed, and the commander turned back to Sif, his voice softening. "Rest now. The witch will be here soon."
Sif, still disoriented, frowned and asked, "Since when do northerners use witches?"
The commander smiled slightly, the edges of his lips twitching upward. "A lot has changed since the war ended. My name is Ulfar, Ulfar Stormbreaker, commander of the northern division. And trust me, things have changed more than you can imagine.
sif lay back on the rough cot of the military infirmary, the dim glow of the torches casting long shadows across the stone walls.
His belongings had been carefully placed beside him—his sword, his worn-out cloak, and even the pouch of coins he had seized from the merchant. It seemed the commander had chosen, for now, to trust him.
The night stretched on endlessly. The silence of the infirmary gnawed at his nerves, a stillness too reminiscent of the ominous calm he had felt before the attack in the haunted forest.
Sif muttered under his breath, "Might as well eat something before the night swallows me whole."
Soon after, soldiers brought him a modest dinner—chicken broth, coarse bread, and a cup of water—before returning to their posts, leaving Sif alone once more.
The meal was simple but far better than the "food" he had endured in prison.
He grimaced, remembering a grim night when he'd been so starved he was forced to eat a rat in his cell after a sadistic guard stole his rations. Oddly enough, he had felt sorry for the creature—it had been his only companion during the long, cold nights.
As he reached for the bowl, the door to the infirmary creaked open.
Sif's instincts flared. He dropped the spoon, staggering toward his sword—but his weakened body betrayed him, and he stumbled against the bed.
Before he could recover, a shimmer of magic danced in the air, and in an instant, he was pinned against the bed, completely immobilized.
She entered.
Salfara.
Her presence filled the room like a storm cloaked in velvet.
Her crimson hair cascaded down her shoulders in flowing waves, gleaming like fire in the low light.
Pale skin almost glowed against the darkness, and her piercing blue eyes held a glint of playful mischief—and something far more dangerous.
Her robes, dark and form-fitting, hinted at elegant curves and a deadly grace that spoke of both seduction and strength. Every movement she made was poetry wrapped in menace.
"Salfara," Sif growled, his voice tight with frustration and something harder to define.
She smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips—and teased, "Sif, my dear. Did you miss me so much you rushed to greet me?"
He glared at her, struggling against the binding magic. "What are you doing here?"
With a mock sigh, she crossed her arms. "You haven't heard? Witches work for the Empire now."
Sif blinked, momentarily speechless. "What?"
His mind whirred. Then a bitter chuckle escaped him. "Of course. You realized you were losing the war against the Dominions... so you jumped ship."
She tilted her head, the light catching the sharp angles of her face. "You're not wrong. But that's not the whole story," she said, her voice softer. "They treated us like second-class citizens... even after everything we did for them."
Sif scoffed. "How fitting."
The tension between them thickened. For a moment, Salfara simply looked at him, her eyes strangely tender.
"You know, Sif..." she murmured, stepping closer, her voice barely above a whisper, "I missed you. When I heard they'd thrown you into prison, I was furious.
If not for you, the Empire wouldn't have won the war. And yet... here you are."
She knelt beside him, the scent of wildflowers and spice enveloping him.
"Let me heal you," she said gently.
Her fingers hovered over his wound. As she examined it, her expression darkened.
"This wound... it's ancient magic," she said, almost to herself. "Where did you get this?"
Sif remained silent, his jaw tightening.
Seeing he would not answer, Salfara sighed. "Fine. You stubborn mule."
She placed her hands on him, and green light bloomed from her palms. The warmth seeped into his flesh, knitting torn muscle and easing the sharp pain that lanced through his side.
When she finished, Sif grunted, "Are you planning to keep me paralyzed forever?"
Her lips twitched into a mischievous grin. "Only as long as I want."
Standing, she said lightly, "You'll recover well. But the mark on your neck... it's not going to vanish."
"What mark?" he asked sharply.
Salfara conjured a small mirror, holding it for him to see.
There, inked onto his skin, was a strange black sigil, its twisting lines pulsing faintly with some unknown power.
Sif's heart sank. Perhaps the spirits from the forest had branded him—though for what purpose, he could only guess.
While he stared at the mark in silence, Salfara turned her attention to the scattered remains of his meal.
"Tsk. What a mess," she chided, scooping up a piece of bread soaked in broth.
Without waiting for permission, she held it to his lips. Sif jerked his head away, cheeks burning.
"I can feed myself," he muttered.
She merely smiled. "Hush. Let me spoil you for once."
With patient care, she fed him, bite after bite, her smile unwavering, her touch light. Slowly, Sif's resistance faded.
Something fragile stirred in him—something long forgotten.
When the meal was finished, he looked at her with wary curiosity.
"Why are you really here?" he asked.
Salfara straightened, her eyes turning serious. "There was a disturbance. Unusual magic cast in this region. The Empire sent me to investigate."
Sif fell into thought, processing her words.
As she leaned forward to wipe a spot of broth from his lips, she instead pressed a soft, lingering kiss onto his mouth.
Sif froze, the heat rushing to his face in a fierce blush.
Before he could say a word, Salfara chuckled and whispered, "I'll see you in the morning."
With a wave of her hand, she cast a sleeping spell. The world around Sif blurred and dissolved,
and the last thing he heard before slipping into oblivion was the sound of Salfara's lilting, mischievous laughter