Eternal Realm: Shadows and Radiance

Volume One: “Omen of Fate”

Chapter 5: Fateful Encounter

The stench of cloying blood and acrid burnt oil assaulted his nostrils, hung thick and heavy in the frigid air, a nauseating perfume that relentlessly clung to the back of his throat and violently turned his churning stomach. Oakhaven’s once vibrant market square, just moments before a chaotic, brutal theater of horrific violence, now pathetically lay strewn with the grim, grotesque aftermath – broken bodies contorted into unnatural, impossible angles, discarded weapons gleaming dully and menacingly in the wildly flickering lamplight, expanding pools of dark crimson relentlessly staining the muddy ground like carelessly spilled wine, soaking into the earth. Silence had abruptly descended once more, a heavy, oppressive silence that relentlessly weighed down on the ravaged square, brutally broken only by the low, heart-wrenching moans of the desperately wounded and the faint, unsettling crackling embers of dying fires that stubbornly refused to be extinguished.

Elvin painfully limped slowly through the gruesome carnage, his wounded arm tightly clutched protectively to his bleeding side, his young face grim, set, and visibly streaked with grime, sweat, and splattered blood. His tunic, once a plain, unremarkable brown wool, now pathetically bore jagged tears that ripped through the fabric and relentlessly clung damply to his chilled skin, disgustingly sticky with his own rapidly drying blood and that of countless others. He moved deliberately slowly, cautiously, his sharp eyes constantly scanning, relentlessly searching the widespread devastation for any lingering sign of desperate survivors amidst the countless fallen. He carefully stepped gingerly over a discarded black cloak, its dark, ominous fabric strangely, disturbingly out of place amongst the roughspun wool and homespun linen typically worn by Oakhaven’s simple folk. He tentatively kicked at a fallen helm, clumsily dislodging it from where it had ominously rolled near a lifeless, broken body, bumping against a cold, stiff hand. It was cold, unyielding iron, clearly of foreign make, nothing remotely like the simple, locally crafted leather caps or dented steel pots typically worn by the town guard, if Oakhaven could even pathetically boast such a laughably inadequate thing. He shivered, stumbled, grimaced.

He suddenly heard a faint, fragile sound, a soft, barely audible whimper that almost impossibly cut weakly through the persistent ringing that stubbornly echoed in his battered ears. He abruptly froze mid-step, his weary head cocking sharply to one side, his heightened senses desperately straining, intently listening to precisely pinpoint the almost imperceptible source of the faint sound. The fragile sound tentatively came again, even weaker this time, almost completely swallowed by the oppressive, all-enveloping silence that clamped down on the square. He quickly shifted his direction, carefully moving stealthily towards a darkened market stall, its ripped canvas awning now torn and pathetically hanging askew, desperately casting deep, impenetrable shadows that pooled ominously beneath. He strained his ears, held his breath, listened intently.

He cautiously approached, his good hand instinctively reaching downwards, nervously fumbling for the reassuring hilt of the small, worn knife he habitually carried at his belt, though his brutally wounded arm immediately protested sharply with a searing, agonizing throb that shot up his limb. He cautiously peered intently into the inky shadows lurking beneath the damaged stall, his strained eyes slowly, painfully adjusting to the deepening gloom, seeking any movement, any sign of life. At first, he desperately saw absolutely nothing but scattered, broken crates and overturned baskets, pathetic remnants of the market’s once lively daytime bustle, now broken and useless. Then, his weary gaze abruptly fell slowly upon a huddled figure lurking in the deepest, darkest shadows, almost completely invisible, seamlessly blending against the dark, rough wood of the stall’s supporting posts. He stared, squinted, focused.

It demonstrably was a woman, lying weakly curled tightly on her side, her fragile form partially obscured by a fallen bolt of brightly colored cloth, a stark, jarring contrast to the surrounding darkness. She demonstrably was clad in dark leather, midnight black and surprisingly supple, meticulously molded to perfectly fit her lithe form like a second, protective skin, practical, functional garb, clearly not designed for frivolous finery but for unrestricted, agile movement and silent stealth. A gleaming sword, its intricately worked hilt surprisingly gleaming even in the dim, flickering light, pathetically lay discarded carelessly beside her, its razor-sharp blade ominously stained a disturbingly dark red near its deadly point, the color spreading. Her unbound hair, the ethereal color of softly spun moonlight, delicately spilled outwards around her pale face, effectively concealing most of her delicate features, shrouding her in shadow. He cautiously leaned closer still, his ragged breath involuntarily held, his heart suddenly thumping faster. He watched, waited, listened.

He suddenly saw then, with a jolt of pity, that she demonstrably was seriously wounded. A large, ominous dark stain visibly blossomed rapidly on the dark leather at her side, slowly spreading outwards, relentlessly soaking ominously into the dark, absorbent material, growing larger with each shallow breath. Her shallow breathing visibly came in short, ragged gasps, her fragile body visibly trembling faintly, almost imperceptibly, with each painful inhalation and exhalation. He cautiously knelt slowly beside her fragile form, his worn knife still nervously held loosely in his trembling hand, his sharp eyes frantically scanning her pale face, desperately searching for any subtle sign of lingering threat, any involuntary flicker of awareness, any hidden danger. He observed, analyzed, assessed.

Her eyes, when they slowly, reluctantly opened, were the startlingly unusual color of a frigid winter sky just moments before the first snowflakes softly fall, a pale, almost translucent ice-flecked blue that unnervingly seemed to sharply see directly right through him, penetrating his very soul. They slowly focused directly on him, initially unfocused and distant, then gradually sharpening with a sudden flicker of sharp intelligence, a defiant spark of barely suppressed resilience even in the face of obvious, debilitating pain. She slowly blinked once, her unfocused gaze briefly flicking quickly over his bloodied, torn tunic, his own clearly wounded arm tightly clutched to his side, then slowly returning deliberately back to his face, her delicate expression deliberately unreadable, carefully masking her true feelings. She studied, scrutinized, evaluated.

“Oakhaven…?” she barely whispered, her voice almost inaudible, painfully raspy with obvious pain and exertion, each word a labored breath. Her pale lips barely moved as she hesitantly spoke, each carefully formed word seemingly tragically costing her a great, visible effort, draining her remaining strength. She winced, gasped, struggled.

Elvin slowly lowered his raised knife slightly, his tense posture visibly easing imperceptibly, instinctively sensing no immediate, overt danger radiating from this clearly wounded, vulnerable woman. “Yes,” he cautiously replied softly, his own voice deliberately low and carefully cautious, mirroring her fragile tone. “This demonstrably is Oakhaven. What… what in the hell happened to you here?” He gestured vaguely around at the carnage, his voice trembling slightly.

Her ice-blue eyes briefly flickered shut for a fleeting moment, her shallow breath audibly catching in a painful, ragged gasp that racked her fragile body. She slowly opened them painfully again, her unfocused gaze now noticeably more focused, strangely sharper, as if she were deliberately pushing resolutely past the overwhelming pain that threatened to engulf her, bravely forcing herself to consciously remain stubbornly present in the grim reality of the moment. She intensely stared directly at him for a long, silent moment that stretched into an eternity, her unwavering gaze strangely intense, deeply assessing, silently probing his very soul. He bravely met her intense gaze steadily, deliberately offering no visible threat, only a hesitant, genuine concern that radiated from his worried face. He waited, endured, offered silent reassurance.

“Ambush,” she finally slowly said, her voice still painfully weak and barely audible but noticeably firmer now, slowly regaining a fragile thread of barely contained strength, a spark of defiance. “Black cloaks… like living shadows.” Her pale brow involuntarily furrowed slightly as she painstakingly spoke, as if the vivid memory itself brutally caused her fresh, agonizing pain, twisting her features. She flinched, grimaced, shivered.

Shadows. The very same chilling word Martha had desperately used earlier. The exact same unnerving description that perfectly fit the terrifying attackers who had so ruthlessly ravaged Oakhaven. His hand instinctively tightened protectively around the cold shard of ominous obsidian still clutched tightly in his pocket, the smooth, cold stone a stark, tangible reminder of the night’s unspeakable horrors, the brutal reality of the attack. He trembled, shuddered, remembered.

“You bravely fought them then?” Elvin hesitantly asked, his worried eyes suddenly dropping to the gleaming sword pathetically lying discarded beside her fragile form, its bloodied, razor-sharp blade powerfully speaking volumes of her fierce, desperate resistance, her valiant fight against overwhelming odds. He gestured towards the weapon, raised his eyebrows, waited for her response.

A faint, almost imperceptible, weary smile tentatively touched the pale corners of her parched lips, a fleeting ghost of quiet pride briefly flickering weakly in her pain-filled eyes, a spark of defiance refusing to be completely extinguished. “Tried,” she barely whispered, her voice even weaker now, almost inaudible. “Too many… overwhelmingly many… Fell back… Desperately fell back… Wounded badly.” She weakly gestured almost imperceptibly towards her bleeding side, her trembling fingers barely brushing lightly against the stained, dark leather armor, a fragile, pathetic gesture. She winced, gasped, struggled.

He suddenly saw clearly then, with a jolt of understanding, that she demonstrably was absolutely no ordinary, simple towns woman, no farmer’s wife or baker’s daughter. Her dark leather armor, though undeniably practical and functional, was meticulously, finely crafted from supple, expensive leather, the gleaming sword pathetically lying discarded beside her undeniably a weapon of obvious, superior quality, not the crude, blunt tools of simple farmers or the mass-produced, inferior steel of city guards. There demonstrably was a distinct, undeniable bearing about her, a quiet, almost regal confidence that even agonizing pain and debilitating injury demonstrably couldn’t completely extinguish, couldn’t completely break. She bravely held herself remarkably straight of spine, even slumped weakly as she currently was, that clearly spoke volumes of rigorous training, of years of harsh discipline, of a dangerous life deliberately lived constantly on the razor’s edge of a drawn blade. He observed, deduced, understood.

“I’m Elvin,” he softly said, tentatively offering his simple name, a hesitant, fragile gesture of nascent trust in the face of their shared, terrifying adversity, a bridge across the silence. “I actually live here, believe it or not. Right here in Oakhaven, of all places.” He gestured vaguely again at the surrounding devastation, his voice trembling slightly.

She intently studied him directly for another long, agonizing moment, her piercing ice-blue eyes relentlessly searching his earnest face, desperately trying to consciously read something deeply hidden beneath the grime, beneath the fear, beneath the surface, seeking truth or deception. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she barely nodded her head, a bare, almost imperceptible inclination, a grudging acknowledgement. “Lina,” she finally barely replied, her voice slowly regaining a tiny fraction more strength, a flicker of returning resolve. “I… am called Lina.” She whispered her name, barely audible.

Lina. The simple name undeniably suited her perfectly, sharp and clean, like the honed edge of her fallen sword, like the cold, unwavering fire that still bravely burned brightly in her piercing eyes. He suddenly felt a strange, unexpected pull directly towards her, a visceral sense of… uncanny recognition, strangely mirroring the intense feeling he had initially experienced so powerfully with the enigmatic Dawn Stone, though subtly different, less overtly visceral, more… deeply resonant, more subtly profound. Perhaps it simply was the shared trauma of the terrifying night, the unexpected bond involuntarily forged in the brutal crucible of senseless violence, the shared experience of horror. Or perhaps it undeniably was something significantly more profound, something inexplicably deeper, something vaguely hinted at by the impossible strange runes in the night sky and the unsettling, persistent whispers of impending destiny that had inexplicably begun to strangely stir deep within his very soul, refusing to be silenced. He wondered, pondered, questioned.

“Lina,” he softly repeated, tentatively testing her unfamiliar name carefully on his tongue, inexplicably liking the sharp, clean sound of it, the way it rolled off his lips. “Lina,” he said again, firmer this time. “You desperately need help. You’re demonstrably badly wounded, Lina.” He tentatively reached out hesitantly, his good hand slowly hovering nervously near her uninjured shoulder, silently offering unspoken support, a non-threatening gesture of aid. He waited, watched, offered comfort.

She involuntarily flinched slightly at his tentative, gentle touch, her ice-blue eyes momentarily narrowing suspiciously, a fleeting, sharp flicker of instinctive suspicion suddenly crossing her pale, guarded features, instantly erecting an invisible barrier. Then, almost imperceptibly, she strangely seemed to slowly relax minutely, the visible tension visibly easing in her stiff shoulders, just a barely perceptible fraction, a grudging acceptance of his presence. She slowly looked directly at his outstretched hand, then slowly back up at his concerned face, her unwavering gaze still intensely assessing, still visibly wary, but perhaps… subtly softening, just the barest hint of thawing ice, just a little. He hoped, prayed, waited.

“Can you… can you possibly stand, Lina?” Elvin softly asked gently, his voice deliberately gentle, carefully trying to consciously project reassurance, desperately trying to gently quell the palpable suspicion he keenly sensed visibly radiating outwards from her guarded posture. “My house… it’s actually not far from here, thankfully. Just over there.” He vaguely gestured towards his small dwelling. “I… I can genuinely help you there, Lina. It’s… safe.” He offered his aid, his home, his protection.

She deliberately considered his hesitant offer for a long, agonizingly silent moment that stretched into an eternity, her unwavering gaze slowly flickering around the blood-soaked, ravaged square, taking in the gruesome carnage, then slowly returning deliberately back to intently focus on his earnest, worried face, relentlessly searching for hidden motives. He anxiously held his ragged breath, nervously waiting, utterly unsure what she would ultimately decide to do, whether she would ultimately choose to trust him, a complete stranger, a simple, insignificant townsman, after whatever horrific ordeal she had just undeniably endured, whatever unspeakable horrors she had just witnessed. He suddenly saw a fleeting flicker of something profound deep within her piercing eyes, a bone-deep weariness that demonstrably went far beyond mere physical pain, a deep, profound exhaustion that overwhelmingly seemed to physically weigh her down far more heavily than any visible wound possibly could, a weariness of soul. Perhaps, he silently thought, she tragically simply had absolutely nowhere else safe to desperately go, nowhere else to turn in her desperate hour of need. He hoped, prayed, waited.

Slowly, deliberately, she barely nodded again, a slightly more definite, less hesitant movement this time, a grudging, reluctant acceptance of his fragile offer, a desperate grasping at a lifeline. “Help,” she barely whispered, the single word almost inaudible, yet undeniably clear enough, resonating with quiet desperation. “Yes… I… need help… please.” She finally, reluctantly accepted his aid.

Elvin slowly let out a long, shaky breath of profound relief, a palpable tension he hadn’t even consciously realized he had been rigidly holding tightly in his stiff shoulders visibly easing abruptly, dissolving into the frigid night air. He carefully, gently slid his uninjured arm cautiously beneath her uninjured side, tenderly supporting her fragile weight, taking her burden upon himself. She weakly leaned heavily against him, her fragile body surprisingly light and insubstantial, yet strangely radiating a surprising, unexpected strength even in her clearly wounded, weakened state, a core of iron beneath the fragility. He distinctly felt the unexpected warmth of her body radiating outwards through her worn leather armor, a stark, welcome contrast to the pervasive cold steel and cloying blood that relentlessly permeated the ravaged square, a fragile spark of life in the face of death. He held, supported, protected.

“Slowly now, Lina,” he softly murmured gently, his voice deliberately soft and soothing, carefully trying to genuinely project calm reassurance, to gently soothe her frayed nerves. “Just gently lean heavily on me, okay? Let me support you. We’ll slowly get you safely out of this terrible place, I promise.” He encouraged, reassured, guided.

He gently helped her carefully to her trembling feet, her stiff, pained movements undeniably unsteady and labored, her shallow breath audibly hissing sharply through her clenched teeth with each small, agonizing exertion, each tentative step a visible struggle. She weakly clutched desperately at his steady arm, her surprisingly strong grip surprisingly firm, tightly using him gratefully as a much-needed crutch to desperately support her own failing weight, clinging to him for stability. He distinctly felt her fragile body visibly lean heavily against his, her form visibly trembling faintly, almost imperceptibly, but her unwavering gaze resolutely remained stubbornly fixed directly straight ahead, her set jaw visibly clenched with a fierce, determined resolve that bravely belied her undeniably fragile, wounded state, a testament to her inner strength.

Together, they slowly, painstakingly moved cautiously through the ravaged market square, reluctantly leaving behind the countless fallen, the desperately dying, and the haunting, lingering ghosts of the night’s brutal, senseless violence, silently walking away from death and destruction. As they slowly walked, or rather, as Elvin carefully supported Lina’s faltering, unsteady steps, he cautiously glanced sideways at her pale face, intently studying her stark profile in the dim, flickering lamplight, meticulously observing her delicate features. Her sharp features demonstrably were angular and finely sculpted, her high cheekbones sharply defined, her firm jaw resolutely set. There demonstrably was a hard-won strength permanently etched deeply into the fine lines around her piercing eyes and determined mouth, a profound weariness that clearly spoke volumes of past hardship and countless unseen battles fiercely fought, both visibly seen and silently unseen. She undeniably was undeniably beautiful, in a stark, almost severe, breathtaking way, a raw, untamed beauty fiercely forged in the crucible of fire and relentlessly tempered by cold, hard steel, a beauty born of struggle and survival. And despite the obvious pain she bravely endured, despite the palpable fear that still visibly clung to the air, despite the lingering blood and pervasive chaos that violently surrounded them, Elvin undeniably felt something unexpected begin to tentatively stir deep within him, a fragile flicker of unexpected warmth, a nascent spark of… something demonstrably more than mere pity or simple compassion. A nascent, fragile affection, perhaps, or simply a deep, profound respect for her undeniable courage, for her quiet resilience, for her indomitable spirit. But something undeniably was demonstrably there, a fragile seed of nascent hope tentatively planted deep in the blood-soaked, ravaged ground of Oakhaven, a faint, fragile promise of unexpected connection amidst the all-consuming shadows and the crumbling ruins, a spark of light in the encroaching darkness. He instinctively knew, with a sudden, profound certainty, that this fateful encounter, this unexpected, life-altering meeting amidst the brutal chaos, was demonstrably more than just random chance, more than mere coincidence. Their disparate paths had inexplicably crossed for a profound, unseen reason, their intertwined destinies, however deeply unknown and profoundly uncertain, were now undeniably, inextricably intertwined, forever bound together by blood and shadow and fate. And as they slowly, laboriously moved deliberately away from the lingering carnage, resolutely towards the uncertain, fragile dawn that tentatively promised a new day, Elvin instinctively felt a complex, bewildering mix of both profound trepidation and burgeoning anticipation, a powerful feeling that this wounded, enigmatic swordswoman, this mysterious Lina, undeniably held a vital key to the unfathomable mysteries that were rapidly unfolding around them, a crucial key that might possibly unlock not only their own deeply hidden, intertwined pasts, but also the profoundly uncertain, precarious future of all of Erechia itself, for better or for worse.

《永恒之境：暗影与光辉》卷一《命运预兆》

第五章：命运的交汇

血腥味和燃油味混杂在一起，浓烈而令人作呕，紧紧地扼住喉咙，让胃里一阵翻腾。橡木镇那曾经熙熙攘攘的集市广场，不久前还是血腥和暴力的舞台，此刻却只剩下了一片狼藉——尸体扭曲成怪异的形状，被丢弃的武器在闪烁的灯光下反射着冰冷的光芒，一滩滩暗红色的血迹肆意蔓延，像是泼洒的红酒，浸透了泥土。寂静再次降临，沉重而压抑，笼罩着这片饱受摧残的广场，只有伤者的呻吟和尚未熄灭的火堆发出的噼啪声，偶尔打破这死一般的沉寂。

艾尔文步履蹒跚地走过这片血腥之地，受伤的手臂紧紧地贴在身侧，年轻的脸上满是尘土、汗水和飞溅的血迹，表情凝重。他那件原本不起眼的棕色羊毛外衣，此刻被撕开了一道道口子，湿漉漉地粘在冰冷的皮肤上，沾满了自己和别人的鲜血。他小心翼翼地走着，锐利的目光不停地扫视着四周，试图在尸体中找到幸存者。他小心地跨过一件被丢弃的黑色斗篷，那深色的、不祥的布料，与橡木镇居民常穿的粗制羊毛和亚麻布格格不入。他踢了踢一个掉落的头盔，它从一具尸体旁滚落，撞在了一只冰冷僵硬的手上。那是冰冷的、坚硬的铁器，显然不是本地的制品，与镇上守卫平时戴的简陋的皮帽子或凹陷的钢盔截然不同，如果橡木镇那可笑的、聊胜于无的守卫也能被称作“守卫”的话。他打了个寒战，踉跄了一下，脸上露出一丝痛苦的表情。

突然，他听到了一阵微弱的声音，一声几不可闻的呜咽，微弱得几乎被他耳边的嗡嗡声所淹没。他猛地停住脚步，侧耳倾听，试图确定声音的来源。那声音又响了起来，比刚才更微弱，几乎完全被笼罩在广场上那令人窒息的寂静之中。他立刻改变了方向，小心翼翼地朝一个昏暗的摊位走去，摊位那破损的帆布顶篷歪歪斜斜地挂着，在地上投下浓重的阴影。他屏住呼吸，仔细聆听。

他小心翼翼地走上前，一只手下意识地摸向腰间那把破旧的小刀，尽管他受伤的手臂立刻传来一阵剧痛，像针扎一样刺痛着他的神经。他朝摊位下那片漆黑的阴影中望去，努力地适应着昏暗的光线，寻找着任何动静，任何生命迹象。起初，他只看到一些散落的、破损的板条箱和翻倒的篮子，这些都是集市昔日繁华景象的残骸，现在却都已破败不堪。接着，他的目光落在一个蜷缩在阴影最深处的身影上，那身影几乎与摊位那黑色的、粗糙的木柱融为一体。他盯着那个身影，眯起眼睛，努力辨认。

那是一个女人，她虚弱地蜷缩着身子，身体被一块掉落的、颜色鲜艳的布料遮住了一部分，与周围的黑暗形成了鲜明的对比。她穿着黑色的皮衣，紧紧地贴合着她那苗条的身材，像是她的第二层皮肤，实用而灵活，显然不是为了虚荣和浮华，而是为了行动的敏捷和隐蔽。一把闪闪发光的长剑，剑柄上镶嵌着精美的图案，即便在昏暗的灯光下也依旧闪闪发光，它被随意地丢弃在一旁，锋利的剑刃上沾满了暗红色的血迹，在靠近剑尖的地方，颜色还在蔓延。她那如月光般皎洁的长发披散在苍白的脸上，遮住了她的大部分面容，将她笼罩在阴影之中。他小心翼翼地凑近，屏住呼吸，心跳加速。他看着她，等着，听着。

他突然意识到，她受了重伤。她身侧的黑色皮衣上，有一大块深色的污渍，并且还在不断扩大，无情地浸透了那块黑色的、吸水的布料，随着她每一次浅浅的呼吸而变大。她的呼吸急促而凌乱，身体微微颤抖，每一次吸气和呼气都伴随着痛苦。他小心翼翼地跪在她身边，手中依旧紧握着那把破旧的小刀，锐利的目光扫过她苍白的脸庞，寻找着任何威胁的迹象，任何意识的迹象，任何隐藏的危险。他观察着，分析着，评估着。

她的眼睛，缓缓地睁开了，那是一双冰蓝色的眼睛，像是第一片雪花飘落前的冬日天空，清澈得仿佛能看穿他的灵魂。她的目光落在他身上，起初有些涣散，但很快就变得锐利起来，闪烁着智慧的光芒，即使在剧痛之中，也依旧带着一丝不屈不挠的韧劲。她眨了眨眼，目光扫过他那件沾满血迹、破损不堪的外衣，扫过他那只紧紧捂在身侧的受伤的手臂，然后又回到他的脸上，她的表情依旧难以捉摸，小心翼翼地隐藏着自己的真实情感。她在研究，审视，评估。

“橡木…镇…？” 她低声问道，声音几不可闻，带着明显的痛苦，每一个字都像是一次艰难的呼吸。她的嘴唇几乎没有动，每一个字似乎都耗尽了她极大的力气，消耗着她所剩无几的体力。她畏缩着，喘息着，挣扎着。

艾尔文稍稍放下了手中的刀，紧绷的身体也放松了一些，他本能地感觉到，这个受伤的、虚弱的女人，对他构不成威胁。“是的，” 他轻声回答，声音低沉而谨慎，与她那脆弱的语调相呼应。“这里是橡木镇。你…你到底怎么了？” 他指了指周围的狼藉，声音微微颤抖。

她的眼睛闭上了一会儿，急促的呼吸让她那脆弱的身躯一阵颤抖。她又缓缓地睁开眼睛，目光比刚才更加锐利，仿佛是在强忍着那即将吞噬她的剧痛，强迫自己保持清醒，面对这残酷的现实。她一动不动地凝视了他许久，目光锐利，似乎要看穿他的灵魂。他毫不退缩地迎上她的目光，脸上没有丝毫的威胁，只有真诚的关切。他等待着，忍耐着，默默地给予她安慰。

“伏击，” 她终于开口说道，声音依旧虚弱，但比刚才坚定了一些，带着一丝微弱的力量，一丝不屈的火花。“黑色的斗篷…像活着的影子一样。” 她苍白的眉头微微皱起，仿佛回忆本身也让她感到痛苦，扭曲了她的面容。她畏缩了一下，打了个寒战，颤抖起来。

影子。玛莎之前也用过这个词。这个令人不寒而栗的描述，与那些袭击橡木镇的凶手，如出一辙。他下意识地握紧了口袋里那块冰冷的黑曜石碎片，那光滑、冰冷的石头，无时无刻不在提醒着他今晚发生的恐怖事件，提醒着他那场袭击的残酷现实。他颤抖着，战栗着，回忆着。

“你和他们交过手？” 艾尔文试探性地问道，目光落在了她身旁那把闪闪发光的长剑上，剑刃上沾满了鲜血，无声地诉说着她那场绝望而英勇的抵抗，那场以寡敌众的战斗。他指了指那把剑，挑了挑眉，等待着她的回答。

她那苍白的嘴唇微微上扬，露出一个虚弱的、几乎难以察觉的微笑，眼中闪过一丝骄傲，即使在剧痛之中也依旧没有熄灭，一丝不屈的火花拒绝被完全扑灭。“试过，” 她低声说道，声音更弱了，几乎微不可闻。“太多了…太多了…退了…我退了…受了重伤。” 她无力地指了指自己受伤的腰侧，颤抖的手指轻轻地碰了碰那块被血浸透的黑色皮甲，一个脆弱的、令人心碎的动作。她畏缩着，喘息着，挣扎着。

他突然意识到，她绝不是一个普通的镇上居民，不是农夫的妻子，也不是面包师的女儿。她身上的黑色皮甲，虽然实用，却是用柔软而昂贵的皮革精心制作的，而她身旁那把闪闪发光的长剑，也显然是一把品质上乘的武器，绝不是农民们使用的粗制滥造的工具，也不是城卫队使用的劣质钢铁。她身上有一种独特的气质，一种沉静的、近乎高贵的自信，即使是剧痛和重伤也无法完全掩盖。即使是在她此刻虚弱地倒在地上的时候，她的脊背也挺得笔直，这显然是经过了严格的训练，多年的磨砺，以及在刀尖上舔血的生活所磨练出来的。他观察着，推断着，理解着。

“我叫艾尔文，” 他轻声说道，试探性地说出了自己的名字，这是在他们共同面对的恐惧和逆境中，一个脆弱的、信任的姿态，一座沉默的桥梁。“我就住在这里，信不信由你。就在橡木镇，这鬼地方。” 他又指了指周围的狼藉，声音微微颤抖。

她又仔细地端详了他片刻，那双冰蓝色的眼睛仔细地审视着他那张真诚的脸，试图看穿他脸上的污垢、恐惧和表象，寻找着真相或欺骗。然后，她缓缓地、不情愿地点了点头，幅度很小，几乎难以察觉，表示认可。“莉娜，” 她终于开口说道，声音稍微恢复了一点力量，一丝坚定的火花。“我…我叫莉娜。” 她低声说出了自己的名字，声音几乎微不可闻。

莉娜。这个名字很适合她，简洁而有力，像她那把掉落的长剑的锋刃，像她那双冰冷的眼睛里燃烧着的不灭的火焰。他突然感到一种莫名的吸引力，一种似曾相识的感觉，与他第一次接触黎明石时的那种强烈的感觉相似，虽然有所不同，不那么强烈，却更…深刻，更微妙。也许仅仅是因为他们共同经历了这场恐怖的夜晚，在这场毫无意义的暴力中结下了不解之缘，共同经历了恐怖。又或许，这是一种更加深刻、更加神秘的联系，就像那不可能的、奇怪的符文和那在他灵魂深处回荡的、关于命运的低语所暗示的那样。他思索着，沉思着，质疑着。

“莉娜，” 他轻声重复道，试探性地品味着这个陌生的名字，莫名地喜欢它那简洁有力的发音，喜欢它在唇齿间的感觉。“莉娜，” 他又说了一遍，语气更加坚定。“你需要帮助。你伤得很重，莉娜。” 他试探性地伸出手，没有受伤的那只手在她没有受伤的肩膀附近徘徊，默默地提供支持，一个没有威胁的援助姿态。他等待着，观察着，给予安慰。

他那试探性的、温柔的触摸，让她微微一颤，她那双冰蓝色的眼睛瞬间眯了起来，脸上闪过一丝怀疑，竖起了一道无形的屏障。然后，她似乎又放松了一些，紧绷的肩膀微微放松了一点，一丝几乎难以察觉的变化，勉强接受了他的存在。她缓缓地看着他伸出的手，然后又抬起头看着他那张关切的脸，目光依旧锐利，依旧警惕，但也许…已经柔和了一些，至少，坚冰已经有了一丝融化的迹象。他希望，祈祷，等待。

“你…你能站起来吗，莉娜？” 艾尔文轻声问道，声音温柔，小心翼翼地试图给予她安慰，试图驱散她那明显的怀疑。 “我家…其实离这里不远，谢天谢地。就在那边。” 他指了指自己的小屋。“我…我真的可以帮你，莉娜。那里…很安全。” 他向她提供了帮助，他的家，他的保护。

她仔细地考虑着他的提议，沉默了许久，她的目光缓缓地扫过这片血迹斑斑的、饱受摧残的广场，将这片狼藉尽收眼底，然后又回到他那张真诚的、关切的脸上，试图寻找隐藏的动机。他焦急地屏住呼吸，紧张地等待着，完全不知道她最终会做出怎样的决定，不知道她是否会选择相信他这个陌生人，一个平凡的、微不足道的镇民，在她经历了那场可怕的磨难，目睹了那难以言喻的恐怖之后。他突然看到她那双锐利的眼睛深处闪过一丝什么，那是一种深深的疲惫，远远超出了肉体的痛苦，一种沉重的、仿佛比任何伤口都要沉重的疲惫，一种灵魂的疲惫。也许，他暗自思忖，她真的已经无处可去了，在最需要帮助的时候，已经无路可走了。他希望，祈祷，等待。

她缓缓地点了点头，比刚才更加坚定，不再那么犹豫，勉强接受了他的提议，像溺水之人抓住了一根救命稻草。“帮帮我，” 她低声说道，声音几乎微不可闻，却又清晰可辨，带着一丝绝望。“是的…我…需要帮助…求你。” 她终于，不情愿地接受了他的帮助。

艾尔文长长地、如释重负地呼出了一口气，他甚至没有意识到自己一直紧绷的神经，此刻终于放松下来，消散在寒冷的夜空中。他小心翼翼地将没有受伤的手臂伸到她没有受伤的那一侧，温柔地扶着她，将她的重量揽到自己身上。她虚弱地靠在他身上，身体出乎意料的轻，却又散发着一种惊人的力量，即使是在她受伤虚弱的时候，也有一种钢铁般的意志蕴藏其中。他能感觉到她的体温透过她那件破旧的皮甲传递过来，与周围的冰冷和血腥形成了鲜明的对比，在死亡面前，这是一丝脆弱的生命火花。他抱着她，支撑着她，保护着她。

“慢慢来，莉娜，” 他轻声说道，声音温柔而舒缓，试图给予她安慰，抚平她那紧绷的神经。“靠着我，让我支撑着你。我会带你安全离开这个鬼地方的，我保证。” 他鼓励着，安慰着，引导着。

他小心翼翼地扶着她站了起来，她那僵硬的、痛苦的动作，明显地不稳定，也很吃力，每一次呼吸都伴随着牙关紧咬的声音，每一步都伴随着明显的挣扎。她紧紧地抓住他的胳膊，出乎意料地用力，把他当作支撑自己体重的拐杖，紧紧地依靠着他，寻求稳定。他能感觉到她的身体在微微颤抖，但她的目光却坚定地直视前方，紧咬的下巴显示出一种与她那脆弱的、受伤的状态不符的决心，这是她内在力量的证明。

他们一起，缓慢而痛苦地走过这片饱受摧残的广场，离开了那些倒下的人们，那些垂死的人们，以及那些萦绕在夜色中的、挥之不去的、残酷的、毫无意义的暴力，默默地离开了死亡和毁灭。当他们缓慢地走着，或者更确切地说，当艾尔文搀扶着莉娜蹒跚前行时，他小心翼翼地瞥了一眼她苍白的脸庞，在昏暗的灯光下仔细地观察着她的侧脸，观察着她那精致的五官。她那棱角分明的脸庞，高耸的颧骨，紧绷的下巴。在那双锐利的眼睛和紧抿的嘴唇周围的细纹中，有一种饱经沧桑的力量，一种深深的疲惫，诉说着过去的苦难和无数次激烈的战斗，无论是有形的还是无形的。她无疑是美丽的，带着一种 stark 的，几乎是严酷的，令人惊叹的美，一种在烈火中锻造、在冷酷的钢铁中淬炼的、原始的、不羁的美，一种在挣扎和生存中诞生的美。尽管她忍受着明显的痛苦，尽管恐惧依旧笼罩在空气中，尽管周围一片狼藉，艾尔文还是感觉到内心深处有什么东西在悄然萌动，一丝意想不到的温暖，一丝…不仅仅是同情或怜悯的情感。也许是一种 nascent 的、脆弱的好感，或者仅仅是一种对她那不可否认的勇气、她那沉静的韧性、她那不屈不挠的精神的深深的敬意。但某种东西，确确实实地存在着，一颗希望的种子，播撒在橡木镇这片血迹斑斑的土地上，在吞噬一切的阴影和摇摇欲坠的废墟中，一丝微弱的希望，在黑暗中闪烁的一丝光芒。他本能地知道，带着一种突然的、深刻的 নিশ্চিত感，这场命运的邂逅，这场在残酷的混乱中发生的、意想不到的、改变人生的相遇，绝不仅仅是偶然，不仅仅是巧合。他们那截然不同的人生轨迹，以一种深刻的、未知的方式交汇在一起，他们那交织在一起的命运，无论多么的未知和不确定，现在都不可避免地、不可分割地联系在一起，被鲜血、阴影和命运永远地联系在一起。当他们缓慢地、艰难地离开这片狼藉之地，走向那充满希望的、脆弱的黎明时，艾尔文感到一种复杂而矛盾的情绪，既有深深的恐惧，又有不断增长的期待，他强烈地感觉到，这个受伤的、神秘的女剑士，这个神秘的莉娜，掌握着解开周围谜团的关键，这个关键，不仅可能解开他们那隐藏的、交织在一起的过去，也可能解开整个埃雷希亚那岌岌可危的未来，无论好坏。

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