Chapter 12: Warming the Hollow

I woke to the sound of wind pressing gently against the windows, a steady hush like breath through tall grass. It carried a new sharpness, not quite frost—but close. The kind of chill that crept in through the seams of the shutters and whispered of snow just over the horizon.

Still wrapped in my quilt, I listened to the timbers creak in reply. The air in the loft felt colder than it had the morning before, and I could just make out the faint puff of my breath as I sat up. I pulled on my thickest socks, added a second tunic over the first, and took my time layering warmth before heading down the stairs.

The cottage felt still, but not empty. The hearth embers had gone to ash overnight, and I coaxed them back with a few small logs and the soft flick of heat from my fingertips. The fire responded gratefully, and the scent of woodsmoke and old herbs began to fill the room.

After tea—a simple blend of sage and peppermint—I padded into the stillroom, fingers trailing along the shelves as I passed. The jars and bundles that lined the walls were becoming familiar now, not just in shape or name but in the rhythm of their presence. I’d come to know which herbs curled at the tips when they dried, which kept their color best, which ones I needed to preserve before they lost their strength entirely.

A notebook sat waiting at the far table, half-filled with notes in my tidy script. I cracked it open, cross-referenced the jars I’d labeled yesterday, and began to plan.

The wind nudged against the cottage walls as I worked, not fierce, just steady—like it was reminding me to hurry.

By midmorning, the stillroom was warm with the low hum of quiet work.

I started with the dried lavender I’d gathered in the last week of fall, crushing the fragrant buds into a small earthen bowl. Beeswax melted in a pot nearby, and I stirred slowly, folding in the crushed herbs, a few drops of pine resin, and a splash of almond oil. The mixture took on a golden hue and filled the room with the smell of summer distilled.

I poured the finished balm into small tins, each one cooling with a soft, waxy sheen.

Next came a blend of peppermint and elderflower tincture, stirred together with a dash of honey and alcohol to help preserve it. I corked the bottles carefully and made neat labels: Winter Throat & Chest Soothing Syrup. My hands moved on instinct now, the rhythm of the work both grounding and satisfying.

In the corner, bundles of drying herbs rustled slightly in the draft. I glanced up and took stock—sage still firm, rosemary almost ready to bottle, thyme already crisp at the edges.

I crossed to the rack and began to gently pluck the leaves that were ready, setting them in bowls for sorting. The motion of it—pluck, pause, sort, breathe—settled something in my chest.

The wind picked up again and I turned slightly, catching sight of a thin white edge gathering on the northernmost window.

It hadn’t begun to snow yet, not truly, but the wind was preparing the way.

I lost track of time in the best way. There was a salve of golden calendula and chamomile to reheat and stir, then pour into clay jars. I had half a bundle of dried yarrow left from my last foraging trip and used it to brew a steeped oil for skin irritation. My hands moved steadily, even as my mind drifted—thinking of the village, of the people I was starting to recognize, of Mira’s warm smiles and Bitty’s sly nudges.

Of how the stillroom, despite being left behind by another, had slowly begun to feel like mine.

By the time the clock on the mantle chimed noon, I had a tray of balm tins cooling on the sill, several corked bottles lined in a wooden crate, and two fresh bundles of herbs tied and drying above the hearth.

My stomach finally stirred, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten more than a slice of bread with tea. I dusted my hands on a cloth, peeled off the apron I’d tied around my waist, and set everything to rest for the moment.

It was time for lunch. And for a familiar smile waiting at the inn.

The chill bit at my cheeks the moment I stepped outside. The air had a new weight to it—heavy with moisture and promise, as though the sky itself were holding its breath before the first snow. The road into the heart of the village crunched beneath my boots, and I wrapped my scarf higher over my ears, tucking the end into my coat.

The walk to the inn wasn’t far, but I found myself slowing. I liked seeing the little details that marked the turning of the season—smoke curling from chimneys, bundled figures bent over chores, woolen mittens pinned to clotheslines, flapping like flags. I passed the smithy, where the great bellows puffed softly through a half-shuttered window, and waved at the general store couple who were arranging squash in a crate near the door.

Everyone was preparing for winter in their own way.

The inn was a welcome sight, golden light spilling through the windows like syrup. I ducked inside, the warmth hitting me immediately. It smelled of bread and roasted turnips, with the underlying comfort of cedarwood and dried herbs.

Mira was behind the counter, arranging clay mugs on a towel to dry, her hair tied up with a deep red ribbon today. She glanced up and grinned when she saw me.

“Well, you’re a sight,” she said. “Rosy cheeks and snow-bright eyes. Come in and thaw before you freeze to the stones.”

“I might take you up on that,” I said, brushing snow-dust from my coat. “Wind’s fierce today.”

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. I’ve just pulled barley stew off the fire. Sit. I’ll bring you a bowl.”

I didn’t argue. The inn’s common room was quieter than usual—just a few villagers nursing mugs and murmuring near the fire—but it was pleasant. I chose a seat near the hearth and let my fingers warm around the mug of tea Mira brought out first, something cinnamon-spiced and calming.

“You always seem to know what I need,” I said.

Mira laughed, setting down a full bowl and a plate of thick bread beside me. “Healers don’t have the monopoly on intuition. I spend my days reading people too, you know.”

She joined me after a few minutes, apron loosened and a bowl of her own in hand. “My sister came by this morning,” she said between spoonfuls. “She asked if I’d met the ‘new forest girl’ yet.”

“Is that what they’re calling me?”

“Oh, only when you’re not around,” she said, eyes twinkling. “They’re warming to you, Elara. It’s a big thing, someone new stepping into a place like this. Especially into her place.”

I nodded, a bit of bread paused halfway to my mouth. “I feel it sometimes. Not unkindness exactly. Just… weight.”

“She was here a long time,” Mira said gently. “Quiet woman. But good. She looked after everyone. You don’t have to be her.”

“I’m not sure I could be, even if I tried.”

“Well, don’t. Just be you. That’s been working well enough so far.”

I smiled at that. “Thank you.”

We ate in companionable silence for a while after that. The stew was earthy and thick, the bread still warm from the oven. My limbs started to thaw, the chill worked out of my bones by food and fire and company. It was a moment I wanted to pocket and keep—a calm, full-bellied kind of peace.

The bell above the inn’s front door rang lightly, and I turned to see Old Bitty bustling in, cheeks flushed from the wind and eyes sharp as ever beneath the fold of her scarf. She shook the snow off her cloak, spotted me immediately, and made a beeline for our table.

Mira rose to greet her, but Bitty waved her off. “I’ve come to borrow our young healer, not the stew pot.”

I blinked. “Borrow?”

“For conversation,” Bitty clarified. “And a proper check-in. Thought I might find you here. Mira, dear, if you’d be so kind—tea?”

Mira winked and left us to it.

Bitty took the seat Mira had vacated and leaned forward, folding her gloved hands on the table. “You’ve been busy.”

I smiled warily. “Trying to be.”

“Mm. Walk me through it.”

So I did. I told her about the foraging, about preserving what I could in the stillroom, about selling tea and salves at the market. About the rune work for the seamstress and the smithy, the notices up at the guild hall, the conversation with the storekeepers’ son about the woodpile.

Bitty nodded through it all, face unreadable. When I finally trailed off, she sat back and sipped her tea, which Mira had appeared with at just the right moment.

“You’ve done more than I expected in such a short time,” she said finally. “I’m glad. The village needed someone steady.”

“I’m just trying to keep up.”

“You’re doing more than that,” Bitty said. “But there’s something else you ought to consider.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Advertise.”

I blinked. “I’ve got the guild board—”

“No, no. Not just to adventurers. I mean properly. Little flyers. Notices at the store, the baker, the smithy. Something simple. Runework, herbal care, small charms. Put your name out a bit further. The snow will slow traffic soon. Might as well let people know you’re here before everyone’s huddled inside until spring.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to seem… pushy.”

“You won’t. You’re already helping half the town. Let people know they can ask for more.” Bitty fixed me with a look that brooked no argument. “It’s not prideful. It’s practical.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said at last.

“Good,” Bitty said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Because I already told the baker’s wife you were considering it, and she’s promised to post something by tomorrow.”

I stared. “You what?”

She rose, patted my shoulder. “You’re welcome, dear.”

And with that, she left.

The wind had picked up while I was at the inn. Not harsh, just brisk and purposeful, tugging gently at the hem of my cloak as I stepped outside. The sky had turned the color of old wool, pale grey and thick with the weight of weather to come. Snow wasn’t falling yet, but it felt close—close enough that the cold lingered on my cheeks long after I tucked my scarf higher.

I walked slowly, letting the sharpness of the air clear my mind. The conversation with Bitty still echoed in my thoughts—her approval laced with challenge, her way of seeing further ahead than most people did. Advertising my rune skills had always been a practical idea, but hearing her say it, with that knowing glint in her eye, made it feel more official somehow.

Not just something I could do—something I ought to.

A few villagers passed me with nods or quiet greetings, bundled in layers and moving with purpose. Most were heading in the direction of home, dinner, and warmth. Smoke curled steadily from chimneys all along the road, blue-grey ribbons against the darkening sky.

I paused just before the turn to my cottage, glancing back toward the heart of the village. Golden light still poured from the windows of the inn, and I could just make out Mira moving behind the bar, chatting easily with a group of bundled-up farmers. There was comfort there—belonging, even—but it was the quiet of my cottage that pulled at me now.

I followed the familiar path to my door, boots crunching softly against the frosty earth.

Inside, the cottage held its own kind of welcome.

The fire had died down to a warm pulse, but it only took a few fresh logs and a flick of warmth from my fingers to coax it into lively flame again. I set a kettle over the hearth and shrugged off my cloak, hanging it carefully by the door before rubbing my hands together to chase the last of the chill.

The cottage had begun to smell like me now. Not just old herbs and woodsmoke, but lemon balm and rosemary from my work earlier that morning, the faint tang of dried pine, and a hint of lavender lingering in the air from the balm tins still stacked neatly on a drying rack.

I took my time making tea—something grounding this time, with nettle and chamomile—and carried the cup to my favorite chair beside the fire.

Silence stretched around me, soft and uninterrupted. I welcomed it.

Bitty’s words drifted back again as I sipped.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“You’re not here by accident, girl. Might not have been the plan, but you’ve landed somewhere that needs you.”

I hadn’t planned to stay long in Deeproot Hollow. A season, perhaps—long enough to learn what I could and move on again, as I always did. But each passing day made that harder to imagine. The stillroom, the people, the rhythm of this place... It wasn’t just the village that was settling into winter. It was me, too.

I finished my tea slowly, turning the cup between my hands, then stood and stretched with a quiet sigh. The fire crackled gently as I tidied up and fetched my journal.

I wrote by lamplight, sitting cross-legged at the small table.

My thoughts came slower tonight, but steadier. I noted down the names of the people I’d spoken to over the past week, herbs I’d run low on, ideas for new teas that might sell before the solstice. A recipe for a balm to soothe cracked knuckles. A reminder to test the batch of elderflower syrup again in a few days.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, I added a single line near the bottom of the page:

Might be worth staying.

I stared at it for a moment, then closed the book gently.

Outside, the wind sighed through the trees.

I banked the fire, poured the last of the hot water into a basin to wash up, and padded upstairs. The loft was colder than earlier, and I climbed under the quilt with a grateful shiver. The mattress was warm from the heat rising off the hearth, and the scent of dried herbs still clung faintly to the wool.

As I lay there, listening to the wind rustle against the windows, I felt the weight of the day shift and soften. I hadn’t made any decisions—not really—but I didn’t need to. Not yet.

For now, I was here. Warm. Fed. Settled.

And tomorrow, the season would turn just a little bit more.

The hearth fire had burned low in the night, leaving only a faint red glow in the ashes. I stirred from sleep slowly, the air cool enough to nip at my nose. My quilt was bunched under my chin and the weight of it made me reluctant to move. But the scent of dried mint and lemon peel—still lingering faintly from yesterday’s tea blending—greeted me as I sat up, stretching and rolling my shoulders.

After dressing and stoking the hearth back to life, I settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of porridge and a mug of nettle-chicory tea. The sun hadn't yet pushed through the low clouds outside, but it was clearly morning. The wind carried a sharper edge lately. The first snow wouldn’t be long now.

I pulled out my writing set and unrolled a fresh sheet of paper.

Dear Mama, Papa, and Brielle,

I’ve decided to stay the winter in Deeproot Hollow.

That much was easy. The rest took longer. I told them about the cozy healer’s cottage and how I’d been welcomed by the villagers—particularly Old Bitty, who seemed to think I’d already settled in whether I’d agreed to or not. I described Mira, the friendly innkeeper, and the community market tucked into the village hall. I mentioned how I'd been making tea blends, salves, and balm stocks, and that the first snow was nearly here.

I hesitated before the last line, then added:

It feels right, somehow. Like there’s a place for me here.

Love,

Elara

I folded it carefully, then sealed it with wax and set it aside to post at the inn.

Once I’d cleaned up my breakfast, I pulled on my cloak and sorted through the basket of papers I’d prepped yesterday. Mira had said it was time to let people know what I could offer. I’d drawn each flyer by hand with careful lettering and little sketched borders of leaves and runes. Simple, but tidy.

Offering Services

Elara of Deeproot Hollow

Healing · Runes · Herbal Remedies

Barter & Coin accepted

See me in the evening at the inn’s common room

or call at the Healer’s Cottage

I rolled them up, tucked them under my arm, and stepped out into the village.

The sky was pale grey, and the breeze teased the edges of my cloak. As I walked down the path from the cottage, my boots made soft crunches against the gravel and packed earth. Chimneys were beginning to smoke across the village, and the air smelled of woodfire, cold stone, and pine.

A pair of older villagers paused as I passed—one was the woman who'd bought a balm from me at market. “Morning, dear!” she called. “You heading into the village?”

“I am,” I replied with a smile. “Posting some notices about my services.”

“Well, you’ll be busy,” she said, elbowing the man beside her. “Winter’s coming fast. You’ve got anything for arthritis?”

“Several things,” I said. “I’ll be in the inn common room this evening. I can bring some samples.”

“Bless your heart. My knees have been hollering since the frost turned.”

Further down the lane, a man waved me over from his porch. His hair was wiry and wind-tossed, and he was shaking out a pair of soaked boots.

“Got something for foot warts?” he asked bluntly. “From bog walking. Wet socks and cold toes. They just won’t quit.”

“Yes,” I said, a little startled but amused. “I can brew a poultice for that. You might also want a drying charm or warmers for your boots.”

He blinked at me. “Really?”

“I’ll have a few ready tonight. Come find me after supper.”

He nodded, clearly satisfied, and turned back to banging his boots against the railing.

I pinned one flyer to the noticeboard at the edge of the community center, weighting the corners with small river stones tucked into the frame. Inside the center, the hall was empty now—the market had come and gone—but it still smelled faintly of beeswax polish and root vegetables.

I pinned a second flyer inside the door, right where the light from the windows would catch the ink.

By the time I reached the inn, my fingertips were pink with cold and I was looking forward to warm air and stronger tea. Mira greeted me the moment I stepped inside, her smile bright as ever.

“Well now,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I hear you’ve moved into the old healer’s place properly.”

“I have,” I admitted. “And I’m doing my best to fill the role. I posted some flyers today, like you suggested.”

She grinned and poured me a steaming mug of something spicy and dark. “Oh, you won’t need many flyers, love. The gossip chain will do more work than your parchment ever will. Especially since you don’t charge coin for everything.”

“I do expect coin for rune work,” I said quickly, then added, “But I’ll happily barter for most else.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, sliding a warm plate of roasted roots and barley into my hands. “That’s how it works best around here. We all help each other make it through the winter.”

I sat at my usual seat near the hearth and relaxed for the first time that morning. The warmth from the fire settled into my bones. I sipped my tea and nibbled at the food, grateful not to be out in the wind.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mira said, sitting across from me for a moment. “What made you choose this place? Deeproot Hollow, I mean.”

I paused. “I don’t know that I chose it. Naerda sent me, and the road brought me here. But... it feels like I was meant to come. The longer I stay, the more I feel like I belong.”

Mira studied me thoughtfully, her elbow resting on the table’s worn edge. “Well, you’re fitting in just fine. People already talk about you like you’ve lived here a season or more.”

That surprised me. “Really?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a laugh. “They say you’re quiet but hardworking. You care for your work, and you always listen. That goes a long way in a place like this.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. It made something in my chest warm.

“Finish your tea,” Mira said, standing up again as a new wave of patrons entered. “And don’t be surprised if your evening gets busy.”

I nodded and took another bite of roasted carrot, letting the flavors and Mira’s words settle together like warmth in my chest.

As I sat and watched the inn slowly fill, I felt the turning of something within me—a sense that I was no longer just passing through. I was becoming a part of something, even if I hadn’t meant to.

Even if I was still figuring it out.

After returning from the village, I kicked the frost off my boots and hung up my cloak on the peg by the hearth. The cottage was comfortably warm, the firebanked just enough to keep the chill from the air. Still, I rubbed my hands together, flexing my fingers as I stepped into the stillroom. A low hum of anticipation stirred in me—I had work to do, and today it would include something I hadn’t done in a long while.

The shelves were neat now, thanks to days of sorting and cataloguing. Jars of dried leaves, roots, berries, and bark sat in organized rows, each with a neat label. I ran my fingers along the shelf of warming herbs—ginger root, frostmint, emberbark, and wild pepperleaf. These would be perfect for the potions I wanted to make for the hunters. Small vials of concentrated heat, to be drunk when frostbite threatened or fingers went stiff with cold.

I pulled out my journal from the top drawer of the worktable and flipped to the marked page—my old notes on warming draughts. The margins were smudged and ink-streaked, full of corrections and flourishes from Naerda’s lessons. I smiled at the memory of her sharp voice urging me to stir clockwise first, not counterclockwise, if I didn’t want to “brew stomach soup instead of fire tonic.”

Pulling the silver cauldron from the cabinet felt like unwrapping a gift. I hadn’t used it since I left home. It gleamed in the dim light, etched with subtle patterns of flames and vines around the base—my father’s craftsmanship. I placed it carefully on the firehook above the hearth, adjusting the angle just so. My hands moved instinctively, muscle memory slowly awakening as I set out my ingredients and measuring spoons.

First, I added a small amount of boiled water from the kettle to the cauldron, letting it warm before mixing in the crushed ginger and dried frostmint. The scent rose like steam, spicy and clean, tingling my nose and clearing my thoughts. I leaned over the cauldron, stirring carefully with a long wooden spoon, the kind with the curved handle I liked best. The herbs swirled and shimmered, steeping into a soft reddish-gold base.

Next came the emberbark, shaved thin and added in slowly while the brew simmered. I adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron to a steady, low heat, humming quietly as I worked. Then I prepared the powdered pepperleaf—just a pinch would do. Too much and the potion would cause nosebleeds.

I watched as the mixture thickened ever so slightly, becoming syrupy at the edges. My notes called for a strand of snowvine, rehydrated and crushed for balance. I found it in a small pouch tucked behind a bundle of dried thistle. Snowvine was rare, its magic subtle, and it lent the potion a gentle, stabilizing warmth that lingered instead of flaring. I crushed it in a mortar, added it to the brew, and gave the mixture three final clockwise stirs.

The potion smelled of winter spices and hearthfires. Carefully, I ladled the finished liquid into small glass vials lined up on the bench, using a funnel to keep things neat. The warmth pulsed through the glass as I corked each one and sealed the top with beeswax from the jar near the hearth.

When I finished, I held one up to the window. The late afternoon light made it glow like molten amber. I smiled. This was good work. Important work.

With the potions cooling, I turned to the salves and balms. I restocked what I could—comfrey and calendula for bruises and scrapes, a rich balm for chapped skin made from goosefat, yarrow, and a hint of wild honey. I spooned the finished mixture into squat ceramic pots, pressing a cloth seal over the top and tying it with string.

The hours passed quietly, the way I liked best. Just me, my herbs, and the steady rhythm of useful work. I wiped down the table and opened my inventory scroll to mark what I’d replenished. The stillroom smelled of crushed green things and warm spice. It reminded me of winter prep back home, when my mother and I would spend whole days bottling, drying, labeling. I could still hear her laughing when I spilled a jar of powdered nettle all over the floor—and myself.

Before long, I was finished. I swept the herb scraps into the compost basket, wiped my hands, and sat by the hearth with a mug of tea. My back ached pleasantly from standing all afternoon, and the quiet cottage felt like it had settled around me.

Tonight, I’d bring the potions and fresh salves to the inn again, just in case anyone needed them. Winter was creeping closer every day—and this time, I wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

By the time the last jar was sealed and labeled, the sky outside had shifted into a soft, snow-grey dusk. I lit a few lanterns around the cottage and took a moment to wash the herbs from my hands—my fingers stained green at the tips, but pleasantly so. The silver cauldron still shimmered faintly on the hearth, and I gave it a soft pat as I passed. “Well done,” I murmured. It felt good to have it out again, to feel like a proper herbalist with potions warm in her satchel.

I packed everything carefully into one of my reinforced market baskets, layering folded cloth between the jars and vials to keep them from clinking. The warming potions were nestled in a padded corner, and I wrapped the new salves in oilcloth to keep them dry.

My stomach gave a quiet grumble, and I realized I’d missed lunch entirely again. Not that I minded, not today. I still had some root stew from the night before and a few slices of the hearty oat bread Mira had gifted me earlier in the week. But instead of staying in, I bundled up again, slinging the basket over one shoulder and wrapping a scarf around my neck.

The wind nipped at my ears as I walked, but the path to the inn was well-trodden and familiar by now. Light glowed warmly from the windows, casting long, golden beams across the snow-patched lane. Inside, the scent of roast parsnips, onions, and rich stew wafted into the night air each time someone opened the door.

Mira spotted me as I stepped inside, her face lighting with welcome. “You’re just in time,” she called from behind the bar. “Kitchen’s about to close, but I saved you a plate.”

“I owe you more than one,” I said, smiling as I set my basket carefully on an empty bench by the hearth. “I brought something for after supper. Warming potions, salves—things people might need with the cold coming on.”

“Good thinking,” she said, nodding approvingly. “You’ve got an eye for timing, Elara.”

As I peeled off my gloves and settled onto a stool, several of the locals cast curious glances toward the basket. Word had been spreading ever since I put up that flyer, and tonight it seemed half the village had decided to linger over their meals, just in case they had something to ask me.

I had just finished my stew when the first came over—a shepherd with stiff joints and a quiet smile. He asked after something for aching knees, and I passed him a small tin of balm. Then a pair of older women who walked in from the eastern edge of the village leaned over my shoulder, asking about a remedy for chapped skin and cracked heels.

“I’ve got a salve for that,” I said, offering one with wild honey and comfrey. “It’ll help keep your skin supple through the cold months.”

“Do you take coin?” one asked.

“Barter’s fine too,” I said, glancing toward Mira. “I’ve been doing both.”

By the time the hearth fire began to burn low, I’d given out more than half of what I’d brought, made a list of what I’d need to replenish, and received two promises of fresh eggs and one jar of pickled turnips in trade.

It wasn’t just the work that warmed me. It was the way they lingered to chat. Asked where I’d trained. Laughed when I admitted that yes, I still mixed up my frostmint and meadowpepper from time to time. And just when the attention started to feel like too much, when my cheeks were warm and I could feel my tail twitching with the need to retreat, Old Bitty swept in with her familiar walking stick and knowing eyes.

“She’s had enough of your poking and prodding for one night,” she declared to the room. “Let the girl sleep, she’s the only one standing between you and your chilblains!”

There were chuckles, some half-hearted protests, but the mood had shifted. Bitty took my arm and steered me gently toward the door, my basket lighter but my heart full.

As we stepped into the crisp night air, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The stars were out above the rooftops, sharp and brilliant.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Bitty said. “You’ll learn to pace yourself. And to charge a little more for that warming draught—it’s better than the ones I’ve had in years.”

We parted at the lane, and I walked the rest of the way home in silence, the silver cauldron still faintly warm in my thoughts.

That night, after I set the last of the new trades on the shelf and tucked my list of resupplies into my journal, I sat by the hearth with a cup of honeyed root tea and watched the fire flicker. I was tired. But it was the good kind of tired—the kind that came from a day full of purpose.

And tomorrow, I would do it all again.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL

Evening before the first snowfall – Deeproot Hollow

Today I returned to potion-making. It felt like settling back into myself. The silver cauldron from home—blessed thing—still holds warmth better than anything else I’ve used. I brewed a batch of warming draughts using firethorn berries, frostroot, and a touch of embermint. They turned out rich, spicy, and pleasant on the tongue—hopefully just the thing for hunters and farmers braving the chill.

Also replenished:

* Comfrey-Honey Salve – for chapped skin, minor abrasions, and cracked heels.

* Joint Balm – frostleaf and golden bark blend, for deep aches.

* Rosehip-ginger Tea Blend – to support immune strength and soothe sore throats.

* Moonmallow Restorative – small stock remaining, should prep more next week.

Traded half the batch at the inn tonight. A good start. The people here are kind—curious, too. Still not sure I’m used to being looked at like someone with answers, but I’m trying.

Tomorrow: restock ingredients, begin next round of winter salves, and make time to prep more draughts. The cold is setting in quickly now. No time to waste.