Chapter 19: Sniffles, Steam, and Spring Tea

Spring had come—and with it, a parade of runny noses, watery eyes, and the kind of lingering coughs that rattled windows.

The snowmelt had coaxed the trees into budding, the moss into softening underfoot… and half the village into low-level misery.

My stillroom smelled like mint, chamomile, and boiled bark. The drying racks were full. The steam pot hadn’t cooled in days. I’d already made three new batches of congestion balm and barely had time to finish labeling the last one before it went out the door.

This morning, I packed my satchel with purpose: salves for dry skin chapped by wind, warming rubs for sore backs, vials of early blossom tonic for sneezing fits, and a tin of the herbal tea blend I called Breathe Easy—a mix of pepperroot, woodmint, and dried sweetleaf.

First stop: the elders.

They always came first.

I bundled into my cloak and laced my boots, pausing only to tie my braid back tight before heading out the door into the crisp morning air.

Old Bitty’s cottage was first.

She met me at the door with a handkerchief and a glare. “It’s just the damp,” she insisted.

“Mmhmm,” I said, handing her a tin of balm and two tea sachets. “And the cough is just you singing in your sleep?”

“I’ll drink the tea if you sit and have some with me.”

“I’ll have one cup. No stories about your great-nephew’s gambling again.”

“Fair,” she said with a sniff and waved me inside.

Next was Elder Harn, already bundled in three scarves and complaining about “spring betrayal.” His joints ached, his chest was tight, and he made a big show of disliking the salve until it started working.

“You do this just to get me to visit more often,” I said.

He grunted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I like the tea, not the company.”

“Sure you do.”

From there, the morning passed in a steady rhythm: delivering sachets, checking pulses, reminding people not to stand barefoot on cold stone floors. One house at a time, I worked my way through the upper lanes, my satchel lighter and my pockets full of thanks.

By the time I made it to the square, the sun had crept higher and the village was alive with chatter and muddy boots. The seasonal shift had made everything louder—but I didn’t mind. The rhythm of it all, the way people stopped to ask about teas or wave from their doors, it reminded me why I stayed.

I belonged here. And this was my work.

The road to the square was muddy but well-trodden, packed down by carts and boots and late-season snowmelt. I kept to the firmer edges, weaving between early shoppers and half-unpacked stalls. The rain had held off, but the air still clung with dampness, curling the edges of my scarf and catching in the folds of my satchel.

The square was alive.

Vendors shouted good-natured greetings over baskets of early greens and root vegetables. A dwarf woman waved a knife through the air as she argued cheerfully with a goblin fishmonger. Children darted around the corners of tables, boots squelching, laughter echoing in the misty light.

And as I passed the cobbler’s stand, I heard it.

“Morning, Healer Elara,” a man said, tipping his cap.

A few steps later, a woman nodded to me from behind a bread stall. “That cough tincture you gave my niece worked wonders. Thank you.”

“Tell her to keep drinking the tea until the tin runs out,” I replied automatically.

Someone else called, “Still got that hand salve, Elara? My fingers are cracking again.”

“Come by the cottage tomorrow,” I answered. “I’ll set some aside for you.”

It wasn’t until I reached the center of the square, pausing near the flower seller’s table, that I realized something had shifted.

They all knew me.

Not just the elders. Not just the families I’d tended in emergencies.

All of them.

People nodded as they passed. Called my name like it belonged in the middle of their sentences. Gave me space at the tea vendor’s stall and told their children to let the healer through, now.

And I—gods help me—I knew them, too.

I recognized the teen who helped unload the grain carts in the morning and the stonemason with the crooked ankle. I knew whose garden had good chamomile and who needed help splitting firewood last winter. I’d memorized the rhythm of their coughs and the shape of their kindness.

I stood there for a moment, hand resting on my satchel, heart unexpectedly full.

I hadn’t said I was staying. Not aloud. Not even to myself.

But the truth had settled in my bones before I’d noticed.

There was no version of me that could walk away now.

Not because I owed them.

But because I loved them. Quietly. Fiercely. In the way you love a place that lets you build a life one herbal bundle at a time.

They’d adopted me the moment I stepped through the village gates—without fanfare, without question. Like the seat had always been there and I’d simply sat down.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and gave a quiet nod to the woman at the spice stall, who smiled back like I’d lived here my whole life.

And maybe I had.

I was halfway between the spice vendor and the root cellar kiosk when I heard his voice—low, familiar, and unmistakably amused.

“Do you think five rope bundles is enough, or should I aim for ten in case Thalen trips into a pit again?”

I turned.

Kaelen stood by the general goods stall, his cloak thrown over one shoulder, his satchel already bulging. His curls were wind-tossed, and his tail swayed easily behind him as he sorted through a stack of gear with Merra offering loud opinions nearby.

He looked good.

Not just healthy—but strong again. Color back in his cheeks. The long, healed lines of movement returned to his stride. I felt a smile spread across my face before I could stop it.

He glanced up mid-sentence and saw me. His expression shifted—lighting like a lantern being turned up just for me.

“Elara,” he said, walking toward me without hesitation.

“You’re out early,” I said. “What are you scheming?”

“Just the usual,” he said. “Supplies. Food. Plans to not die in a dungeon.”

“You’re heading back in soon?”

“Tomorrow morning.” He tilted his head, watching me carefully. “I feel ready.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He raised both hands, palms open. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then you knew I’d insist on a check-up.”

“I’m hoping it includes tea,” he said, already grinning.

“It includes dinner,” I said before I could think too much about it. “Tonight. After my rounds.”

His smile deepened. “So it’s that kind of check-up.”

“It’s still mostly professional,” I said, ignoring the heat in my cheeks. “But yes. Come to the cottage. Sunset.”

He leaned in just slightly, voice low enough only I could hear. “I'll bring dessert.”

I managed a dry look. “Don’t let Thalen cook it.”

“No promises.”

He gave my hand a brief, warm squeeze, and then returned to his stall, letting the conversation drift back to rope and rations as though I hadn’t just invited him into the quiet center of my life.

That evening, I swept through the cottage with purpose. Herbs still hung from the rafters, and the table bore the traces of a morning spent sorting, but the fire was warm and the stillroom door was closed.

I set out bread to warm, laid the table for two, and prepared a hearty root stew with herbs from the day’s foraging. Something grounding. Something easy to share.

My apron was dusted with flour and rosemary when I finally paused at the window, watching the sun dip lower behind the trees.

Kaelen would be here soon.

And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t nervous.

I was ready.

Kaelen knocked once before opening the door, letting the soft creak of wood and a gust of cool spring air announce him.

“Smells amazing in here,” he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. He tugged off his cloak and shook out the dampness from the hem. “Either you’ve made dinner, or you’ve been simmering potions meant to charm me.”

I raised an eyebrow as I stirred the stew. “If I were brewing a charm, you wouldn’t know it.”

“That’s the most alarming thing you’ve ever said.”

“Good.” I turned and motioned to the table. “Sit. You’re still due for a final check-up.”

He obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from me with a soft groan of contentment.

“Start talking,” I said, ladling stew into bowls. “How’s your body feeling?”

“Alive,” he said. “Steady. No pulling when I stretch, no tightness when I walk.”

“And the balm?”

“Applied twice daily,” he said with mock solemnity. “Though the scent does make Merra call me ‘herby’ now.”

“Scales or smooth?”

He tugged back the hem of his tunic just enough to expose his side. “You tell me.”

I stepped close and bent to examine the skin—no cracking, no roughness, no inflammation. Just healthy pink and faint scarring, well along in its healing.

I pressed two fingers gently against the edge of his ribs. “Too warm?”

“Nope,” he said, his voice softer now. “Just right.”

I met his eyes. “You’re ready.”

He held my gaze. “You think so?”

I nodded. “If your party’s only mapping the rest of the first level tomorrow, and they’re coming back by evening, I don’t see a reason to stop you.”

He exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Then I’m glad we agree.”

We sat down to eat, the stew hearty and grounding, our conversation easy. He told me about the map they were building, about the trap-laden hallways they’d already cleared, about the southern corridor that twisted into a stone spiral they hadn’t finished charting. I listened, nodding, chewing slowly.

And then I set my spoon down.

He looked up.

I stood and walked around the table, leaned down, and braced a hand on the chair just beside his shoulder. He tilted his head to follow me, his eyes warming.

“You want to prove you’re ready to go back into that dungeon tomorrow?” I said quietly.

A smile bloomed across his face. “I do.”

“Then I suggest,” I said, lips close to his ear, “you take me to bed and prove you’ve got the stamina to last.”

He blinked once.

Then grinned like I’d handed him the greatest quest in the realm.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

“I find this test extremely fair,” he said, standing so fast the chair nearly toppled. “And I accept the terms.”

I turned and walked toward the ladder, loosening the tie on my braid as I went. He followed two steps behind, laughing softly, voice rich with anticipation.

“You’re going to regret challenging me, healer.”

“I sincerely hope so,” I said, climbing the first rung.

He caught me around the waist halfway up and swept me over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish.

And then the ladder, the world, and the rest of the night disappeared in a tangle of laughter, breathless kisses, and every answer we hadn’t yet put into words.

I woke to warmth.

Not just the kind that clings to heavy quilts or hearth-glow, but the kind that came from another body curled around mine—solid, breathing, steady.

Kaelen lay half-sprawled across the bed, one arm draped over my waist, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deep rhythm. His face was turned toward me, hair tousled, lips parted just slightly.

And our tails had found each other sometime in the night—twined together beneath the covers, lazy and unconcerned.

I smiled before my eyes were even fully open.

There was no awkwardness. No hesitation. Just the quiet satisfaction of comfort, of skin-on-skin familiarity, of a night well spent and a morning that didn’t ask for anything but breath and stillness.

Kaelen stirred beside me, brow furrowing slightly as he blinked awake. His voice was gravel-warm. “Good morning.”

“Mmhmm,” I said, not moving. “You’re warm.”

“I’m always warm.”

“Convenient.”

His fingers brushed my waist, then trailed up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You alright?”

“Better than alright.”

We lay there for a few more minutes, the silence stretching long and golden. And then—

BANG BANG BANG.

The front door shook in its frame.

“KAELEN!” came Merra’s voice, loud and gleeful through the wood. “Stop pestering the poor healer and get your butt outside!”

“Tell her to let you go, Kaelen!” Thalen added, barely stifling laughter. “We brought your gear! You have no excuse!”

“You’ve been compromised by affection!” Saren shouted. “This is a rescue mission!”

Kaelen groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Gods. They would bring a crowd.”

“They are your friends,” I said, already laughing.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered.

I rolled out of bed, still grinning. “Come on, they’re going to wake the whole village.”

I pulled on my robe and padded down the ladder, opening the door wide. Merra was mid-knock and blinked, caught. Thalen stood beside her with Kaelen’s satchel and scouting leathers, while Saren leaned against the gate with an overly patient expression.

“Well,” Merra said brightly, “that confirms it.”

“Come inside before someone else hears you,” I said, laughing. “There’s tea.”

They all filed in without protest, boots scraping and voices lowering slightly as the hearth’s warmth welcomed them. Thalen tossed Kaelen’s leathers up the ladder so he could get dressed.

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Kaelen came down a few minutes later, hair still slightly damp, tugging on his reinforced leather vest. He buckled the last strap while Thalen tossed him his bracers.

“I’m fine,” he said before any of them could say a word.

“You look fine,” Merra teased.

I handed Kaelen a cup of tea and passed a small pouch to Saren—four vials, carefully packed. “Just in case. A healing blend, a stimulant tonic, and two mild restoratives. Don’t use them unless you have to.”

Saren took it with a grateful nod. “You really are the best.”

Kaelen adjusted his belt and leaned over to kiss my temple. “We’ll be back by evening.”

“Just don’t come back with any new injuries,” I said.

“No promises,” Thalen said with a grin, already heading for the door.

Merra winked. “He’s got a lot to prove after last night.”

I laughed and shook my head, watching them file out one by one. Kaelen lingered in the doorway a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

“Come back safe.”

He gave me that look—the one that was all steady fire and quiet promises—then turned and followed his party into the morning mist.

I stood at the threshold until they disappeared down the road, then closed the door and leaned back against it, and smiled.

The path east of the village curved gently toward higher ridges and quiet trees.

Elara had passed this way before—once, maybe twice—but always skirted the forest near the elven dwellings. Not out of fear, but reverence. It had always felt like their space, humming with quiet magic and long memory, and she hadn't wanted to intrude.

But today, she stepped past the last boundary marker and followed the stone-strewn path deeper.

Birdsong was softer here, and the wind moved differently—not louder, not quieter, but with purpose. Like it listened as it passed through the branches.

She walked slowly, letting her boots sink into the damp leaf mulch, eyes scanning the undergrowth. The elven wood wasn’t wild, exactly. It was tended—not shaped, but gently encouraged, each thicket or bloom growing as if it had been asked and had kindly agreed.

She didn’t touch much as she walked. Just observed. Learned.

And wondered.

Kaelen would be halfway through the mapping by now, most likely. Their plan was solid—first floor only, a quick clean sweep and retreat. They were experienced, smart, and worked as a unit.

She wasn’t worried. But she did miss him.

The absence of his touch, the way he always found her wrist or waist when they walked side by side, the warmth of his palm lingering even after it left her skin—it left her a little hollow now. Not painful. Just aware.

She tucked the thought into the side of her heart and refocused.

It was near the bend of a moss-covered stream that she found it.

A clump of low-growing, silvery green moss, layered like soft ruffles along a fallen stone. It shimmered faintly when touched, the surface slightly cool, but when she pressed it to the inside of her wrist, a tingling warmth bloomed beneath her skin.

She crouched immediately, heart quickening.

“I’ve seen you before,” she whispered, reaching for her satchel.

The texture, the color, the scent—it was all familiar. She remembered a mention buried deep in one of the older journals. A shock-stabilizing moss used in emergency treatments, particularly effective on those who had suffered trauma or blood loss. Rare. Region-locked.

And here it was. Growing beneath elven trees, where magic hummed through every root.

She pulled out her field notebook and took a quick sketch, then harvested carefully—never more than a third, brushing her fingers across the remaining patch with silent thanks.

By the time her pouch was full, her fingers were damp and tingling and her mind already spinning with excitement.

She would cross-reference the entry as soon as she returned home. If it was the moss she remembered, it could change her emergency packs. A natural stabilizer—light, easily dried, fast-acting. The kind of thing you kept tucked away just in case.

As she straightened, she looked out over the softly glowing grove, hand resting over her satchel.

The forest was full of answers she hadn’t even thought to ask yet. And for the first time, she didn’t feel like an outsider in this space. She felt welcome.

Elara pushed the cottage door open with her shoulder, her satchel clutched tightly to her chest, the faint scent of damp moss trailing behind her like a whisper.

She barely remembered kicking off her boots or hanging up her cloak. The energy thrummed too high beneath her skin—half joy, half urgency—as she set her satchel on the worktable and pulled out the soft pouches she’d packed in the grove.

She didn’t even pause to make tea.

Instead, she reached immediately for the leather-bound journal she remembered the entry in—fourth from the bottom, green-stitched spine, its corners curled from years of handling. She flipped quickly, scanning handwritten pages filled with tidy notes and faded ink sketches until she found it.

“Silvergrove ruffle-moss – grows in deep-woven glades, often in elven-protected territories. Do not overharvest. Cooling to the touch, but warms the bloodstream when pressed against the skin. Best used in trauma cases—shock, rapid blood loss, deep fainting spells. Compress or brew into tonic for stabilization. Extremely effective. RARE.”

Elara’s heart fluttered.

She’d found it.

She knew it.

The moss wasn’t just real—it was usable. It could make a difference.

She practically ran to the stillroom, setting out her drying trays, gently patting the moss onto clean cloth. Some she laid out in whole fronds. The rest she began carefully pressing into gauze-wrapped packets, binding them with fine twine and tucking them into her emergency kit drawers.

Six complete doses. One backup sample for testing.

She’d never found anything like it this close to the village.

After the packs were labeled and shelved, she finally paused—just long enough to sit by the fire with her field journal, warm parchment against her palms, and ink bottle ready.

Field Journal – Early Spring, Silvergrove Region

Moss discovered near elven territory, southeast ridge above river bend.

Growing in dense clusters across a shaded fallen stone. Low-lying, soft, pale silver-green. Slight bioluminescence when disturbed. Cool on contact, warms with skin.

Cross-reference confirms: shock-treatment moss. Emergency use. Extremely rare.

Collected partial sample—processed six doses + 1 sample.

Left remaining patch healthy and intact. Will monitor for regrowth.

She sat back, ink drying, fingers still tingling with pride and purpose.

This had been a good find. The kind of thing you carried not because you might need it—but because someday, someone would.

She pressed a hand over the journal, exhaled, and smiled.

“I hope you’re all doing just as well down there,” she murmured aloud, thinking of Kaelen and the others.

Then she rose, washed the moss-stained cloths, and lit the lanterns in the windows—just in case someone came home needing the light.

The sun had dipped low by the time the knock came—a familiar rhythm, followed by loud, chaotic voices.

“Careful, don’t drop him!”

“Wouldn’t want to scuff the scout!”

“Too late—he’s already bruised from grinning every time someone said ‘moss.’”

I opened the door and found the whole party on my doorstep.

Saren was carrying Kaelen’s pack while Thalen leaned dramatically against the gate with an exaggerated sigh. Merra stood beside them, arms crossed, utterly failing to suppress her smirk.

Kaelen, to his credit, looked tired—but in one piece. His curls were damp with sweat, cheeks wind-flushed, and his cloak hung crooked from where someone had likely tugged it mid-teasing.

“Delivery,” Merra said cheerfully. “One lovesick scout. Barely used.”

“He’s got a bruised ego from falling in a shallow pit,” Thalen added.

Saren grinned. “And bruised ears from all the ‘Elara this’ and ‘Elara that.’ Honestly, we started wishing something would bite him, just to shut him up.”

Kaelen gave them all a flat look. “You're terrible people.”

“You love us,” Thalen said.

“I tolerate you.”

Merra leaned in, stage-whispering, “He spent half the run comparing every hallway to your shoulders. ‘Elegant lines. Good structure. Look at the flow—reminds me of—’”

Kaelen groaned. “Stop.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Loudly.

“I see you survived,” I said, stepping back so he could enter.

“Barely,” Kaelen muttered, brushing mud from his boots before stepping inside. “They were worse than the traps.”

“You liked it,” Saren called. “Sleep tight, sweet scout!”

I shut the door behind him as the others wandered off toward the inn, still laughing and elbowing one another.

Kaelen dropped his pack with a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll get them back next run.”

“You won’t,” I said, amused. “They’re clearly immune.”

He gave me a look, but the corners of his mouth curled. “You’d better be careful. They’re going to start thinking I’m fond of you.”

“Oh?” I arched a brow. “Aren’t you?”

“Disastrously,” he said without missing a beat.

My heart warmed.

He looked exhausted now that the noise had faded. His shoulders sagged slightly, and his boots sat heavily on the mat, as though gravity remembered him again.

“You’re worn out,” I said, stepping close. “Go wash up. There’s stew on the hearth, and bread. Eat, then bed.”

“I’m fine—”

“No,” I said, poking him in the ribs. “You’re tired, and it’s my fault. I did tire you out before your big dungeon run.”

He huffed a tired laugh. “That was an excellent tactical error.”

“You can prove your stamina tomorrow morning,” I said, smirking. “Tonight, you eat and sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek before trudging toward the table, already pulling off his bracers.

As he ate, I watched him from the corner of the room, preparing a small tray with tea and leftover stew for myself. His presence in my cottage didn’t feel like a guest anymore. He belonged here—tucked into the space between stillroom and hearth, boots by the door, his voice folding into the quiet like it had always lived there.

Fell-Hearts, the old stories called it.

That rare recognition, subtle but sure. When your souls matched not in drama, but in rhythm. When comfort came fast, and trust even faster.

Kaelen hadn’t said it.

Neither had I.

But that didn’t matter.

If he was thinking it too, then we were already moving in the same direction. And if not—he’d catch up. I wasn’t worried.

After dinner, he yawned once, twice—then gave in with a grumble, dragging himself up the ladder.

“I’ll make up for it in the morning,” he muttered.

“I’ll hold you to it,” I said, smiling.

His tail flicked once at me from the top rung before disappearing into the loft.

I let him go without a word, heart full and quiet, knowing that some things didn’t need to be spoken.

They were already true.

The morning drifted in slow and golden, sunlight slanting through the upper windows and casting soft patterns across the loft.

Elara woke first, curled on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow and the scent of warm cedar and moss lingering faintly in the linens. Kaelen’s breathing was steady beside her, one arm slung loosely across her waist, his tail curled comfortably around hers.

Neither of them had said much when they’d settled into bed the night before—just quiet smiles, warm food, and the weight of a long day well spent.

Now, in the hush of early light, she simply breathed him in.

No rush. No urgency.

Just a slow, grounding peace.

Kaelen stirred behind her not long after. She felt his breath shift, his fingers twitch gently where they rested at her hip. Then, with a sleepy rumble, he murmured, “Still alive.”

“Good,” Elara replied without turning. “That would’ve been awkward.”

His chest rumbled with laughter, and he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. “You didn’t sneak any moss-based knockout potions into my dinner, did you?”

“Not this time.”

They lay together a while longer, quiet, the world outside just beginning to stir. Then Kaelen sat up slowly, stretching until his back cracked and blinking at the sunlight pouring through the loft window.

“I want to go out again,” he said, voice still husky with sleep. “Nothing deep. Not a run. Just... walking. Moving. Getting back into my rhythm.”

Elara propped herself up on one elbow. “A scout can’t scout if he stays in one place too long.”

He gave her a sideways smile. “Exactly. And I figured... maybe we pick a new area today. Not the elven woods. Not where we went before. Somewhere neither of us knows that well.”

“I could use a look at the southern slope,” she said thoughtfully. “That area stays shaded longer—might be early growth for shade herbs or stubborn root plants. We haven’t gone there together yet.”

His eyes brightened. “Perfect.”

“I’ll bring my satchel.”

“I’ll carry the snacks.”

“You will carry the satchel if I find anything heavy.”

“Fair enough.”

Later, as they moved through their morning routine—tea steeping, bread warming near the hearth, Kaelen pulling on his light scouting gear and Elara tucking away fresh salves into her belt pouch—the ease between them was palpable.

There was no performance. No tension. Just the slow building of a shared rhythm.

He leaned against the counter as she fastened her cloak, watching her with open affection.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For letting this happen. Letting me happen.”

Elara reached out and brushed her fingers along his jaw. “You didn’t happen. You fit.”

He smiled, a little shy beneath the grin, and laced his fingers through hers.

“Come on,” she said, tugging him toward the door. “We’ve got forests to explore.”

“And stamina to rebuild,” he said, mock-serious.

She smirked. “You’re going to need it.”

And together, they stepped out into the sunlight, the forest waiting ahead—new paths, new roots, and something steady growing between every step.

The southern woods unfolded differently.

Here, the trees were younger, spaced wide, with trunks dappled in lichen and bark the color of storm-washed stone. The slope dipped gently toward a shallow basin where the ground held more water, pooling in slow, quiet pockets of early pond life.

Elara stepped carefully around a thicket of bramble, brushing dew from her fingertips as she moved. Kaelen trailed just behind her, sharp-eyed and quiet, already falling into the natural cadence of scouting—checking the wind, noting tracks, pausing when the forest did.

Spring was fully waking here.

New things grew.

Clusters of young violet-tinted mushrooms peeked from the bases of half-rotted stumps, their caps soft and edible. Elara crouched to gather them with a delighted hum.

“These are perfect,” she murmured. “Moondrop caps. Gentle on the stomach, sweet when sautéed. Good with game.”

Kaelen, further ahead, let out a soft call. “We’ve got sign here—fresh.”

She stood and followed his voice, spotting him near a patch of soft earth where rabbit prints crossed beneath a tangle of bracken.

He gave her a grin. “Stay here.”

She watched him slip through the brush like a shadow, moving low and fluid, every motion economical. It didn’t take long—ten, maybe twelve minutes—before he returned with two field-dressed rabbits in hand, already wrapped in a length of cloth pulled from his satchel.

“That was quick,” she said.

“They weren’t hiding well,” he replied, satisfied. “Should last us a couple dinners if we stretch it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you can cook too?”

He shrugged, amused. “I’m a scout. I can survive. You’re the one who makes things taste good.”

“Flattery,” she said, smiling. “But not untrue.”

They continued along the edge of the pond, Elara spotting a patch of flat-leafed tubers near the muddy bank. She rolled up her sleeves and crouched down to dig, the water seeping up around her boots, but the harvest was worth it—fat roots, still cool from the shaded soil.

Kaelen watched from a dry rock nearby, rabbit cloth beside him, cloak shrugged off.

“You come here often?” he asked, eyeing the little cove-like space they’d found.

“Not since the fall,” she replied, brushing dirt from a root. “It stays too cold until now. But once the melt’s gone, this area’ll bloom fast. Might even get early river reed and fish by midspring.”

He leaned back on his elbows. “We should come back with poles.”

She gave him a curious look. “You fish?”

“I can,” he said with mock defensiveness. “And I’m told I’m patient enough to make it work.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, straightening.

“You’ll see it,” he promised.

They packed their finds together, side by side again, speaking softly about which roots needed to dry and which would go straight into the stew pot. Elara reached for his hand as they stood, lacing her fingers through his without thinking.

It felt easy.

Right.

They made their way back home with dusk stretching long behind them, the baskets full and the future softly unfolding between every footstep.

By the time they reached the cottage, the light had gone soft and gold, casting long shadows across the walls and warming the windows from the inside out.

Kaelen nudged the door open with his shoulder, holding their foraged bounty in one hand and the bundled rabbits in the other.

“Go sit,” he said over his shoulder as Elara unbuckled her boots. “I’m cooking.”

She raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “You sure?”

“I know my way around a pan,” he said, already heading to the hearth. “You’ve fed me how many times now? It’s your turn.”

That left little room for argument, so Elara smiled, kissed his cheek in passing, and made her way to the stillroom corner where her journal, drying trays, and ink bottle waited.

She pulled off her cloak, rolled up her sleeves, and laid the day’s finds out with practiced care.

The mosses were spread across parchment to finish drying, the mushrooms trimmed and sorted into a basket, and the roots placed gently into a damp cloth for later preservation. Her hands moved steadily, but her mind was still full of the forest—the sound of Kaelen’s voice in the quiet, the cool water on her boots, the way their hands had found each other without needing words.

She opened her field journal to a new page.

Field Journal – Southern Slope, Early Spring

Explored new area beyond southern ridge basin.

Forest notably younger, thinner canopy. Ground soft and well-drained.

Discovered:

– Moondrop mushrooms (edible, mild sweetness, good with game).

– Mudroot tubers (nutrient-rich, requires gentle boiling).

– Early flatleaf spore moss – monitoring for future regrowth.

Pond nearby – slow runoff, good site for future reed gathering or seasonal fishing. Consider spring return with Kaelen for harvest/fishing camp.

She paused, tapping the pen against her lips.

Then added quietly:

Kaelen is healing well. Scouting suits him again. We’re falling into rhythm—without needing to try. It’s… easy. Like it’s always been here.

She set the pen down and breathed in the scent of roasting rabbit and herbs.

Across the room, Kaelen moved with simple confidence. He’d seasoned the meat with salt and pepperroot and set it to roast over the hearth while a pot of chopped tubers and mushrooms simmered in broth nearby. The scent was savory, rich, comforting.

“I’m not putting any moss in it,” he called.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” she replied.

“You were thinking it.”

“Maybe a little.”

He chuckled and stirred the pot, then looked back at her with that same gentle grin he always saved for when they were alone.

“You sure you don’t want to sit and put your feet up?”

She shook her head, still smiling. “This is my rest. You cook. I record. That’s how it works.”

Kaelen turned back to the fire, humming quietly under his breath.

And in that moment—with one tending the hearth, and the other preserving the knowledge of the day—they felt not like two people courting each other, but like a home already in the making.

The stew was simple, but good—rich with the earthiness of tubers and the subtle sweetness of the mushrooms. The roasted rabbit was crisp around the edges, seasoned well, and still tender at the center. Kaelen had even remembered to set out a jar of Elara’s pickled herbs from the shelf near the pantry, which she only realized halfway through the meal with a surprised smile.

“I’m impressed,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into the broth. “You do know your way around a pan.”

“I told you,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “Scouts eat better when they learn to cook what they catch.”

“I can’t believe you remembered the pickled fennel.”

He shrugged. “You smiled when you opened it last time. Figured that meant something.”

Elara looked at him for a long moment, heart unexpectedly full.

They didn’t need to fill the whole meal with words. Much of it passed in the warmth of the hearth, the clink of spoons, and the soft crackle of firewood. Every now and then, Kaelen would glance up, and she’d already be looking at him.

Afterward, they cleaned the bowls together in the low light, his hand brushing hers more than once at the basin. Neither pulled away.

They lingered near the hearth afterward, seated on the bench with tea warming their palms. Elara curled one foot beneath her and leaned into his side, his arm wrapping naturally around her.

Outside, a breeze shifted through the trees. Inside, the quiet between them was easy.

“I liked today,” Kaelen said softly. “More than I expected. I’ve scouted alone for years. Never thought I’d want company during it.”

Elara smiled against his shoulder. “It’s different when the company knows what they’re doing.”

“It’s different when the company is you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let that settle. The warmth of him, the scent of woods still clinging to his shirt, the steady beat of something unfolding slowly between them.

“There’s a story,” she said at last, “in Fellborn culture. About Fell-Hearts.”

Kaelen turned slightly, curious but waiting.

“It’s when two people just… fit,” she said. “From the beginning. It’s not dramatic. It’s not about fate. It’s just easy. Natural. They recognize something in each other. And they don’t wait. They move forward because they already know it works.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes.

“I’m not saying that’s what we are,” she added, soft but steady. “But I think about it. And I don’t feel like rushing would be wrong.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then leaned in and kissed her—not fiercely, not hungrily. Just surely.

And when he pulled back, he murmured, “If it is, I hope I’m lucky enough to be yours.”

They didn’t speak much after that.

Kaelen banked the fire, Elara dimmed the lanterns, and together they climbed the ladder into the loft.

The bed welcomed them like it had been waiting.

No urgency now. No teasing. Just the quiet comfort of two people who had stopped pretending they were unsure.

She lay beside him with her head on his shoulder, his arm curled around her, their tails loosely twined beneath the blankets.

And as she drifted off to sleep, Elara thought—not for the first time—that she was exactly where she was meant to be.