The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the apothecary. The air inside was thick with dried herbs, bitter roots, and the lingering sting of alcohol tinctures. Shelves groaned with jars labeled in meticulous scrawl, some holding innocent leaves, others cradling nightmares in powder form.
Behind the counter stood Lila, the apothecary's wife—mid-thirties maybe, practical bun, rolled sleeves, ink-stained fingers. She was sorting dried peppermint into sachets with the kind of precision that made surgeons seem sloppy.
"Back again, Ishant?" she asked, not looking up.
"Can't help it," I said, leaning lightly on the counter. "Your stock's better organized than the guild library. And your labels aren't passive-aggressive."
She snorted, finally meeting my eyes. "It helps when you can actually read them."
"Give me some credit," I said, pulling my notebook from my satchel. "I've been translating root types all week. Yesterday I successfully identified a sedative without knocking myself unconscious. Progress."
"You're a fast learner," she admitted, a slight smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. "Most locals think dried basil is a curse repellent."
"I mean, technically, basil repels bad cooking. That's close."
She laughed—genuine and full—and for a moment, the shop felt like a library crossed with a kitchen. Familiar. Calming. Like the kind of place you could forget you were in a world one goblin ambush away from permanent dismemberment.
Then came the door slam.
A man strode in, wiping dirt and sweat from his brow. Late forties, balding in defiance, not surrender. His apron was smudged with ash and root oil. Tharan, the apothecary and Lila's husband.
His eyes flicked from my face to our casual lean across the counter. His jaw twitched.
"Oh," he said. "You're here. Again."
There it was. That thick, swampy silence only suspicion could birth.
"Hey, Tharan," I said, pushing off the counter like it had suddenly grown spikes. "Just asking Lila about ethergrass extraction. Trying not to poison myself this week."
"Ethergrass, is it?" he replied, voice flat as an unseasoned stew. "Funny. You spend more time in my shop than half the merchants in town."
"It's warm. Organized. And smells nicer than the guild hall," I said, shrugging. "There is less chaos and I get to taste some good tea."
Tharan grunted—somewhere between disapproval and resignation—and stomped behind the counter to unpack a sack of dried roots. He dumped them unceremoniously onto the scale, the scent of turmeric and loamy earth thickening the air.
"You drink my tea, you breathe my air, and you flirt with my wife," he said without looking up.
Lila rolled her eyes. "Tharan, for the last time, he's not flirting."
"I could be," I offered. "Just very badly."
"Then I stand corrected," Tharan muttered. "You're failing and wasting time."
Lila ignored him, pushing a small jar toward me. "Here—ground redcap. Mild antiseptic, reacts well with alcohol. Just don't mix it with bitterroot unless you want a rash in very awkward places."
I jotted the warning down in my notebook with a grimace. "Duly noted. Never combine redcap and bitterroot unless I'm planning revenge."
Before either of them could respond, the apothecary door banged open again. This time, it wasn't dramatic tension—it was genuine panic.
A boy—no older than ten—stood panting in the doorway, mud up to his knees and a wild look in his eyes. "Help! M-my uncle fell from the cart! His arm's all… wrong!"
Tharan swore, already reaching for his emergency satchel. Lila was beside him in an instant, grabbing bandages and splints. I moved on instinct.
"Where?" I asked the boy, grabbing my own satchel and slinging it across my chest.
"North field! Near the windmill!"
I was out the door before they finished packing, my boots crunching across gravel, the boy running ahead like his legs were spring-loaded. The late morning sun beat down mercilessly, turning the dust to light and the heat to pressure.
When we reached the edge of the field, I spotted the man immediately—a bulky farmer in his fifties, slumped against a wheelbarrow, his left arm bent at an angle nature hadn't intended. His face was pale and sweat-slicked, jaw clenched in pain.
"Gods," I muttered, kneeling beside him. "Okay, broken for sure. Maybe forearm—radius, ulna. Compound fracture unlikely. Pulse?"
The farmer glared at me. "Speak like a person."
"Sorry. You broke it, but the bone hasn't torn through. Good news, you'll live. Bad news, it's going to suck for a while."
"I could've told you that."
"Right. Now, bear with me for a sec," I said looking around for a few straight wooden planks.
I spotted a few discarded fence slats near the edge of the road,
"There." I fished one that looked relatively clean and straight.
"Now." I positioned the plank away from myself and uttered, "[Luminous Lance]."
The plank split from the middle into two pieces.
"What's the situation?" Tharan called out approaching briskly. Lila just behind him, both carrying satchels and a controlled sense of panic that only years of emergency herbwork could forge.
"Clean break, arm's bent outward," I said, already lifting one of the broken slats and testing its strength. "No visible bone, pulse intact. He's lucky. I'm making a splint."
Tharan knelt, gave the arm a quick look, then nodded grimly. "We'll need to bind it tight and elevate. The pain's gonna get worse before it gets better."
"Charming," the farmer muttered through clenched teeth. "Didn't expect to be the town's entertainment today."
I offered him a tight smile. "You're not. Just the reason I get to try out my field medic arc."
Lila handed me a strip of clean linen, and I began wrapping one of the makeshift slats against the underside of the farmer's forearm. "Hold still," I warned. "This part's important. And unpleasant."
"Like taxes," he grumbled, then hissed as I pulled the bandage taut.
We worked fast—splinting, wrapping, stabilizing. Between my basic healing magic and Lila's herbal paste, the worst of the inflammation would be delayed. But movement? That arm was out of commission for weeks.
"He's not harvesting anything for at least ten days," Tharan said, rising to wipe his forehead. "More, if he wants to heal right."
That's when the panic finally cracked through the farmer's gruff demeanor. "Ten days? Gods, it's harvest week. I've got three fields of lategrain and no help. If the rain hits early—"
"Do you live alone?" I asked, if he lived alone then he'd need help… with both house and farm work. He remained silent. Meanwhile, Tharan and Lila exchanged a glance—one of those silent conversations married people can have without moving a muscle. Then they both looked at me. And Tharan spoke, his voice soft.
"Ruld's wife passed away last winter." He continued, slow. "It's just him and his nephew."
"I see." I said silently. An opportunity.
"We'll figure things out in a bit." I said adjusting my satchel. "Where do you live?"
My words broke through the solemn mood, Ruld and Tharan both jolted in surprise, their eyes resting on me. "What? He clearly should rest. Sit comfortably if not lay down."
Tharan stood up, handing his kit to Lila. I offered my hand. "Come on, Gramps, let's get you home."
Ruld didn't take my hand. Not immediately. He stared at it like it might demand taxes too. Then, with a muttered curse and a grimace that looked like it had been honed over fifty harvests, he took it. His grip was strong—stronger than someone with a busted arm should've had left in them.
We helped him up slowly, avoiding jostling the injury. Tharan took most of his weight. I carried his satchel and did my best.
His cottage wasn't far—half a mile, maybe. A squat, thatch-roofed thing hugged by crooked fences and the ghosts of once-tidy garden rows. The lategrain fields stretched beyond, golden and heavy, swaying gently like they hadn't just been declared a looming disaster.
Inside the house was dim and sparse. The kind of clean that only comes from not having the time to make a mess. A few wooden chairs, a cold hearth, and one shelf lined with old cooking herbs and broken memories.
I eased Ruld into the larger of the two chairs while Tharan and Lila moved like they'd done this before—boiling water, mixing paste, setting up a cot for him to sleep nearer the stove. The boy—his nephew—hovered by the door, chewing his sleeve and eyeing me like I might sprout wings or horns at any moment.
"What's your name, kid?" I asked gently, crouching to his level.
"Levi," he said, barely a whisper.
"Hi, Levi. You're doing great, by the way. Running like that to get help? That's the kind of thing that saves lives."
He didn't smile. Just blinked rapidly, like he wasn't used to hearing praise that didn't come with chores.
"Anyways, how about you sit down?" I offered with a smile.
Levi nodded and sat down. Lila came in with tea while Tharan brought a small table and a few chairs.
We sat around the rickety table like we were plotting a heist, not triaging a broken farmer's arm. The tea Lila handed out was herbal—chamomile and something minty—but strong enough to settle nerves and reset the soul. Ruld sipped his with the grumpiness of a man who knew rest was coming whether he liked it or not.
"This," I said, gesturing at the quiet cottage, "is not the worst place to be forced into recovery."
"It is," Ruld muttered. "You just haven't lived here long enough."
Lila gave him a soft smack on the shoulder—not the broken one—and Tharan huffed something like a laugh. Levi still watched me like I was made of fireworks.
We sat silently for a few moments drinking tea. Tharan drained the last of his tea with a sigh. "We've done all we can for now. He needs rest, a little luck, and someone to stop him from trying to dig irrigation ditches with his teeth."
Lila stood, brushing off invisible flour from her skirt. "We'll stop by tomorrow with more salve and some willowbark tonic. Levi, keep that bandage dry, alright? No splashing it while playing warrior in the trough."
Levi nodded solemnly, like he'd just been knighted.
Tharan gave Ruld a last once-over. "Stay put. No fieldwork. No lifting. No pretending you're fine. And no yelling at Levi unless it's for something truly stupid."
Ruld made a noise that could've meant anything from agreement to constipation.
With a shared look between them—equal parts exhaustion and duty—Tharan and Lila gathered their bags and left. The door shut behind them with a soft click, leaving behind a silence that didn't quite know what to do with itself.
I cleared my throat. "So. You've got an empty room and something that passes for a bed?"
Ruld squinted at me like I'd just asked for his last slice of bread. "What, you planning to move in?"
"Not permanently," I said, setting down my satchel. "But someone's got to keep this place from falling apart. Cooking, cleaning, keeping Levi from throwing himself into a thresher. And with harvest coming up? Let's just say you've got more field than limbs right now."
Levi shot a glance at his uncle, like he wasn't sure whether to be hopeful or horrified.
Ruld grunted. "You volunteering?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
I shrugged. "I'm staying at the Silver Moon."
Ruld raised an eyebrow. "Martha's place."
"Mm-hmm," I said, leaning back in the creaky chair. "And she's got the best stew this side of the river. But I'm paying by the night, and that bed's about as wide as my belt."
Ruld didn't say anything, just watched me like a man watching a goat try to climb a roof.
"So here's what I'm thinking," I went on, easy as drifting smoke. "I move in. Keep the place tidy. Help Levi with the day work. You get someone to keep the roof from collapsing, and I get a real bed that doesn't squeak every time I breathe."
Ruld scratched the side of his jaw with his good hand. "And you just… want to help."
"Well," I said, flashing a quick grin, "I wouldn't turn down a bowl at dinner and a roof overhead. But let's not pretend you're not in need of an extra set of hands."
He looked me over again, slower this time. "You don't seem like the farming type."
I gestured at my boots—mud-caked, worn in, and definitely walked more than polished. "I get by."
A long silence stretched between us. Levi shifted his weight but said nothing. Finally, Ruld sighed through his nose like a man who knew he was already halfway to saying yes.
"You track mud in, you clean it up."
"Deal."
He jabbed a finger at me. "And I'm not cooking for three."
"Never expected you to," I said, standing with a satisfied stretch. "But I make a mean root stew. Just wait."
Ruld gave one last grunt, the kind that might've been approval if you squinted hard enough. I smiled—warm, grateful, just the right amount of humble.
And just like that, I had a roof. No fuss. No tricks. Just good sense, friendly charm… and a man with one good arm who didn't realize he'd just been outplayed.
******
The next afternoon, Reflet wore the same dusty sunlight and easy chatter, but something in the air felt… shifted. Like the town had exhaled, unaware it was holding its breath.
I tightened the last strap on my satchel and adjusted the second-hand pack on my back. Not much to carry—just a few books, my notebook, a clean tunic or two, and a pouch of coin that had seen better days. Still, it felt heavier than it should. Maybe because I was finally leaving somewhere instead of just passing through.
I descended the stairs of the Silver Moon Inn one last time.
Micah was wiping down the counter, her loose curls tied up in a hasty braid, sleeves rolled, apron dusted with flour and sass. She glanced up, then stopped mid-wipe.
"You're packed."
Not a question. Not even surprise. Just… observation.
I gave her a lopsided smile. "You're terrifying when you do that."
She arched an eyebrow. "And you're not answering."
I adjusted my strap. "Ruld broke his arm. Big guy, fields full of grain, no one to help but a kid barely big enough to lift a spade. Figured I'd move in, lend a hand."
Micah leaned against the bar, arms crossed. "So now you're a farmer?"
I snorted. "More like a glorified houseguest with delusions of usefulness."
"Hmm." She glanced past me at the empty staircase, then back. "Martha's gonna miss the coin. You're paid up through tomorrow."
"I know. Let her keep the extra. Consider it a tip for tolerating my existence."
"That's not a tip, that's hazard pay."
I laughed, then fell silent. The kind of quiet that comes before something changes.
Micah's gaze softened. "You're really doing this?"
"Not forever," I said quickly. "Just for a while. Until Ruld can hold a scythe without passing out. Until Levi stops flinching when someone talks too loud. Until…" I trailed off.
She didn't push. Just nodded slowly. "It suits you. The helping thing."
I raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment?"
"Careful. I only have one per day and now I'm out."
There was a pause. The kind of pause that might've held a goodbye, or maybe just a "see you later" wrapped in a breath.
"I'll stop by," I said, thumb hooked through my satchel strap. "Need your terrible tea to stay humble."
She smirked. "You mean Martha's tea."
"I'm not suicidal enough to say that where she can hear me."
Micah tilted her head, her smile fading into something quieter. "Don't vanish."
I didn't say anything at first. Just looked around the inn—the tables, the crooked picture frame behind the bar, the worn stairs that creaked in E minor.
"I'll be around," I said eventually.
Then I stepped out into the sunlight, the door swinging shut behind me.
******
The road back to Ruld's cottage was sun-drenched and half-choked with weeds, the kind of path that forgot it was meant to be a road.
When I reached the cottage, I could already hear Levi banging around inside. A thud, followed by a muffled "Ow," and then the unmistakable sound of something wooden collapsing in protest. I opened the door to find him tangled in a broom, a bucket, and what used to be a stool.
"I was… cleaning," he said.
"Of course you were," I said, setting my pack down. "And I suppose the stool attacked first?"
Levi scrambled upright, brushing dust off his knees. "I was trying to reach the top shelf."
"For?" I said, looking around for any more signs of danger. " Cooking? Cleaning? Pick your poison."
Levi hesitated, glancing toward the hearth like it might betray him.
"Bread pan," he mumbled.
I blinked. "You were trying to bake?"
He crossed his arms. "You said you'd be back by lunch. And you left the flour on the top shelf. I was going to surprise you."
I looked at the overturned stool, the flour-smeared floor, the faint smell of something that may or may not have once been yeast. And then I looked at the kid—mud on his elbow, pride in his eyes, and just enough defiance to remind me of a younger, stupider version of myself.
"You were going to surprise me," I said slowly. "By dying in a tragic kitchen-related incident."
Levi huffed. "You're worse than Uncle."
"High bar," I said, stepping over the broken stool to right the broom. "But I appreciate the thought. Next time, maybe warn me before you attempt culinary suicide."
He grinned despite himself. "You're not mad?"
"Why would I be?" I asked, curious.
Levi shrugged, kicking at a smear of flour on the floor. "People usually get mad when I mess stuff up."
I paused, hands stilling on the broom handle. "Well," I said, sweeping up what looked suspiciously like a sacrificial pile of half-kneaded dough, "if I got mad at such petty things how would you learn?"
Levi stared at me and I stared back. I held Levi's gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the mess on the floor, sweeping the doughy carnage into a pile. "Besides," I said, keeping my tone light, " I find fussing over little things a waste of time and energy. I find explaining why you don't pull stunts like that to be more productive and useful."
"Then what of the things wasted?" Levi asked, clearly unconvinced.
I leaned the broom against the wall, brushing my hands together to shake off the flour. Levi's question hung in the air, small but heavy, like a stone dropped into a still pond. His eyes were wide, searching, waiting for an answer that wouldn't snap like a twig under pressure.
"Wasted?" I said, crouching to his level again, my voice steady but soft.
"Well, yeah. It's not cheap, is it?" Leavi asked, his voice low.
"I find Time to be more expensive than flour or bread,"I smiled, just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders.
He blinked, his mouth twitching like he wasn't sure what I spouted. "But… the flour's gone. And the stool's broke."
I ruffled Levi's hair, earning a half-hearted swat and a scowl that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on," I said, nodding toward the hearth. "Let's salvage what we can and make something edible. You want to surprise me? Let's do it without burning the house down."
Levi hesitated, then nodded, his small frame relaxing just a fraction. He followed me to the hearth, where the faint warmth from last night's fire still lingered in the stones. I grabbed a fresh bowl from the shelf—careful to avoid the flour-dusted chaos of Levi's earlier campaign—and set it on the table.
"Alright, apprentice," I said, tossing him a clean cloth. "Wipe your hands. We're starting over. Bread's simple—flour, water, yeast, salt. Maybe a pinch of patience."
He smiled and followed me.
As we worked, the cottage filled with the soft rhythm of routine—me measuring flour, Levi stirring with a wooden spoon that was comically too big for his hands. The air grew warm, not just from the hearth but from the quiet ease of working side by side. It wasn't much, but it was something. A moment where the world didn't feel like it was waiting to collapse under the weight of harvest deadlines or broken bones.
Ruld stirred from his cot by the stove, his good hand rubbing at his eyes. "What's that smell?" he grumbled, voice thick with sleep and suspicion. "You burning my house down?"
"Not yet," I called back, sliding a dough-covered bowl toward the hearth to rise. "Give us an hour, though, and I make no promises."
Levi snickered, and Ruld's scowl softened into something that might've been amusement if you squinted. He propped himself up, wincing as he adjusted his splinted arm. "You're teaching the boy to cook now?"
"Someone's gotta," I said, wiping flour off my hands. "Unless you want him climbing shelves and breaking more furniture."
Ruld grunted, which I was starting to understand was his universal response to anything from agreement to existential dread. "Just don't let him near my good knife."
"Too late," Levi piped up, holding said knife with the kind of glee only a ten-year-old could muster while brandishing a blade.
"Levi," I said, snatching the knife and setting it out of reach. "No stabbing until you're at least twelve."
He pouted, but the spark in his eyes told me he was already plotting his next rebellion. I shook my head and turned back to the dough, shaping it with quick, practiced movements. It wasn't perfect, but it would bake.
******
By late afternoon, the bread was cooling on the table, its crust golden and cracked just right. The cottage smelled like warmth and yeast, a stark contrast to the dust and worry of the fields outside. Levi sat cross-legged on the floor, tearing into a heel of bread with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just conquered a dragon. Ruld, still propped on his cot, took a cautious bite and gave a grudging nod.
"Not bad," he said, which from him was practically a ballad of praise.
I leaned back in my chair, sipping the last of Lila's chamomile tea from earlier. "High praise, Ruld. I'll take it."
Levi looked up, crumbs on his chin. "You gonna stay long enough to teach me more?"
I paused, the question catching me off guard. The kid's eyes were steady, no longer darting like they had yesterday. There was hope there, fragile but stubborn, like a weed pushing through cracked stone.
"We'll see." I said, keeping my tone light. "Maybe I'll first teach you to differentiate between sugar and salt first."
He grinned, and we continued with our lunch.
******
The fields were a sea of golden lategrain, swaying under a sky that promised rain in a day or two. Rule in contrast already had a scowl.
"If," I began, tentatively. "You had both arms working, would you have been able to harvest all this alone?"
"Course not."
I waited, but he didn't elaborate. Just stared out at the grain like it owed him money. Or maybe like it was about to drown him. I watched the muscles in his jaw twitch. The man wasn't angry, not exactly—just wound tight in that way people get when everything depends on something they can't control. Like weather. Or time. Or a broken bone.
I stood silently. He, an experienced farmer, couldn't harvest it alone then naturally I couldn't.
After a while, I helped him back to the cottage, taking the long way around the grain rows, keeping my arm steady under his good shoulder. He didn't thank me, but he didn't fight it either.
Back home, he slumped into his usual chair, grumbling about his pride more than his pain. Levi was out chasing a chicken that probably didn't deserve it, and I took the chance to step back outside.
The evening sun painted the fields golden. I walked around familiarizing myself with the neighbourhood. It was quiet, peaceful even, birds were returning to their nests and people their home. Many apart from Ruld had also planted the lategrain which now blossomed golden like wheat. A group of children were playing around while a few ladies walked across with buckets in their hands.
'Maybe I should introduce myself.'
The thought settled in my mind like a pebble dropped in a still pond — small, but impossible to ignore once it rippled.
I started with a nod to the children first. They froze mid-game, one boy still clutching a stick above his head like he was about to smite a particularly insulting shrub.
"Evening," I called, raising a hand.
They stared, suspicious as stray cats. Then one girl — braver, or just more curious — waved back. The tension snapped, and they scurried off in a flurry of giggles and dust.
I kept walking, past a low fence sagging under the weight of morning glories. At the next house, two women were hauling buckets of water from a well, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back in the efficient, no-nonsense way that said they had no time for nonsense — and even less patience for strangers.
"Evening," I said again, stepping close enough to be heard but far enough not to spook them. "Need a hand?"
One woman — older, face lined with the kind of sun-etched stories no bard ever sang about — eyed me over the bucket rim. "New face," she said. "You Ruld's nephew or some such?"
"Something like that." I answered.
The older woman snorted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a bark. "Something like that, huh? You look more scholar than scytheman."
I shrugged. "The quill pays less, but you get fewer blisters."
The younger woman beside her—taller, eyes sharp as a hawk's—studied me, her hands still steady on the rope. "You here to help or just charm the buckets off us?"
"Depends," I said, flashing a grin. "Is there a prize for charming?"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide the smirk tugging at her lips. The older woman heaved her bucket up and set it down with a thump.
"Well, whoever you are, we've got enough hands here. You best focus on that one-armed mule you've got back at the cottage."
"Fair enough," I continued. "Still a mule, huh."
"Uh huh, that man, since Emma passed away, only thinks about work." The older one replied.
"I see." I nodded, a strange sense of sympathy rising in my chest. "The only thing you can do is distract yourself, if the pain doesn't dull."
The two stared at me.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
"You. Are you a noble?" The older one questioned me.
"Noble? What made you say that?" Why? Just because I bathe regularly?
The older woman sniffed, looking me up and down like I was a prize turnip at the harvest fair.
"You talk like one," she said. "All that 'pain doesn't dull' nonsense. Most men round here just grunt and spit when they're sad."
"Ah," I said, fighting a grin. "Well, no. Not a noble. Just… a guy who's read too many books and hasn't been punched enough yet."
That earned a bark of laughter from the older woman and a choked snort from the younger one, who nearly dropped her bucket back into the well.
"You'll do," she said finally, shaking her head. "Strange, but not useless."
I gave them a little half-bow, casual. "High praise in these parts, I assume."
The older woman waved me off. "Go on, boy. Before you sweet-talk us into inviting you to supper."
"Don't tempt me," I called back as I turned, still grinning.
I walked on, greeting a few more farmers on the way—some tending to fences, others checking the sky like it might personally betray them any second. The small, staccato exchanges stacked up: a nod here, a quick question there. Some complained about the rain, some about their grain, others about the state of their tools.
Looks like all of them have similar or related problems.
By the time I made it back to Ruld's, the last of the daylight was bleeding out of the sky, leaving only the hush of night birds and the faint smell of warm hearths drifting through the air.
I stepped inside to find Levi already half-asleep at the table, a trail of drool threatening to meet a very unfortunate dinner roll. Ruld looked up, his good hand wrapped around a steaming mug, eyes narrowed.
"You were out," he said.
"Sharp as ever," I replied, hanging my cloak. "Met a few neighbors. Watched some kids try to kill a shrub. Good times."
Ruld grunted, his universal response to anything he didn't immediately plan to throw out the window.
With Levi's help I prepared a light dinner, which was well received, after which I tucked Levi in, helped Ruld to bed with a tumbler of water for the night and retired myself in my room.
******
My new room was small, but in that comforting way small spaces can be — like a book you've read a hundred times but still find something new in.
The bed was wide enough that I didn't feel like I'd fall out every time I exhaled. The mattress was stuffed with straw and wool, not rocks and regret like at the Silver Moon. There was a single window, cracked open to let in the night air and the whisper of crickets. A rough-hewn desk sat under it, scarred with knife marks and ink stains that suggested someone, once upon a time, had ideas bigger than farming.
A battered wardrobe leaned against the far wall, one hinge hanging on for dear life. I dropped my satchel inside, along with the few spare clothes I owned — more as a courtesy than necessity.
The best part? A small shelf above the desk. Empty now, but just waiting to hold my notebooks, a few half-finished spell diagrams, and whatever odd bits I picked up in town.
I sat on the bed and let my shoulders finally drop. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper, a definite improvement over the inn's permanent scent of boiled cabbage and despair.
Outside, the wind rustled through the thatch roof. The cottage creaked around me, not in protest, but like it was settling down for the night, too.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams, and allowed myself a moment of quiet. The kind that wasn't forced, or bought by someone else's patience.
Better than the Silver Moon? Absolutely.
But I am not ungrateful to Martha. Martha. I suppose I wouldn't forget that old lady for quite some time. Speaking of which, it's been a week since those two left. Time sure flies once you get busy… or distracted.
Well, let's sleep before my thoughts turn any more troubling.