Chapter 17: Steady Steps and Slower Days

Three days had passed since Old Bitty and Mira’s visit, and the winter snow had settled deep and soft over the rooftops. The days were quiet but full, each one a little easier than the last. Kaelen had progressed from needing my arm at every step to being able to rise from bed on his own—slowly, carefully, and with plenty of muttered curses, but upright nonetheless.

This morning, I found him standing near the hearth, one hand braced against the mantel while he stretched his back gingerly. His bandages were still snug, but the angry red edges of his burns had dulled to a healthier hue, and he no longer flinched when I adjusted the wrappings.

“You’re supposed to wait for me to help you up,” I said from the doorway, crossing my arms.

“I did,” he said, grinning. “Just didn’t wake you.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s efficiency.”

I walked over anyway and checked the bindings at his side, noting the slight tremble in his knees. “Still healing,” I murmured, fingers gentle. “You’ve got strength again, but your body’s burning a lot of it just mending itself. You’ll tire quickly.”

“I know.” He leaned a little heavier on the mantel. “But it feels good to stand without falling.”

I nodded and stepped back. “A few more days of this, and I might let you walk to the kitchen without a lecture.”

“That’s generous.”

I gave him a dry look. “Don’t push your luck.”

We moved into the morning routine from there—simple breakfast, tea, a bit of careful stretching while I tidied the stillroom. He didn’t protest when I made him sit after only a few minutes. I could see the lines of fatigue setting in around his eyes, even if he tried to hide them.

Still, he was healing well. Another week, maybe less, and I could safely send him back to the inn with his party. It would be quieter here again. Less crowded. Less warm, maybe.

I shook the thought from my head and reached for the tea kettle. “You’ve made good progress,” I told him over my shoulder. “At this rate, I think I can release you back to your misfit adventurers within a week.”

He let out a breath that was half-relieved, half-reluctant. “They’ll be glad to have me back.”

“I’m sure they miss you storming ahead into trouble.”

“Someone has to.”

I set his tea down beside him and leaned against the table. “They’ll have to keep you out of the dungeon for a little while longer, though. You’re not cleared for fighting. Not until that tail of yours is fully healed.”

Kaelen glanced back at it with a grimace. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said after a pause. “But I wouldn’t mind staying longer than just until I’m healed either.”

My breath caught for just a moment—but I said nothing. Not yet.

The knock came just after the midday sun broke through the clouded sky, casting light across the kitchen floor in long golden bars. Kaelen looked up from the table where he was gently sketching the pattern of steam curling from his tea.

“That’ll be them,” he said, setting his charcoal aside.

I opened the door to find all four of them bundled in scarves and grins. Merra gave me a two-fingered salute while Thalen juggled a fresh basket of bread and cheeses. Saren, ever the composed one, carried a small satchel, and Mira—who I hadn’t expected—had a thermos of hot cider and a cheeky smile.

“We brought lunch,” Saren said by way of greeting. “And ourselves.”

“And a little gossip,” Merra added.

“Mostly ourselves,” Thalen said with a wink.

I laughed and stepped back to let them in. “He’s in the kitchen. Upright today.”

“Only barely,” Kaelen called out.

They poured into the space like a burst of fresh air, full of warmth and camaraderie. Saren set the food down, and the group clustered around Kaelen, clapping him on the shoulder or teasing him for being soft and spoiled by herbalist care.

“You’ve been living in the lap of comfort,” Thalen said, eyeing the pile of extra pillows. “You’re not going to want to come back to the inn.”

“He might want to stay,” Merra teased, shooting a grin my way.

Kaelen only smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

Lunch was quick and cheerful—shared between friends in a way that made the room feel smaller and fuller all at once. Elbows bumped, cider was poured, and stories were passed around like biscuits. I listened, laughed, and kept a close eye on Kaelen’s color. He was tired again by the end, slumping just a little in his seat, and I nudged them toward the door.

“You’ve had your visit,” I said lightly, “but he needs to rest.”

They didn’t argue. Saren gave Kaelen a brief clasp of the arm, and the others filed out with more jokes and warm farewells. I stood by the door a moment longer after closing it, listening to the muffled crunch of snow as they left.

When I returned to the kitchen, Kaelen was flipping through his sketchbook, fingers trailing the edges of the pages.

“Didn’t overdo it?” I asked.

“Only a little,” he admitted. “But it was worth it.”

I poured us each another cup of tea and brought it over. “You said you’d show me your drawings.”

He hesitated for just a second, then held out the book. “Some of them, yeah.”

I took the seat beside him, careful not to crowd. The first few pages were simple—plant studies and herb shapes, labeled in neat script. My own drying racks, salves, and flasks rendered in soft charcoal, more detailed than I’d expected. Then came the wider views—my cottage from the outside, sketched from the footpath near the stillroom. The way the snow clung to the roof. The flicker of lanternlight through the window.

“You drew all this while you were recovering?” I asked.

He nodded. “Something to do. Helps me remember what matters.”

I turned another page and found a sketch of me—kneeling in the garden, bundled in a scarf, my hair pinned back messily as I harvested frost-mint.

My throat tightened. “Kaelen…”

“Sorry. I should’ve asked,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s beautiful,” I said, softer than I meant to. “I just… didn’t realize I looked like that.”

“Focused,” he said, smiling a little. “Content. Like you’re where you’re meant to be.”

The next sketches were from long before—monsters I didn’t recognize, glimpses of battlefields, dungeon corridors lined in jagged stone. His lines were darker in those, heavier.

I touched one with the tip of my finger. “This looks like it was drawn from memory.”

“It was,” he said. “Some things you don’t forget.”

I closed the book gently and handed it back. “Thank you for showing me.”

He leaned back in his chair, cradling his tea. “There’s more to draw. I was thinking… maybe I’ll sketch the grove outside town next. Once I can walk that far again.”

“I could take you,” I offered. “When you’re ready.”

He looked at me, warm and steady. “I’d like that.”

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

The sky was a pale sweep of winter blue, the snow along the footpaths packed down by days of careful village traffic. It had been nearly a week since Kaelen had first stood on his own—and now, wrapped in layers and leaning slightly on a walking stick Mira had loaned him, he was finally ready for his first venture outside the cottage.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” he muttered, eyeing the door like it might bite him.

“Only if you try to sprint,” I said, fastening my cloak. “And you’re not allowed to sprint.”

“That’s disappointing.”

I grinned and held the door open. “Come on, brave warrior. Let’s see how much your tail hates the cold.”

He winced but stepped out with care, boots crunching into the snow. The wind was crisp but not cruel, and his breath fogged in front of him as we began the short walk down the path toward the grove near the edge of town.

It wasn’t far—just past the stillroom’s herb beds, now sleeping under snow, and around the bend where the woods began to thicken. I kept a hand near his elbow, just in case, but he didn’t ask for help.

“I missed this,” he said quietly. “Just being outside. Breathing air that doesn’t smell like boiled salve.”

“You’ll have to get used to that again,” I teased. “The scent lingers in the walls.”

“Maybe I’ll start a new business. Dungeon runner turned salve snob.”

I laughed, the sound warm against the cold. “There are worse careers.”

We reached the grove, where bare-limbed trees swayed gently in the breeze and the silence was soft, not empty. Kaelen paused to lean against a bench carved from a fallen log, his breath still steady but his posture easing into weariness.

I sat beside him and let the quiet settle.

After a moment, he said, “I wasn’t sure I’d walk again. Not really. That first night, I thought it was done for me.”

“You were lucky your friends found you,” I said softly.

He nodded. “And luckier you were here.”

I glanced at him, cheeks stinging more from the words than the wind. “You’ll be back to full strength soon. Give it time.”

“Time’s easier to give when there’s something worth waiting for.”

My heart fluttered in a way I wasn’t ready to name. Instead, I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small pouch of dried fruit and nuts. “Here. Healers’ orders. You’re burning through energy faster than you think.”

He accepted it without protest and we sat in silence, sharing the snack, the moment, and the pale winter sunlight curling through the trees.

Kaelen popped a dried apricot into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, eyes scanning the grove around us. I watched his gaze track up the branches, along the bark, down to the forest floor.

“You’re scanning,” I said after a moment.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Force of habit.”

“What are you seeing?”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Squirrel tracks. One set—fast, light, probably this morning. A fox came through before that. Maybe dawn? You can tell by the melt pattern in the paw prints. There’s a broken twig along the lower path someone stepped on without realizing. Not a big person. Halfling maybe. Or a kid.”

I blinked. “I just see snow. Trees. A nice place to sit.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He leaned his head back against the log bench and let out a slow breath. “It’s peaceful here. Just… I always look for movement. Disruption. Clues. Especially in places like this.”

“I look for plants,” I said, brushing my fingers over the edge of a frosted branch. “Anything hardy enough to stay green through winter might be useful. Some plants keep their potency best in the cold. I watch for sprigs of wintermint, bits of dawnroot pushing up where the snow thins.”

He turned to look at me properly. “So we both scan. Just for different things.”

“Yours helps you survive. Mine helps others survive.”

Kaelen smiled, not in a teasing way, but something softer, admiring. “You walk into a forest and see healing. I see exits and threats.”

“And I’m slowly learning to look for those things, too. The world feels different when you’re out in it every day.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He nodded. “It always tells you something. You just have to listen.”

We sat quietly for a while, letting the forest speak in its own hush—creaks of wood, whisper of breeze, distant caw of a bird overhead.

“I like hearing how you see things,” I said eventually.

“I like explaining them to you,” he replied.

I smiled and stood, brushing the snow from my skirts. “Come on, forest scout. Time to head back before I get blamed for making you overdo it.”

He groaned theatrically as he pushed himself to his feet. “If I fall over, it’s entirely your fault.”

“You’ll fall into a snowbank,” I said, offering him my arm. “Padded landing.”

“Still your fault.”

We laughed all the way back to the cottage, our bootprints side by side in the snow.

Kaelen had fallen asleep not long after they returned, sprawled under a blanket on the sitting room couch with his sketchbook tucked beside him like a loyal companion. His breathing was even, the kind of sleep that came when a body was doing the quiet, invisible work of healing.

I stoked the hearth and added another log before slipping away to the reading chair near the window, journal in hand.

The old leather-bound volume was one of the last I hadn’t read yet. It smelled faintly of lavender and chimney soot—familiar, comforting scents now. I turned the pages slowly, the neat script of the previous healer looping across the paper in practical, no-nonsense lines.

“Late-season notes,” one entry began. “Spring approaching. Snow thinning. Be watchful for early risers in sheltered woodland pockets.”

I leaned in, heart picking up.

“Spindleroot—first shoots appear along creekbanks where water melts fast. Harvest with care; root thins with age.”

“Frostwort—pale leaves with purple blush. Useful for digestive calming when dried.”

“Sleepcap—rare but powerful. Pale mushroom. Only grows near river stones in thaw.”

“Firemint—first sprouts by the rocks near southern ridge. Sharp, peppery scent. Warms the lungs.”

I glanced toward the window, where snow clung to the edges of the herb beds and glistened faintly on the trees beyond. Soon, the world would change color again. And with it, new medicines would rise to meet new needs.

I pulled my notebook into my lap and began to copy the notes over, adding sketches from memory, circling spots I’d already explored and areas I hadn’t reached yet. The grove, the southern ridge, the creekbed near the bend.

The snow would melt. Life would return. And when it did, I wanted to be ready.

Behind me, Kaelen stirred and mumbled something unintelligible before settling again.

I glanced back at him, his face soft in sleep, a faint flush still on his cheeks. He’d come a long way. So had I.

I tucked the journal beside me, reached for my own cup of tea, and sat quietly with the pages and the firelight—dreaming of thaw and green, of river stones and wild herbs waiting just beneath the snow.

The fire had burned low, and dusk pressed gently at the cottage windows when I finally closed the journal in my lap. My legs had gone numb from sitting too long, but my mind was still turning—thinking of root systems beneath snow, of purple-tipped leaves not yet visible, and the soft scent of firemint in the wind to come.

Behind me, Kaelen stirred again.

I set the book aside and crossed the room.

He was still curled on the couch, but his brow furrowed slightly, and his tail twitched against the edge of the blanket.

“Kaelen,” I said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You should eat something and get to bed properly. Come on.”

He blinked awake, disoriented for just a moment before recognition settled behind his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Late enough,” I said, helping him sit upright. “You’ve been out for a while.”

He groaned, then gave a sleepy smile. “I didn’t mean to nap half the day.”

“I’ll allow it, just this once.”

I brought him a small bowl of soup I’d reheated from lunch—broth and softened grains with a few sliced roots. He sipped it slowly, still half-drowsing, then handed it back with a murmured “thanks.”

“Let’s get you to bed.”

He stood with only a little help and leaned against me as we made our way down the hall. He was steadier now, though his steps still carried the weight of fatigue. I settled him onto the guest bed, pulled the blankets up, and checked the rune stone under the floor—still warm, steady, humming low with gentle heat.

“You’ll sleep better here,” I said.

Kaelen nodded, his voice barely audible. “Thanks, Elara. For all of it.”

I brushed a bit of hair from his forehead. “Just rest.”

By the time I turned off the lantern and stepped out, he was already asleep again.

Upstairs, I changed into my nightclothes and lit the small lamp on my bedside table. The snow had begun to fall again—soft, quiet flakes drifting past the window in slow spirals.

I pulled my journal into my lap and opened to a fresh page.

📓 JOURNAL

Kaelen’s recovery continues. Standing, walking, eating without prompting.

Healing is nearly complete. I estimate four to five more days before I can send him back to the inn.

He seems both eager and hesitant to go.

We took a short walk today—first one beyond the front stoop. He watched the forest like a scout. I watched it like a healer. We saw two different things, and yet… we stood in the same snow, breathed the same air.

I’m not ready to name what I’m feeling ,but I’m starting to wonder if part of healing is letting yourself want things again.

I’ll keep watching. For plants. For signs. For what happens next.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke to the faint sound of a chair scraping across the kitchen floor.

Blinking sleep from my eyes, I sat up and listened—there it was again, the soft clink of a mug being set down, the creak of a cupboard.

He was up. On his own.

I threw on a shawl and padded down the stairs, half-expecting to find Kaelen half-collapsed or caught doing something reckless.

Instead, I found him standing at the counter, spooning out dried tea leaves with careful precision, his back to me. A bit stiff, moving slower than usual, but undeniably upright and functioning.

“You’re up early,” I said, crossing my arms as I leaned in the doorway.

He didn’t startle. “Didn’t want to wait for you to make the tea.”

“And here I thought I was spoiling you.”

He shot me a grin over his shoulder. “You were. I got used to it.”

I stepped closer and scanned him head to toe. His posture was strong, the bandages at his side neat and undisturbed. Only his tail, still partially wrapped and propped on a stool, bore signs of ongoing healing—raw in places, with the skin regenerating slowly but steadily.

“You’re pushing it,” I said mildly.

“Little bit,” he admitted. “But it feels good. Almost normal.”

“Almost,” I echoed. “You’ve got maybe three more days of care for your tail. Then I’ll consider letting you go.”

He set the kettle to boil and reached for a pair of mugs. “You make it sound like you’re throwing me out.”

I busied myself with a tin of dried apple slices. “You’ve got people waiting.”

“True,” he said. “But this has been… good. Better than I expected.”

I didn’t answer right away. But the moment lingered between us, warm as the steam curling from the kettle.

By mid-morning, another knock came at the door—one of Saren’s distinctive raps, followed by Merra’s less-subtle boot shuffle. I opened it to find the entire party bundled up and smiling, their cheeks red from the wind.

“We figured it was time to check on our resident invalid,” Saren said. “And bring gossip. And cider.”

“We also have a question,” Merra added, holding up a small bag of spiced nuts like an offering.

Kaelen, already seated by the hearth, grinned when he saw them. “I was starting to miss your noise.”

“Rude,” Thalen said, stepping inside. “We’re delightful.”

I brought over extra mugs while Kaelen filled them in on his progress—he was standing on his own, moving with care, and eating full meals again. They were visibly relieved, though none of them said it directly.

“We’re thinking of taking a short hunting trip,” Saren said as he accepted his cup. “Since we’ve got coin from the last dungeon dive, and nobody’s in a rush to go back in while it’s snowbound.”

“Just a few days,” Thalen added. “Up past the northern ridge, where the boar trails haven’t frozen out.”

“We were wondering if you or Elara needed anything while we’re out,” Merra said. “Fresh meat? Winter herbs?”

Kaelen glanced at me, then back at them. “Meat, definitely.”

“If you come across any frost-thistle or pepperroot, I’d trade for it,” I added, surprised at how natural it felt to be included.

“We’ll bring what we can carry,” Saren promised. “And no promises, but I might convince Thalen to cook something that doesn’t char on the outside.”

“Blasphemy,” Thalen said flatly.

They stayed for a short visit—long enough to share news from the inn and warm their fingers by the fire, but not so long that Kaelen had time to tire. When they finally left, I walked them to the door, Mira handing me an extra loaf of bread “just in case.”

As the door clicked shut and the quiet returned, I turned to find Kaelen watching me from his chair, mug in hand.

“You going to miss them when they’re gone again?” I asked.

“I already do,” he said, then after a pause added, “But I’ll miss this more.”

I didn’t answer. Not yet.

The boundary was set.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

Or better. It was hard to say.

We spent the next few hours circling each other in the quiet rhythm of the evening. I stirred the soup. He refilled the firewood bin. I re-corked a jar of crushed frostwort. He sharpened a charcoal pencil.

And we kept looking at each other.

It wasn’t even subtle. I’d glance toward the hearth and find him already watching me, a soft, half-smile tugging at his lips. He’d look away just a beat too late to hide it. Then I’d catch myself turning toward him again minutes later, heart fluttering, only to see that same grin blooming all over again.

Eventually, I tried to glare. “Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he said innocently, resting his chin on his hand. “You made the rules.”

“I know I made the rules.”

“And I’m being very good,” he added. “I haven’t touched you, complimented your eyes, or asked if you wanted to be drawn reclining among healing herbs—”

“Kaelen!”

He burst out laughing. I tried to hold my stern expression, but it cracked under the pressure of his joy, and I found myself laughing too, doubled over the kitchen counter like some red-faced teenager.

“I hate you,” I muttered, wiping at my eyes.

“Seems unlikely,” he said with a wink.

I gave up.

When the soup was ready, I brought him a bowl and set it in front of him without comment. Then I pulled on my cloak and wrapped a scarf around my neck.

“Where are you going?” he asked, eyeing the door.

“I’m leaving you to your meal,” I said. “Because if I stay in this room another minute, I’m going to break my own rules.”

His grin faltered slightly, but in its place came something softer. Understanding. “Will you be back?”

“Eventually,” I said. “I need to talk to someone.”

“Don’t trip in the snow,” he said.

“Don’t burn the cottage down.”

The wind had picked up as I made my way through the village, curling around corners and dusting rooftops with fresh powder. The inn was lit from within, a golden glow spilling from the front windows and the sound of a low fiddle tune floating through the heavy door.

Mira was behind the counter, drying mugs with a practiced hand. She looked up as I entered, eyebrows lifting.

“Well, well,” she said, setting the cloth aside. “If it isn’t our mysterious healer stepping out after dark. Everything alright?”

I hesitated. Then sighed.

“I might be in trouble,” I admitted.

She raised a brow. “The kind you need stitches for, or the kind that makes your stomach flutter and your ears go red?”

“…The second one.”

Mira smiled and a stool. “Sit down, Elara. You’ve come to the right place.”

Mira poured two mugs of mulled cider, set them on the worn wood counter, and took the seat beside me like we had done this a dozen times before.

I wrapped my hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth. I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d carried until I finally sat down.

“So,” Mira said, tone light but eyes sharp. “Let’s hear it. What’s the story behind the red ears and guilty expression?”

I took a long sip before answering. “Kaelen and I had a talk. A serious talk.”

“Ooh. The kind with capital letters?”

“The kind where I asked him what his intentions were.”

Her eyebrows rose slowly. “And here I thought I’d have to pry it out of you next spring.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” I said. “I needed to know if he was just… flirting, or if it meant something.”

“And?”

“It means something,” I admitted, voice soft. “He said he’s very interested. That he didn’t want to push while he was still recovering, but if I let him, he’d kiss me.”

“Did you let him?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I made a rule. No kissing. No touching. No anything until he’s out of the cottage.”

Mira blinked, then smirked. “That explains why you look like someone set fire to your nerves and then offered you a blanket.”

I groaned and let my head fall onto my arms. “He keeps looking at me. And I keep looking back. And we both know exactly what we’re not doing.”

Mira’s laugh was quiet and fond. “Oh, Elara. You’re courting each other without even trying.”

“I just didn’t want it to be… complicated,” I murmured. “There’s already enough tied into being his healer. I wanted it to be real. Not gratitude. Not some emotional attachment from being saved.”

“Sounds like you already know it is real.”

“Maybe.” I paused. “But part of me is still afraid I’ll let my heart do something reckless.”

Mira reached out and touched my arm gently. “That’s not reckless. That’s hopeful.”

I looked at her, uncertain. “You think I should let him try?”

She smiled. “Elara, the man sketched your stillroom like it was a cathedral. He listens when you talk about herbs. He blushes when you look at him too long. I think he’s already trying.”

A warmth bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t meant to smile—but I did.

“Then I guess I’ll wait,” I said quietly. “If he still wants to court me after he walks out my door, I’ll let him.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, I’ll pretend I don’t notice when he stares. And I won’t break my own rule.”

Mira raised her mug in salute. “To slow burns and stubborn herbalists.”

I clinked mine gently against hers. “To not falling in love with your patient.”

“You’re already halfway there,” she said, laughing. “Might as well enjoy the view.”

The walk back to the cottage was quiet, snow falling in soft spirals beneath the moonlight. The village had gone still for the night, windows shuttered, fires banked low. My boots crunched gently along the path, and my breath curled in slow puffs as I let Mira’s words settle into my chest.

Hopeful. She’d called it hopeful.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The cottage was dim, the hearth a low glow, and the air still holding the day’s warmth. Kaelen’s chair was empty, his tea cup rinsed and drying on the counter.

I peeked into the guest room. He was there—already asleep, blanket pulled up to his ribs, tail tucked carefully to one side. His breathing was deep and even. Peaceful.

I let the door close softly behind me and turned toward the kitchen.

That’s when I saw the sketch.

It was lying on the table beside my tea tin, the parchment neatly weighted with a small stone from the windowsill. I stepped closer, brow furrowing—then softened.

It was a drawing of my favorite tea herbs, but not just the plants themselves. He had sketched them as they grew in the wild—mint curling at the base of a mossy stone, chamomile blossoming under a sliver of sun, lemon balm leaves unfurling beside a slow stream. Delicate detail, lovingly captured. Root, stem, blossom. Each drawn with intention.

My hand trembled slightly as I picked it up.

There was no note. No signature.

But I didn’t need one.

I carried it upstairs to my room, opened my journal, and gently folded the drawing inside—between two blank pages near the back where I kept the most important things.

Then I blew out the lantern, slipped into bed, and lay there a long time, the sketch pressed safely between the pages beneath my pillow.

And for once, I didn’t dream of the past or the pressure of being needed.

I dreamed of green things, and soft light, and a quiet man with clever hands who saw me not as someone who saved him, but as someone worth returning to.