Episode 1

It was a typical day in Elisabeth's life, gathering firewood, keeping the fire going, fetching water, cooking something warm, and, when time permitted, preparing her medicinal herbs to sell in the village. Falko, her wolfdog, followed her everywhere, even inside the cabin; if she moved, he did the same. Falko was her only company, along with an old book of poems.

But that day, the routine was broken. While she was heating water for tea, Elisabeth absentmindedly looked outside. At first, she only distinguished a dark, staggering silhouette emerging from the forest. Then, the figure became clearer, a man, dressed completely in black, collapsed in front of her cabin, leaving a scarlet trail on the snow.

Elisabeth dropped the cup she was holding and ran outside, with Falko hot on her heels. The winter wind lashed her face harshly, but she didn't care.

"Are you alright?" she shouted, although it was obvious that the man had lost consciousness.

His black hair and dark clothes contrasted violently with the whiteness of the ground. Elisabeth knelt beside him and brought her trembling fingers to his nostrils: he was still breathing. Falko, restless, circled the stranger growling, as if sensing a threat. But she didn't notice; her mind only screamed one thing: "If he stays here, he will die."

With superhuman effort, she managed to drag him into the cabin.

"You're too heavy," she muttered through her teeth, panting as she settled him on her bed.

The smell of blood enveloped her then. She looked at her hands, they were stained red. She ran to the kitchen, grabbed warm water, clean cloths, and a handful of antiseptic herbs. Upon returning, for the first time, she noticed the man's appearance. He had a perfectly sculpted face, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, and a muscular torso that revealed years of training.

"This is not the time for this," she scolded herself, concentrating on the wound that was bleeding on his side. It seemed to be made with a sharp weapon, perhaps a dagger or a knife. She cleaned the blood carefully, applied the herbs, sutured, and bandaged the injury with strips of cloth.

Falko, still wary, sat by the door, vigilant.

Elisabeth watched the stranger writhe in bed, his face contorted by pain and fever. "Who are you?" she wondered, running a finger over her own wrist, as if trying to calm an unease that she couldn't quite understand. "How did you end up like this, bleeding and alone in the middle of nowhere?"

Falko approached and rested his heavy head on her lap, emitting a low, continuous growl, almost like a lament.

"What's wrong, Falko?" Elisabeth murmured, stroking the animal's rough fur. "You're anxious... Don't you like the intruder?" The wolfdog fixed his yellow eyes on the man, his ears tense forward. "I know, but we can't throw him out now. He would die." Her own words sounded colder than she expected. "When he recovers, this will be just our refuge again."

A sudden spasm from the man startled her. He was shuddering under the blankets, his muscles tense, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness. Elisabeth leaned over him and placed the back of her hand on his forehead.

"Fever..." she whispered.

Looking down, she noticed that his pants were soaked, either from melted snow or sweat. "If I don't take them off, it will get worse." She swallowed, feeling an uncomfortable heat rise up her neck. "How am I going to do this? Taking a man's pants off... Not even in my most absurd thoughts..."

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath.

"Don't be silly," she scolded herself in a low voice. "It's out of necessity, not for... anything else."

With quick but clumsy movements, she unbuckled his belt and pulled off the wet fabric, avoiding looking more than strictly necessary. She had no men's clothing, so she covered him with two additional blankets and piled more wood on the fire. The soaked clothes—now tangled in her hands—smelled of iron, frozen forest, and something else, something that reminded her of rotten leaves under the snow. She washed them with hot water and hung them near the stove, where the heat began to raise a dense steam.

As she watched the drops fall to the floor, Falko lay down by the door, vigilant. Elisabeth didn't know if it was the crackling of the fire or her own voice that whispered:

"Wake up soon, stranger. I don't know how long I can protect you from what's chasing you."

After the uncomfortable moment, Elisabeth pressed her hands against her apron, as if with that gesture she could banish the blush that still burned her cheeks. She took a deep breath, seeking calm, and dropped into the wooden chair next to the bed. The flames from the fireplace drew restless shadows on the walls, mixing with the agitated rhythm of her own heart.

Falko, always attentive, curled up at her feet, resting his snout on her boots. It was their ritual, every night, she read him a poem. But this time, the voice would not only be for him.

"Today we have company, Falko," she murmured, turning the worn pages of the book with fingers that trembled slightly. "Although I don't think he's listening to us."

The poem she chose spoke of a lost love, of broken promises under the moon. The words flowed in a whisper, as if she feared waking the stranger:

"...and in the starless night, your name was the last lie, that my lips uttered..."

When she finished, the silence became denser. Elisabeth closed the book with a dry thud.

"That's horrible," she confessed, more to herself than to anyone. "Why remember the pain when it already hurts so much to live it?"

The man in the bed did not respond, but for an instant, Elisabeth imagined that his expression tightened, as if the words had touched some hidden wound in his unconsciousness. Falko let out a low moan, rubbing his head against her leg.

"I know," she stroked the animal's fur, without taking her eyes off the stranger. "Sad poems always taste like truth."

Outside, the wind howled among the trees, dragging snow against the windowpanes. Elisabeth didn't know if it was the cold or the weight of the poem that made her skin crawl.

A few kilometers from Elisabeth's cabin, the storm raged with fury. The riders advanced with difficulty, their black cloaks waving like shadows against the white blanket. In front, Sir Rolf Breener, with his face hidden behind a thick cloth, cursed under his breath as his horse trampled the virgin snow.

"Damn it! The snow has covered the tracks," he roared, clenching his fists around the reins. His breath formed dense clouds in the freezing air.

Beside him, Sir Gregor Hass, scanned the forest with a skeptical look.

"It's probably covered him too," he pointed with a gesture towards the thicket.

"That bastard is finally dead," Gregor muttered, adjusting the gauntlet of his armor.

But Rolf was not convinced. He turned to his companion, and although only his eyes were visible between the folds of the cloth, the glint of suspicion in them was unmistakable.

"Do you think that beast would die so easily?" he grunted. "We should keep looking for him."

Gregor pointed to the sky, where the flakes fell in spirals, becoming thicker and thicker.

"Don't you see this damn storm? Unless you're immortal..." he paused, spitting on the ground. "Wounded as he was, there's no way he can survive."

For a moment, only the crunching of snow under the horses' hooves and the moaning of the wind among the trees could be heard. Finally, with a grunt of frustration, Rolf pulled on the reins.

"Let the wolves take him then," he spat.

The men turned around, their silhouettes gradually disappearing in the blizzard, while the snow erased their footprints as if they had never been there.

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