Chapter 16: Fellborn on the Floor

I woke to a muffled thump.

It wasn’t the sound of a dropped book or a creaky beam. It was heavier. Uneven. A body meeting the floor.

I was down the stairs in seconds.

The guest room door was ajar. Inside, Kaelen was half-sitting, half-sprawled on the rug beside the bed, one arm braced against the nightstand, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

“I was just—” he started, but I was already kneeling beside him.

“You were just being a nitwit,” I finished, assessing him quickly. No bleeding. No fresh strain. Just overexerted and trying not to show how dizzy he was.

“I felt fine when I woke up,” he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Fine enough to haul yourself upright without telling me?”

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

I reached for his arm. “Come on. Slow and steady. Back into bed before you do something truly spectacular, like faint on my floor.”

Reluctantly, he let me help him up. He was warm—not fever-warm, just flushed from effort and embarrassment. I guided him back to the bed and settled him into the pillows again.

He hissed slightly as his tail brushed the edge of the blanket.

“See?” I said as I straightened. “That was your body’s way of saying, sit down before I make you.”

Kaelen scowled. “I hate this.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” I replied, reaching for the cup of water I’d left on the bedside table. “But that doesn’t make it go away.”

He took the cup, drank a few sips, and passed it back with a frustrated sigh.

“I just wanted to move. Stretch. Do something.”

“You are doing something,” I said. “You’re healing. And that’s taking all your energy right now—whether you feel it or not.”

His gaze dropped to the blanket, brow furrowing.

I softened my tone, but not my message.

“You fought through acid burns, a fever, and nearly a day in a slime pit,” I said. “Your muscles are weak because your body is spending everything it has stitching itself back together. That’s not failure. That’s survival.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Trust me,” I added. “This part feels slow. But it’s necessary. You don’t rebuild a house by kicking the door open on day two.”

Kaelen let out a slow breath and leaned his head back. “Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“I didn’t say I’d like it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He gave me a sideways look. “You always this gentle with your patients?”

“Only the ones who fall into acid pits trying to impress the dungeon walls.”

That earned a faint, rueful smile. I brought the blanket back up over him and checked the rune warmth under the floor—still steady, still holding.

“I’ll bring breakfast soon,” I said. “And after that, if you behave, I’ll let you sit up in the chair for a bit.”

“Conditional freedom?”

“With supervision,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “Because someone clearly can’t be trusted.”

Behind me, he grumbled into the pillow.

Which meant he was on the mend.

Kaelen didn’t try to move again. When I returned with breakfast—warm oatcakes with pear preserves and scrambled eggs with foraged greens—he was exactly where I’d left him, head propped on the pillow, blanket tucked to his waist, eyes clearer than they’d been in days.

“You didn’t faint again,” I said, setting the tray down. “Progress.”

“I learned my lesson,” he muttered, sitting up slowly as I adjusted the pillows behind him. “For now.”

I handed him a mug of mild nettle tea and placed the plate across his lap.

He eyed the food with faint suspicion. “Did you make this?”

“I cook. Occasionally.”

“You burn things?”

“Rarely.”

He took a cautious bite. Then another, less cautious.

“Not bad,” he admitted, in a tone that suggested he was surprised.

“Flattery will get you a second serving,” I said, settling in the chair beside him with my own plate.

We ate quietly for a few minutes. The cottage was peaceful—snow still resting thick outside, the fire humming low in the hearth. Kaelen’s appetite had returned enough for him to finish most of his meal, though I could see the effort it took to sit upright for long.

Eventually, I asked, “What drew you to this dungeon in the first place? There are easier places to pick through in winter.”

He paused mid-sip, considering.

“Depth,” he said after a moment. “And obscurity.”

I raised a brow. “That’s a new answer.”

He set the mug down carefully. “Most dungeons are like stones in a riverbed—turned over so many times there’s nothing left to find. But this one? No full map. Old records. Too many levels and not enough fools willing to dig down in winter. It’s risky, but the yield is better.”

“Because no one else wants to freeze while doing it,” I said.

He nodded. “Exactly. We came here for that. My party and I—we’re not flashy. But we’re methodical. Careful. We go where others won’t.”

“And that pit trap was part of the plan?” I teased gently.

Kaelen smirked. “Even careful scouts get cocky.”

I took another bite, letting the quiet settle for a beat.

“So you’ll stay here awhile, then?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the plan. Winter gives us time. Fewer adventurers, better focus. The lower levels are untouched. If we’re smart, we could carve out a good season’s worth of work—and coin.”

“You’re not the first to say that,” I murmured. “But you’re the first I’ve seen say it like you mean to stay.”

He glanced over at me, the firelight catching in the edges of his eyes.

“I don’t mind cold towns. Fewer distractions. Fewer expectations.”

“And fewer healers,” I added pointedly.

“You’ve got that covered,” he said.

There was no flirt in the words, no pressure—just an acknowledgment. A truth offered plainly.

I nodded. “For now. You still need two more weeks before I’ll even consider letting you hobble down a staircase.”

“I know.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes being still.”

“I don’t.”

“So how do you plan to survive the rest of your recovery?”

He leaned back and sighed. “I guess I’ll have to let someone else keep the pace for a while.”

I smiled. “Then you’re in luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had climbed to its midday peak and begun its slow, slanting descent by the time I returned with fresh bandages and a warmed salve pot. The air in the cottage had taken on that cozy hush of a well-earned afternoon—snow still blanketing the outside world, fire steady, the stillroom steeped in the faint scent of calendula and wintermint.

Kaelen glanced up from where he lay, a folded blanket tucked under his arm. His color was better, but he still looked tired in a way that ran deeper than the muscles. Healing always took more than people expected.

“Ready for bandage duty?” I asked, setting the supplies on the side table.

“If I say no, will you go easy on me?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He adjusted himself with a small grimace as I pulled up the chair beside the bed and gently peeled back the sheet.

“I need to check the tail dressing first,” I said, reaching for the knot of gauze at his hip.

He tensed slightly.

I looked up. “Problem?”

He hesitated, then coughed once—quiet, awkward. “Just… you’re about to see more of me than I’m used to showing healers.”

I raised one eyebrow, halfway between amused and skeptical. “You fell into a pit full of acid and slime. I’ve already seen half your backside and the damage done to your tail. I promise I’m not shocked.”

His ears darkened at the tips—a Fellborn blush if I’d ever seen one. “Still,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean I don’t notice you’re attractive.”

That pulled my gaze up again, sharper now, curious.

He met my eyes, though his expression was more earnest than bold. “I’m not trying to make it weird. I know I’m your patient right now. You’re helping me, and I’m not going to mess with that.”

I tilted my head slightly, lips curving just the barest bit. “So you’re saying you’ll do your best to behave.”

“Exactly,” he said. “But I didn’t want to lie and pretend I’m not aware of it. Of you.”

I considered that for a long beat, then leaned in just enough to adjust the lantern light toward his bandaged tail.

“Well,” I said, voice calm but laced with something warmer, “when you’re healed and walking again, we can revisit the question of what you’re allowed to notice.”

He blinked—then smiled. This one fuller, more real than any I’d seen from him yet. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

“Only if you’re not a complete nitwit during recovery.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” I said, reaching for the salve. “Now hold still and let me admire your burns—professionally.”

The dressing came away without trouble. The flesh beneath was raw in places, healing in others, but no signs of infection. The salve had done its job overnight. I smoothed on a fresh layer, careful not to press too hard, and began wrapping clean gauze in slow, even turns around the length of his tail.

Kaelen didn’t speak while I worked, but he didn’t look away either. His expression was quiet, open, with that same edge of awareness behind his eyes—not just of me, but of the moment.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t urgent.

It was close.

When I finished, I stood and gathered the cloths into a neat pile, wiping the leftover salve from my hands with a clean towel.

He cleared his throat.

“That was… less awkward than expected.”

“Good,” I said, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “Next time, maybe you’ll let me help you sit up before you fall flat on your face.”

“I said I learned my lesson.”

I chuckled. “We’ll see.”

After I finished wrapping Kaelen’s tail and helped him sip another half cup of water, he shifted deeper into the pillows and let his eyes slip closed.

“You’re not going to try to walk again, are you?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He mumbled something that might have been “never again,” and within minutes, his breathing slowed into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

I let him rest.

The cottage was quiet again, sunlight stretching across the floor in long golden beams. I tidied the stillroom, restocked the clean linens, then made a pot of warming tea before climbing the stairs.

One of the old healer’s journals had been waiting for my attention for weeks now—leather-bound, spine still tight despite the wear. I settled on the window seat beneath the soft winter light, opened the cover, and let the past unfold beneath my fingers.

The writing was dense but neat, pages filled with careful notes, plant sketches, and anecdotal cures passed down from unnamed elders. Remedies for frost-chapped skin. Notes on the local ice-bloom fungus that sprouted near creek beds after early thaws. Even a curious entry about a root called “hollowmarrow” that, if chewed too quickly, caused hiccups and temporary forgetfulness.

I smiled to myself, the scent of paper and faint peppermint ink curling around me like comfort.

There was something grounding about reading these entries—not just for the knowledge, but for the quiet proof that someone else had walked these paths before me. Someone else had tended to this village, in winter and storm, in fever and accident. Their inked voice made the work feel less solitary.

I didn’t realize how much time had passed until the faint sound of a yawn came from downstairs.

I padded back down the steps and peeked into the guest room.

Kaelen was blinking at the ceiling again, looking far more alert than earlier. His eyes found mine almost immediately.

“You were gone.”

“Just upstairs,” I said, stepping inside. “Reading old journals. You didn’t try to escape again, did you?”

“No. I thought about it.”

“Points for honesty. Come on, let’s get you fed.”

Lunch was simple: lentil soup with carrots and turnip, a bit of soft bread warmed in the hearth, and a shared pot of spiced tea. I served him first, then sat nearby and picked at my own bowl.

Kaelen was quieter today, but not withdrawn. He watched me like someone slowly putting together a new puzzle—interested, not pressing.

Finally, he asked, “How long have you been here?”

“In Deeproot Hollow?” I blew on a spoonful of soup. “About two months.”

“That’s all?” He looked surprised.

“Felt longer in my bones, but yes. I arrived just before the first frost.”

“Why here?”

I paused, tasting the question behind his question.

“I travel to learn,” I said after a moment. “About healing, mostly. But also people. Places. I wanted to stop somewhere for the winter, and this village had a stillroom already built. It was abandoned, but intact. I offered to take it over.”

“And they said yes?”

“Bitty said yes,” I said with a smirk. “Everyone else followed her lead.”

He smiled faintly. “Bitty sounds terrifying.”

“She is. And I adore her.”

He looked down at his bowl. “You could’ve gone anywhere. Stayed in the cities. Joined a noble house as their personal herbalist.”

“Too many shoes. Too many expectations. I’d rather be useful where it matters.”

Kaelen stirred his spoon slowly. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” I said lightly. “I’ve worked hard at that.”

He gave me a look, thoughtful and quiet.

“I think you’re better at staying still than I am.”

“I’ve had more practice.”

“And you’re not tempted to leave again?”

I shrugged. “I always want to see more of the world. But this place…” I glanced around the cottage, at the shelves and soft light and woodsmoke. “This place is letting me grow roots I didn’t know I needed.”

His gaze lingered, unreadable.

“I get that,” he said finally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had just finished reorganizing the shelves in the stillroom when a knock sounded at the door—three short raps, then one long. Familiar.

I wiped my hands on a cloth and opened it to find Saren on the stoop, Merra and Thalen flanking him. Snow clung to their cloaks in soft clusters, and Merra had a small satchel tucked under her arm.

Saren lifted a hand in greeting. “We came to check on Kaelen. And to get his armor before it finishes rotting through your floorboards.”

“He’s doing better,” I said, stepping aside so they could come in. “Still sore, still stubborn. But the fever’s gone.”

Saren made a noncommittal grunt as he passed me. “Sounds like him.”

Thalen gave a polite nod as he stepped inside, heading straight for the fire to thaw his fingers.

Merra lingered near the door, carefully setting the satchel down on the worktable. “We also brought you something.”

I tilted my head. “Oh?”

She undid the flap and peeled back a few layers of cloth. The scent hit me instantly—damp stone, faint citrus, and earthy spice. Inside was a carefully packed assortment of dungeon flora: glowing cavern moss, silvery-veined herbs, fanleaf fungi, and near the bottom, a single duskstem bloom the color of plum and moonlight.

I let out a slow breath. “You found all this in the dungeon?”

Merra nodded. “We gathered it during our last sweep. Originally meant to sell it—trade for winter gear, maybe. But after Kaelen got hurt… well, we talked it over.”

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Saren glanced up from Kaelen’s armor, now bundled and ready for the smith. “Didn’t seem right to profit off the run that nearly got him killed. You saved his life. This felt like the better trade.”

I looked between the three of them. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“We know,” Merra said, softly. “But we wanted to.”

My throat tightened for a moment. I reached into the satchel and gently touched the duskstem with two fingers. “This is more useful than coin to me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Thalen said, still near the fire. “Some of it came from near the second descent. Wasn’t easy to reach.”

“And Kaelen nearly walked past all of it,” Merra muttered. “Said it was ‘just moss.’”

Saren snorted. “Said it wouldn’t fit in his pack, more like. He’s not the foraging type.”

“I’m glad you three are,” I said with a small smile.

They took turns peeking in on Kaelen. He was propped up against the pillows when they entered, blinking sleepily but alert enough to groan when Saren held up the damaged armor with a flourish.

“Tell me that isn’t mine,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s yours,” Saren said, grinning. “At least what’s left of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Merra added cheerfully. “We’ll get it repaired. Probably. Might end up looking like a stitched-up boot, but it’ll work.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kaelen said.

“Anytime,” she said, patting the doorframe on her way out.

They didn’t stay long. Just enough time for a round of teasing and quiet reassurance, and to hand over the armor before it could leak more slime onto my floor.

Saren slung the bundle over his shoulder with a grunt. “We’ll take this to the smith. Hopefully they won’t laugh us out the door.”

“Tell them it died with honor,” Kaelen called.

“I’ll tell them it died stupid,” Saren shot back with affection.

Merra grinned at me again on the way out. “Let us know if you need anything else. We’ll be around for a while—figured we’d give the dungeon another go in a few days.”

“If you find more herbs,” I said, “especially anything growing near still water, I’d love a sample.”

“You got it,” she said. “You’ve earned first pick.”

After they left, I returned to the stillroom and unpacked the satchel with careful hands. Every piece of flora had potential—some for healing, some for deeper study. The duskstem alone could make three doses of a powerful calming elixir if steeped properly.

I labeled each bundle and laid the most fragile ones out to dry. The whispermoss I pinned in the herb press. The silverthread vine I clipped and steeped in distilled oil. My hands moved by habit, but my heart was still full.

They hadn’t needed to do any of it. But they did. Because they cared about Kaelen, and because they saw the value in what I did.

And for once, I didn’t feel like a traveling healer passing through a string of temporary stops.

I felt like someone part of something.

I didn’t want to risk any of the flora losing potency overnight, so I set immediately to work.

The cavern moss was delicate—its faint glow already beginning to fade—so I crushed it gently and layered it between thin muslin squares soaked in moonwater before tucking it in the coolbox. The silverthread vine needed slicing on the bias and steeping in warm oil for tinctures. I used a gentle flame to draw out its resin, the scent sharp and citrusy. Fanleaf fungi I sliced and dried in the warming cupboard. And the duskstem…

I trimmed only the bottom of its stem and floated it in a shallow dish of springwater on my windowsill, just to keep it alive a little longer.

Each step calmed me. Centered me. This was my rhythm—the slow, careful work of saving what could be saved, turning danger into medicine.

By the time I looked up, the sun had long since set and the fire in the hearth was just glowing coals. I lit a few wall lanterns and peeked in on Kaelen. He was dozing, but stirred when I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Time for a bit of supper,” I said softly. “You didn’t think I’d let you sleep through two meals in a row, did you?”

He blinked at me, half-smiling. “I was hoping.”

I brought over a tray with root vegetable stew, barley bread, and warmed cider. We ate in the glow of the fire, the quiet easy between us. Kaelen didn’t talk much—just chewed slowly and occasionally looked over at me with a thoughtful expression, like he was still figuring out how he’d ended up in my guest bed.

When he was finished, I helped him lie back down, fluffing the pillows behind his shoulders and checking the heat at his forehead. Cooler now. Healing well.

I tidied the dishes, then headed upstairs to my own room.

Later, with a blanket pulled over my legs and a cup of mint-chamomile tea in hand, I opened my journal to a fresh page and dipped my pen in ink.

Field Notes – Evening

Received a generous collection of flora from Kaelen’s party—gathered during a dungeon sweep.

* Cavern moss: Faintly bioluminescent. Stored pressed in moonwater.

* Silverthread vine: Resin harvested. Possible anti-inflammatory properties.

* Fanleaf fungi: Dried for future poultices.

* Duskstem bloom: Most intact sample I’ve ever seen. Saving for elixir or study.

They gave them freely. For healing their friend. I didn’t expect the gesture—but it meant something. More than I can write just now. I feel… grounded. Maybe even rooted.

I closed the journal gently and blew out the lamp.

Outside, snow fell in soft drifts, the world hushed.

Inside, the herbs were drying, Kaelen was resting, and I—I was starting to wonder if I’d already found the place I was meant to wander to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke early, the cottage still tucked in shadow, the air carrying that deep quiet only winter mornings seemed to hold. Downstairs, the fire had faded to little more than a flicker, and the floor was chilly underfoot as I set about rekindling the hearth.

Once the flames caught, I put water on to boil and started breakfast. The scent of rosemary and cinnamon filled the stillroom as I stirred porridge and sliced apples into the pan. The familiar rhythm steadied me, each movement grounding and calm.

Kaelen stirred in the guest room just as I was setting two trays. He blinked at me through a curtain of shaggy dark hair, his skin still flushed faintly from lingering fever, but his eyes clearer than the day before.

“Morning,” I said, setting the tray across his lap. “Still in one piece?”

“Barely,” he murmured, adjusting the blanket with a small wince. “But that smells like it’s worth waking up for.”

I laughed under my breath. “Eat slowly. No sudden movements. You’re not allowed to keel over on me before midday.”

We ate quietly, the only sounds the soft scrape of spoons and the occasional creak of the cottage settling. He was slower than usual, still sore and stiff, but finished nearly all of it.

After I collected the bowls and returned with a warm compress, Kaelen shifted a little higher on the pillows and glanced toward the bookshelf near the hearth.

“Would it be alright if I borrowed something to read while you’re out?”

I looked over from folding the blanket. “Of course. Something specific in mind?”

He hesitated. “Those healer journals you mentioned. The ones from the previous herbalist?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for the dry clinical type.”

He shrugged one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I like learning new things. Plus, I figure it’ll help pass the time.”

I chuckled and stepped over to the shelf, selecting a few volumes—two with clean diagrams and one with notations in neat script. I brought them over and set them gently within his reach.

“I’ll be doing rounds this morning—checking on Old Bitty and the two elder households up near the ridge. Shouldn’t be gone too long.”

He nodded, then cleared his throat lightly. “Actually… could you do me a favor while you’re out?”

“Name it.”

“Could you stop by the inn and ask my party to bring my pack? I’ve got my sketching supplies in there. Helps keep my hands busy while I’m stuck in bed.”

I gave him a small smile. “Artist and adventurer?”

“Dabbler in both,” he said, then added more quietly, “And… I wouldn’t mind seeing them. Maybe later today, if I’m up for it.”

“I’ll let them know. I’m sure they’ll want to see for themselves that you’re still in one piece.”

His smile turned wry. “They’ll tease me for falling into the pit. Bet you anything.”

“Probably,” I said, chuckling. “But they’ll be glad you’re alive.”

I pulled on my cloak and gloves, tucking a few dried ginger lozenges into my satchel just in case anyone I visited was under the weather.

“I’ll be back before lunch,” I promised. “Don’t move too much, keep the compress in place, and if you feel lightheaded, sip water.”

“Yes, Healer,” he said with mock solemnity, already flipping open the green-thread journal.

My boots crunched quietly over the snow-packed path as I made my way toward Elder Harn’s cottage. Smoke curled from his chimney, and I could just make out the faint shape of him through the front window—moving slow but steady, hunched over his table. He opened the door before I could knock.

“You’re early,” he grunted, but his eyes were bright.

“You’re still up and about, that’s a good sign,” I said, stepping inside.

The place smelled of cedar, old parchment, and something slightly singed. I checked his pulse, asked a few questions, then peered at the warding rune I’d placed above his hearth last week. Still holding strong, though I traced it once more for good measure.

“I’ll be back before the week’s out,” I told him, gathering my cloak.

“You always say that,” he muttered, then waved me off with something halfway between thanks and dismissal.

Old Bitty’s cottage was a bit further down the lane. I knocked twice before she called out, “Come in, unless you’re a tax collector!”

She was nestled into her armchair with a thick knit shawl draped over her shoulders, a half-finished blanket on her lap and a mischievous gleam in her eye. Her kettle was already whistling.

“How’s the healing hearth today?” she asked, handing me a mug.

“Quiet,” I said, sipping gratefully. “Which is a blessing.”

“Is that fine-looking Fellborn of yours still convalescing?” she asked innocently, stirring her tea.

“He’s not mine,” I spluttered, nearly inhaling the steam. “He’s a patient.”

Bitty chuckled, clearly delighted. “Handsome one, though. That tail of his may be burned, but the rest looked plenty fine when you hauled him inside. And here you are, all alone in your cottage with him…”

My face went hot as the tea in my mug. “Bitty!”

She cackled so hard she had to set down her cup.

“I’m leaving,” I muttered, standing with as much dignity as I could manage.

“You’re blushing, girl! That’s a good sign. Maybe it’s the other kind of healing you need.”

I fled before she could say another word.

By the time I reached the inn, I’d mostly composed myself—though my ears still burned. Saren was just coming down the stairs, and Merra waved from the corner near the fire, Thalen seated beside her sharpening one of his blades.

“Kaelen doing alright?” Merra asked.

“He’s better this morning. Still sore, but sitting up. And,” I added, “he asked if you could send over his pack. Said he sketches when he’s resting.”

“Of course,” Saren said. “We were just talking about stopping by.”

“We’ll carry it for you,” Thalen offered, already standing.

“I won’t say no,” I admitted. “It’s probably heavier than it looks.”

Back at the cottage, Kaelen had drifted off again, the journals resting on his lap and his head tipped gently to one side. I nudged the door open quietly to let his party in, a finger to my lips. They tiptoed in, arms full—his pack, a wrapped parcel, and a basket that smelled strongly of fresh bread and roasted root vegetables.

“We brought dinner,” Merra whispered, grinning.

As the savory scent filled the cottage, Kaelen stirred, blinked a few times, and smiled when he saw them.

“Thought I dreamed you all,” he rasped.

“You did,” Thalen said. “And then you had to wake up to us again. Tragic.”

They set his things beside the bed, and I helped Kaelen sit up more comfortably. While he ate, they chatted about the inn’s latest card game debacle and how Saren nearly lost his boots in a bet. Merra recounted a mishap with dungeon mushrooms and an overzealous stew experiment. I mostly listened, tending to Kaelen’s plate and taking careful note of how often he winced or tired.

When his eyelids began to droop mid-story, I stepped in. “That’s enough for now. He still needs rest.”

The party gave him a round of gentle ribbing, patted his shoulder, and began packing up.

“Thanks for the food,” I said as I saw them to the door.

“Thanks for keeping our idiot alive,” Saren replied.

“Still my patient,” I reminded them. “Not yours to break again.”

They laughed, and then they were gone, the cottage quiet again.

Later that evening, after checking Kaelen’s bandages and ensuring he’d drunk the full cup of his recovery tonic, I sat beside him with my own dinner. We ate quietly, the kind of silence that feels companionable rather than strained.

When he drifted off again, I crept upstairs, lit the small lantern by my bed, and pulled out my journal. I wrote about the flora his party brought, the way his friends clearly cared for him, and—hesitantly—the warm, fluttery feeling I’d had when he smiled at their jokes.

He’s recovering quickly. I’ll need to restock bandages soon. The plant samples they brought are better than I hoped—two rare types I haven’t seen outside an alchemy shop. One smells like firewood and citrus. I’ll dry some tomorrow.

I paused, quill resting above the page.

Bitty thinks I’m blushing more than usual.

I closed the book, cheeks warm again, and blew out the lantern.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke to the scent of woodsmoke and the faint creak of winter settling against the windows. Downstairs, the hearth embers had dimmed overnight, but the room was still pleasantly warm. I stoked the fire back to life and set a pan of water to boil while Kaelen slept.

By the time the porridge was thickened and the cider warmed with a stick of cinnamon, he stirred in the guest room. I brought in a tray and helped him sit up slowly.

“You keep spoiling me,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

“I keep you alive,” I corrected with a faint smile. “The spoiling is just a bonus.”

He chuckled softly, wincing a little as he adjusted. “Still feels like I got trampled by a stone bear.”

“Then the medicine’s working. You’re not supposed to feel great yet.”

We ate in comfortable quiet. Afterward, I cleaned the dishes while Kaelen propped himself up with a pillow and sketched the corner of the window frame and the curl of steam rising from his mug.

When I returned from putting away the dishes, he looked up and said, “Would it be alright if I watched you work in the stillroom this morning?”

“Curious about how your medicine’s made?”

“Something like that,” he said, smiling. “It’s peaceful. And I draw better when there’s something real happening around me.”

I considered. He still looked tired, but better than the day before, and I needed to process the moss and fungi before they lost their potency.

“Alright,” I said, nodding. “But no sudden movements. You sit. You sketch. You don’t faint.”

“I swear on my sketchbook.”

I helped him to his feet, careful of the burns along his side and tail, and guided him through the cottage. He leaned heavily on me, but didn’t complain, jaw clenched and eyes focused on the next step. I pulled a small padded chair into the corner of the stillroom, close enough to see what I was doing but out of the way of hot oils and sharp tools.

Once he was seated, I brought over his sketching supplies from his bag—charcoal sticks, a well-worn notebook, a little tin of pressed pigments.

“Comfortable?” I asked, tucking a blanket around his legs.

“As long as you don’t mind being immortalized mid-tincture,” he said, flipping to a fresh page.

I grinned. “Just don’t draw me with ink on my nose.”

“I make no promises.”

As he began to sketch, I set out my tools—glass bowls, mortar and pestle, fine-mesh strainers—and unwrapped the carefully bundled flora from the previous day. The cottage filled with soft sounds: the scrape of charcoal, the rhythmic chop of dried stems, and the gentle simmer of steeping roots.

For a moment, it felt like a still life brought to life. The healer, the artist, and the quiet between them.

I started with the long curling moss Saren had dropped off, the one with silver-tipped edges and a deep forest scent. Carefully, I unwrapped the waxed cloth and ran my fingers over its spongy strands. A faint citrus scent clung to it, like dried orange peel layered under pine.

“Is that the one that smells like the woods?” Kaelen asked from the corner, his sketchbook balanced on his lap.

I nodded. “Spindlecap moss. Grows in shadowy caverns or near underground springs. Hard to harvest without damaging it. Your friends did well.”

He watched me pull a few sprigs free and spread them on a drying screen.

“What’s it used for?” he asked, pencil scratching softly across the page.

“It has warming properties. Not like your fever, more like... restorative warmth. I’ll use it in salves for frostbite or lingering chills. It also helps with circulation. Good for older bones and sore joints.”

Kaelen hummed low in his throat, thoughtful. “So you don’t just... toss leaves in a pot and hope for the best?”

I arched a brow. “You’d be surprised how many so-called healers do exactly that.”

He grinned and returned to sketching.

I moved to the next sample—dungeonlace, a pale trailing vine with small purple-black berries and fuzzy undersides. The vine still held a bit of damp from the caverns, so I laid it out to air on clean linen.

“This one’s trickier,” I said aloud, mostly for him. “The berries are calming, especially brewed with mint or chamomile. But the leaves? Mildly toxic if dried too long. And the roots look like ginger but act more like nightshade.”

“So you memorize all that?” he asked, glancing up.

“I write it down. I test. I ask other healers. Then I write it again. Good medicine doesn’t rely on guessing.”

He looked at me a moment longer, sketching paused. “You remind me of a dwarf I met once. Quiet, always scribbling notes. Except he had a beard so long he kept dipping it in ink.”

I laughed softly, nearly dropping the pestle. “I’ll try not to grow one of those.”

Kaelen chuckled too, then focused again, this time sketching the arc of my hand as I crushed dried root fragments into powder.

“What about that one?” he asked after a while, pointing at a faded pink cluster of brittle petals and curling stems.

“Cinderbloom,” I said. “Grows near exposed crystal seams. The petals burn hotter than you'd think. They go into salves for bruising and deep muscle aches—like the ones you’ll have when you try to stand too long.”

“Noted,” he said dryly.

As I worked, he kept drawing: close-ups of the moss tendrils, the glimmer of petals under lamplight, the arch of my wrist as I pinched dried herbs between my fingers. Occasionally, he asked what a certain item did, or how I knew it was fresh, or why I used a ceramic bowl instead of metal.

And I answered him—because no one else had asked in a long while.

Because it felt good to be seen.

The sun rose high and pale above the village, its light filtering through the stillroom’s frosted windows in soft streaks of gold. I finished bottling the last of the crushed spindlecap and set the cork with a satisfying press, wiping my hands on a cloth as I looked over at Kaelen.

He had drifted slightly sideways in his chair, sketchpad balanced against his chest, one arm crossed over his middle. The charcoal pencil dangled from his fingers, and his tail, still bandaged, flicked once in unconscious irritation before settling again.

“Time for a break,” I said softly.

His eyes blinked open, dazed but alert. “That long already?”

“Long enough for your stomach to complain.”

It was. Mine had begun its own quiet protest as I boiled a handful of grain and reheated a bit of last night’s stew. While the meal simmered, I brewed a light tea—something mellow and carminative, enough to ease tension without making him drowsy again.

Kaelen leaned on me as I helped him back to the main room. He grunted when his feet touched the floor, but made no complaints, just moved slowly and let me support most of his weight. Once seated by the fire, he adjusted the blanket over his lap and watched me with quiet eyes.

“I’ll carry you next time,” I teased, setting down a steaming bowl beside him.

“I might let you,” he said, then smiled. “You’ve earned the right to lecture me, after all.”

“Good. Because you still need to rest.”

We ate quietly, the only sound the soft clink of spoons against pottery and the hiss of logs shifting in the hearth. I handed him the tea when he was finished, and he sipped it with a soft sigh.

“What’s in this one?” he asked.

“Wild apple peel, a bit of dried rosehip, and a pinch of woodmint. Something gentle.”

“It’s good,” he said, then leaned back with a grateful breath. “Everything you make tastes like it was meant to help.”

“That’s because it is.”

He gave me a look—not mocking, not even amused, just... fond.

When he dozed again, I returned to the stillroom. There were more samples yet to be processed: thin-capped fungi wrapped in paper, a bundle of dried heartleaf, and a few of those dark, crystalline seeds that needed to be roasted before use.

The familiar rhythm took over—grinding, sifting, bottling, labeling—until the room smelled like a mix of spice and sun-warmed bark. As I worked, I occasionally glanced toward the hearth, where Kaelen lay resting, tail curled and sketchbook still cradled to his chest.

For the first time in a long while, the stillness didn’t feel solitary. It felt shared.

The light outside faded from soft gold to dusky blue. I lit two more lanterns in the stillroom and rubbed the stiffness from my neck. Bottles of tincture lined the shelf by the window now—each carefully labeled, sealed, and arranged in neat rows. The work was satisfying, even meditative, though the ache in my shoulders told me I’d been at it too long without stopping.

Kaelen had stirred a few times but drifted back into quiet dozing, content in the warmth of the hearth and the scent of steeping herbs.

I had just capped the last jar when a knock sounded at the door—two firm raps and a third that was unmistakably cheeky.

“Bitty,” I muttered under my breath, wiping my hands and heading to answer.

Sure enough, Old Bitty stood bundled in a plum-colored shawl, Mira at her side holding a woven basket that gave off the scent of spiced buns and fresh butter. Snow dusted their shoulders, and Bitty’s cheeks were pink from the cold.

“We brought supper and scandal,” Bitty announced, breezing past me into the cottage like she owned it. Mira followed with an apologetic smile and a shrug.

“I told her not to barge in—”

“No, you didn’t,” Bitty said. “You encouraged me.”

“...I didn’t stop you,” Mira allowed.

I shut the door behind them, the warmth closing around us again like a welcome blanket.

Kaelen had woken at the sound and was slowly propping himself up. “We have guests?” he asked, voice husky.

Bitty made a beeline for him and planted herself in a chair near the hearth. “So this is the one,” she said, giving him a thorough once-over. “Kaelen, was it? You look better than I expected for someone who fell into a pit and wrestled an acid slime.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Mira said, shaking out her scarf. “Hello, Kaelen.”

“Nice to meet you—again, apparently. I was a bit out of it the first time.”

I set out extra cups and plates while Mira passed me the basket. “They insisted on sending food again,” she explained. “You’ve barely had time to eat.”

Bitty leaned forward, chin in hand, watching the way I moved around the room. “You’ve been holed up in here like a winter fox. Taking care of him day and night. And here I thought your stillroom was the only thing you loved.”

“Bitty,” I warned.

She gave me a wicked grin. “Don’t mind me, dear. I’m just an old woman noticing things. Like how our young herbalist gets all soft-spoken when her patient says thank you.”

Mira snorted into her tea.

Kaelen blinked at me, then at them, then raised an eyebrow. “Is this the usual welcome in Deeproot Hollow?”

“Only if you survive,” Bitty said, winking. “Otherwise we don’t gossip about you.”

I tried to change the subject, but Bitty wasn’t done.

“You know,” she said casually, “some of us were wondering if Elara would ever let anyone stay long enough to get under her skin. Seems like she found someone with enough stubbornness to manage it.”

“Bitty,” I said again, my cheeks warming.

Kaelen’s smile deepened. “I am quite stubborn.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered, pouring tea for everyone.

They stayed for nearly an hour, sharing news of the village—how the snow was due to return by morning, how Elder Danthe’s goats had escaped again, how a traveling fiddler might pass through on the next supply wagon. Through it all, Kaelen listened with amusement, Mira quietly kept the conversation gentle, and Bitty kept poking me just enough to make my ears glow.

When Kaelen finally yawned and leaned back, eyes heavy again, I took it as a cue.

“You two should get home before the snow picks up,” I said, ushering them toward the door despite Bitty’s protests.

Mira kissed my cheek and slipped out with a wave. Bitty paused on the step, turned, and added one last dig.

“He’s handsome, you know. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m his healer.”

“Not forever,” she said with a grin, then vanished into the night.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, snowflakes beginning to fall against the lanternlight, then shut it softly behind them.

The house had gone still again.

Kaelen was already asleep, his breath even and warm beneath the light quilt I’d laid over him. I tucked it gently around his shoulders and let my hand linger just a moment too long before retreating to the stillroom.

The last of the tinctures had cooled. I’d cleared the workbench, washed the bowls, and hung the spent herb stems to dry. Only the soft creak of the wood stove and the hush of falling snow outside kept me company now.

I lit a small lamp in the corner and pulled out my worn field journal. Its cover smelled faintly of beeswax and moss, a comfort on nights like this. I sat cross-legged by the hearth, opened it to a fresh page, and began to write.

📓 JOURNAL – MIDWINTER – DEEPROOT HOLLOW

Today I finished processing the samples from the dungeon foraging party.

* Spindlecap moss: harvested intact. Dried well. Used in warming salves and frostbite treatments.

* Dungeonlace vine: berries intact. Leaves and root separated. Caution in drying period. Stored for calming brews.

* Cinderbloom petals: potent. Small batch processed. Will test salve strength when Kaelen’s tail begins scarring.

The plants are rare. Unusual. A gift I didn’t expect to receive.

Neither was he.

Kaelen has been a quiet presence—more observant than I expected from a dungeon-runner. He watches with curiosity, asks thoughtful questions. He sketches everything. Me, sometimes. I pretend not to notice.

Bitty teases, as she does. I told myself I wouldn’t let anyone close again, not while I’m still learning what this place could mean for me. And yet… something shifts in the silence when he’s near.

I won’t let it mean more than it should. Not yet.

There’s time.

There’s still snow to fall. Still wounds to heal.

I need to remember why I’m here: to learn, to serve, to stay steady.

But I won’t lie. I like the way he looks at me when I’m not looking.