8 - A Woman's Heart - Part One

Rhythmic bite of my axe splits the morning air, each strike precise as a headsman's blow. Sweat trickles down my temple despite the cool breeze, my grey woolen tunic clinging to my back after what must be my hundredth swing. Split logs beside me have grown into a respectable pile over the past hour, though many still bear the dampness of recent rains like battle scars. Birds call to each other in the surrounding forest, their songs weaving with the steady chunk of wood surrendering beneath my blade.

My mind wanders to the hollow emptiness of last night's sleep. No dreams. No visions. The absence gnaws at me worse than their presence ever did, like a wound that won't heal properly. If these fragments are pieces of some greater puzzle, what does their silence mean? And Valeria... her name echoes in my thoughts like a half-remembered song from childhood.

The prickling sensation of being watched pulls me from my dark musings. I've grown too comfortable here, let my guard slip enough to miss another's approach. When I turn toward the path leading to the village, I find Eliza leaning against an oak, her hazel eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes something tighten in my chest like a fist. Her brown hair catches the morning light, and her simple gown and apron speak of errands yet to come. The leather satchel at her side bulges with empty glass vials, and her wand rests ready at her hip like a soldier's sword.

I clear my throat, wiping sweat from my brow. "Seen enough?" The playful tone feels forced, like wearing clothes that no longer fit.

"Don't let me stop you." The sultry edge in her voice catches me off guard. It's not her usual manner, and something about it triggers that familiar ache of betrayal deep in my gut.

"What brings you here?" I ask, using my sleeve to dry my face. The motion pulls my tunic tight across my chest, and I notice her gaze follow the movement like a hawk tracking prey.

She taps the satchel at her side, glass chiming within like tiny bells. "Need to gather herbs. The rarer ones that won't grow in a tended garden. I've been working on a new potion."

When she moves to help gather the scattered wood, she draws closer than necessary. The scent of wildflowers and herbs clings to her clothes, grown too familiar with her scent.

"Herbs, is it? Going alone?"

"Not planning on venturing deep, just by the lake and the edges."

I glance over my shoulder at her, pausing mid-reach for another log. "Iris Lake? I'll be taking Alira there within the hour. Why don't you join us?"

A small smile plays at her lips like candlelight on water. "I don't wish to interfere with her training." Her words say one thing, but the hope burning in her eyes tells another story entirely.

"It’s no bother," I say, tossing the last piece of wood under the shed's overhang. "She won't mind."

"If you say so." Her smile brightens like the sunrise.

When I reach for the wood in her arms, our hands brush. Her skin is cold against mine, winter-cold despite the mild morning, and I see her shiver. That touch carries too much history, too many memories of what might have been. Part of me warms at her obvious feelings, but another growing part feels hollow, dead as last year's leaves.

"Why don't you both come inside?" Mother's voice breaks through the tension like a hammer on glass as she leans out the hall window. "Morning meal is ready."

Eliza jumps back as if stung, her cheeks flushing red as autumn apples. "Yes, Aunt Lyna."

The rich aroma of the soup hits differently as we enter the cabin. Away from the morning's damp earth and pine, the warmth of herbs and meat fills my lungs like incense in a temple. The familiar scent of fresh-baked bread she bought from the village blends with it, drawing us toward the small hall where Mother and Alira already sit at our worn wooden table, scarred by years of use.

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I settle into my usual spot on the right, the chair's familiar protests matching the subtle pop of burning wood from the kitchen hearth by our side. The pot on the stove still bubbles, sending wisps of steam into the air like spirits seeking the rafters.

"Eliza, what brings you here this fine morning?" Mother's voice carries that particular tone of warmth she reserves only for her.

"I needed herbs for a new remedy." Eliza smooths her apron as she speaks. "Einar invited me to accompany him."

"Good. The forest's not safe around these few months." Mother's words carry weight she doesn't fully express. “Many beasts wake around the end of spring.”

Alira speaks through a mouthful of bread, crumbs spraying onto the table like grain from a torn sack. "She's coming with us?"

"Seems so." I reach for a piece of bread, avoiding Eliza's gaze as if it might burn me.

"You don't mind, do you?" Eliza asks Alira, though her question seems aimed more at the space between us all.

My sister shakes her head, grinning as wide as a summer day. "No, it's good to have someone to talk with, other than my brother here, who turns solemn as old priest Jules whenever we enter the woods."

Their giggles float through the air like music, Mother joining in, but I focus on my soup. The vegetables have softened just right, carrying the familiar blend of herbs she's used as long as I can remember.

"Aunt, thank you for teaching me that spell." Eliza's voice grows softer, more reverent. "You know how much it means to me. It's rare enough to learn magic outside the great schools."

Mother places her weathered hand over Eliza's, her smile gentle but tired as old leather. "You call me aunt and make me blush like a maiden. It was just one spell, dear. Your talent for grasping it without proper instruction, without detailed spell books... that's the true gift."

The pride in Mother's voice shifts to concern, like the weather changing. "But be careful when casting it. The spell is powerful, yes... but it needs a stable bond between wand and wielder. And you use a wand that was never bound to you."

"You speak true. I'll be careful."

Alira leans forward, curiosity bright in her eyes like fire in flint. "Bound? What does that mean?"

"Sweetheart, it means the wand she uses is not matched to her, not linked with her magical essence to guide it properly." Mother's explanation carries the patience of someone who's answered countless questions about the magical arts over the years to that one little curious student.

"That seems harsh. How would I get a proper wand?"

Mother's smile returns like the sun breaking through clouds. "For that, you'd need to enter one of the great sorcery schools. That's the safest and surest way without getting branded as a criminal."

"School..." Alira breathes the word like it's made of gold and starlight.

"Eliza here has more talent than any I've seen in years." Mother pauses, her gaze growing distant. "If she'd been given the chance, she would have left her mark on the magical world, but..." Her eyes drift to me, and something in her expression makes my stomach clench like a fist. "Fate weaves different patterns for everyone. Even her. Her true gifts lie in alchemy and herbcraft, her love for the growing things. A noble path to walk, though few devote their lives to healing others."

Eliza flushes at the praise, her cheeks turning pink as rose petals as she stares down at the table, clearly flustered by the compliment. Mother's words hang in the air like incense, heavy with meaning. Alira, satisfied with the answer, settles back into her chair, though I can see her mind still turning over the idea of schools and formal magical training.

The silence that follows settles on my shoulders like a lead cloak. I focus on my food, but my mind churns with questions dark as storm clouds. Mother's words about fate echo against memories of my dreams and their growing effects on my waking hours. The way she looked at me when speaking of chosen paths... does she know something about my own destiny that I don't?

The quiet spreads as we finish our meal, broken only by the soft clink of spoons against bowls and the distant crackle of the hearth. But beneath it all, I feel the tension of things left unsaid, of paths diverging like roads in a dark wood, of destinies yet to be revealed.

The soup turns to ash in my mouth as my thoughts drift to what awaits us at the lake, scene of yesterday's bloody work. Something tells me today's simple herb gathering will prove to be anything but simple. In this world, it never is.