Chapter 14: Wards and Warming

It started with a knock on the door just as I was tightening the laces on my boots.

When I opened it, I found Elder Renna bundled in a green shawl, her breath curling in the cold morning air. Her cheeks were ruddy, but her eyes were bright.

“I heard from Harn that you did his place up real nice,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Think you’ve got time for mine? My back window keeps icing over, and my knees ache something awful.”

I smiled and stepped back to let her in. “I’ve got time. Just give me a moment to grab my kit. I’ll walk you home.”

That was how it began.

By noon, Mira’s network—and her ability to spread word faster than fire in dry pine—had done its work. Somehow, nearly everyone in Deeproot Hollow had heard about the runes I’d placed on Harn’s cottage and the warming potions I’d dropped off at Bitty’s.

The requests started to pour in.

I portioned out my days as best I could. Mornings were for stillroom work: brewing warming potions steeped in ginger, crushed pepperroot, and frostleaf essence. I stirred each batch carefully over the hearth, bottling the finished potion in squat glass jars that glowed faintly red when the light hit them just right. They smelled of cinnamon bark and gave off a gentle heat when held in the palm.

By mid-morning, I’d tuck a few of those jars into my satchel along with runestones, herbal packets, and balm tins. Then I’d pull on my cloak and make my way down snow-packed paths, boots crunching over frost and cheeks tingling pink.

At Elder Renna’s, I carved warming runes into disks of fire-treated wood and affixed them above her pantry window. The wall would never be toasty, but it wouldn’t freeze through anymore.

“They’ll keep the cold out and balance the humidity,” I told her, brushing wood shavings into my palm. “If you see a faint glow at night, that’s just the rune doing its work.”

Renna watched me with interest, her head tilted slightly. “I never learned magic. Not like this. There’s something comforting about it, knowing you’re stitching it into the bones of the house.”

Before I left, I handed her a small jar of chamomile balm. “For your knees,” I said. “You mentioned it when we walked.”

Her expression softened. “You remembered.”

“I listen,” I said, smiling.

At Elder Thom’s, I crawled halfway into his root cellar to place moisture wards under the shelves where his onions were already starting to spot and mold. His shaggy old dog didn’t even lift his head from beside the hearth as I passed through.

“These’ll balance the air down here,” I called up through the trapdoor. “Should keep your vegetables better.”

Thom handed down a wedge of smoked cheese as thanks, wrapped in thick waxed paper that smelled faintly of hickory. I tucked it into my satchel beside the balm tins and couldn’t help but grin.

Auntie Tulla offered me tea while I worked, and I ended up staying for three kinds of cake. She chatted while I carved frost-ward runes into polished stones for each windowsill.

“You’ll want to set them under the curtains,” I explained. “Some light might flicker through when it gets cold, but that’s a sign they’re active.”

She pressed a tin of cookies into my hands as I was packing up and gave me a knowing look.

“Vren and Cal’ll be knocking tomorrow,” she said. “I already told them about you. Everyone wants their homes done up by the ‘Winter Runewitch.’ That’s what folks are calling you now.”

I nearly choked on my last sip of tea. “That’s... a bit dramatic.”

“Better than ‘herb girl,’ isn’t it?”

“Maybe just slightly,” I muttered, cheeks warming faster than my potion bottles.

By the end of the week, I’d made my way to nearly a dozen homes.

At each stop, someone had a new ache, a leaking wall, or a pantry that wouldn’t stay dry. I placed warming wards near hearths, stasis runes on larders, and moisture protections in stillrooms and crawlspaces. I gave away tea blends for restless sleep, small talismans against drafty corners, and balm tins for cracking joints.

And in return, I never left empty-handed.

Candles, dried mushrooms, fresh eggs, wool socks, beeswax, apple preserves—somehow, without coins changing hands, it still felt like everything balanced out. At one home, an elder slipped a tiny wooden charm into my hand. It had my name carved on one side and a leaf on the other.

“For luck,” he said. “Or for fame.”

I tucked it into my coat pocket and didn’t take it out again.

Evenings became quiet rituals of their own. I’d come home, fingers stiff and shoulders sore, but there was always a pot of soup to reheat or bread to toast. I’d soak my hands in a basin of warm water steeped with lavender, then curl up under the quilt with my journal and make notes about the runes I’d placed, who still needed what, and whether I had enough ingredients left for another week’s worth of potion-making.

Despite the long hours, I found myself smiling more than I ever had during the early days here.

One afternoon, as I stepped back from completing a layered stasis ward in Elder Cal’s larder, he tapped his cane against the doorway and gave me a look that made me pause.

“You’re not just a healer,” he said.

I tilted my head. “No?”

“You’re a builder. You’re stitching the bones of the village together with all these little things.”

I looked back at the rune I’d just etched, still pulsing faintly with soft orange light. My fingers tingled faintly, a sure sign the magic had taken.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I admitted.

He gave me a nod, sharp but kind. “That’s what real healing is, isn’t it? Making things stronger where they used to break.”

By the start of the next week, the urgency had softened. Most of the elders had seen me already, and those who hadn’t were happy to wait their turn. I could slow my pace again, mix potions at leisure, and set aside time for my own preparations.

But the shift had settled something deep in my chest.

I knew the lines of the village now—not just the paths and porches, but the people. Who liked their tea sweet. Who wanted to learn a little rune lore. Who just wanted someone to sit beside them for a while and listen.

And more than that—they knew me.

Not just as the Fellborn herbalist with a funny satchel and a firelight spell. But as Elara. The one who showed up. The one who listened.

And for the first time since I arrived, I felt rooted.

I belonged.

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

I woke to soft light and the hush of snow falling—thick, gentle flakes drifting past the windows like feathers shaken from a quilt. The air had the particular stillness of a morning that hadn’t quite decided whether it would stay quiet or become busy.

I stretched beneath the covers, then shuffled into the kitchen to light the hearth and warm the kettle. Breakfast was simple—porridge with dried berries and a splash of cream, a cup of strong tea to wake me properly. As I ate, I glanced at the three letters stacked on the corner of the table, each tied neatly with twine and labeled in my tidy hand.

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One for Rennet, to thank him for the dried mint and share a few notes on frost-root propagation. One for Nearda, who had written last month asking for tips on how to store elderflower tincture without it separating.

And one for home.

I had rewritten that last one three times before finally settling on a version that felt true—warm, honest, and not too dramatic. I’d tucked in a few pressed leaves, a story or two, and a recipe for a mulled tea blend Mira had declared “a revelation.” It felt like enough. I hoped it would be.

I pulled on my cloak and boots and stepped into the cold, breath misting as I crunched down the path toward the village inn. My satchel bumped against my hip, light except for the letters and a small pouch of coins in case the courier needed a fee.

The inn was warm and lively, the hearth already blazing and the air smelling faintly of cinnamon and fresh bread. Mira stood behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron and chatting with one of the local merchants. She waved when she saw me.

“Morning, Elara! Come to send something off?”

I nodded and approached, digging the letters out of my satchel. “Just a few today. One for Rennet, one for Nearda, and one for my family back home.”

Mira took the bundle and inspected the labels. “These’ll go out with the afternoon courier. You’re just in time—he’s delayed a bit, what with the snow, but he’ll be here before long.”

She placed the letters in a small wooden tray behind the counter, then reached beneath it and pulled out a folded square of cream-colored paper.

“Oh—speaking of letters, one came in for you. Got held up at one of the mountain posts, I think. The courier said it’d been re-routed twice. Looks like it’s traveled far.”

My heart gave a quiet flutter as I took the envelope from her hands. It was worn around the edges, the seal a little cracked from the cold, but the handwriting across the front was unmistakable.

Home.

“I—thank you,” I murmured, fingers closing gently around it.

“Go on,” Mira said, with a small smile. “You’ve got that look.”

I stepped over to the corner booth by the window, my usual spot, and slid into the seat with the letter held carefully in my lap. Outside, snow continued to fall in slow, deliberate spirals, dusting the edges of the windowpane.

I broke the seal with one finger and unfolded the letter.

Elara, love—

We were just saying the other day that we hadn’t heard from you in a little while, and Mira’s courier friend says the roads have been passable, so we’re sending this off in hopes it finds you well.

Everyone’s asking how you’re getting on. Is Deeproot Hollow treating you kindly? Have you found good soil? Is there enough work to keep your hands busy and your heart full? We imagine so. You always did find purpose wherever your boots landed.

Are you staying? Or still wandering? Not asking to keep you, mind—just curious where the wind’s set you down these days. You know we love you no matter where you end up. But we do like hearing your stories.

Your last letter made Aunt Sira cry, in the good way. We read it aloud twice at the table and once more to the neighbours the next morning.

Send more, if you can. The little ones keep asking for tales of potions and pixies.

All our love,

—Your flock

I read it once, then again, slower the second time. My eyes prickled, but I didn’t cry. I just sat quietly, letting the words settle around me like the snow outside.

They weren’t pushing. Just asking.

Still, the question curled around something inside me—are you staying?

And the truth was… I didn’t know. Not yet. But I was starting to feel what the answer might be.

By the time I stepped back outside, the snow had slowed to a lazy drift, swirling gently around the tips of my boots as I walked home.

The letter was folded and tucked safely in my inner pocket, though I could still feel the weight of it—less from the paper itself and more from the question wrapped gently inside: Are you staying?

They hadn’t meant it as pressure. I knew that. But something about seeing it written down made it feel real in a way it hadn’t before.

It followed me all the way back to the cottage.

I lit the fire first, feeding it kindling and two thick logs before wrapping myself in a shawl and brewing a pot of tea—rosehip and ginger, bright and steadying. I brought the mug with me to the hearth and sat cross-legged on the old rug, warming my hands on the ceramic sides.

The room glowed softly with lamplight and flickering flame, the stillroom shelves casting long, sleepy shadows across the floor.

I sipped slowly, then reached for my notebook and opened it to a clean page.

“Should I stay?”

I underlined it once. Then drew a line down the center and labeled each side.

STAY

* I’m needed.

* The elders trust me.

* I’ve built something here, even if it’s small.

* The winter wards are helping people.

* Mira calls me by name now, not “the herbalist.”

* Bitty said she hasn’t seen her joints this good in a decade.

* I like the people. I like these people.

* The village is diverse—dwarves, elves, humans, Fellborn, gnomes. I don’t stand out like I used to.

* It feels quiet here, but not empty.

* There’s still so much I haven’t learned.

I paused. That last one tugged at something deeper.

I rose, setting the mug aside, and crossed to the shelf where the other healer’s journals sat. There were still three I hadn’t opened—leather-bound, their corners soft with age, a fine layer of dust collecting on the topmost one.

I ran a finger along the spine.

I’d meant to read them when I arrived. But then snow came, and wards needed carving, and Mira needed tea for the inn, and then the village needed… me.

I took one down and placed it gently beside my notebook. Not to read yet—just to remind myself it was there.

There was still so much knowledge in this place. Still so much I could build on. If I stayed.

GO

* I came here to travel.

* There are other places that need help, too.

* I don’t want to grow stagnant.

* I haven’t mapped the spring flora yet.

* I promised myself I’d follow the seasons, keep learning, keep moving.

* What if I get too comfortable?

* What if I forget how to be brave?

I stared at the list, unsure whether that last one belonged under “stay” too.

Because being still—being seen—was its own kind of bravery.

I sipped my tea, now lukewarm, and glanced toward the frost-blurred window.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love traveling. I did. The open road, the wild places, the thrill of spotting a rare herb tucked between tree roots. But I hadn’t done much of that here. Not yet.

The flora near the village remained mostly unknown to me. I’d only had one or two decent foraging walks before the frost set in and turned the forest into a brittle white maze. Spring would bring a whole new landscape—and if I stayed, I could map it properly, sketch it in detail, learn how the local ingredients shifted across seasons.

There was value in staying. Not just for the village, but for me.

I looked at the list again. Neither side outweighed the other—but the reasons for staying… they had more heart.

I pulled the letter out once more and unfolded it beside the fire. The words still made me smile, especially the line about the little ones begging for stories of potions and pixies.

Maybe I’d send them a blend of herbs that smelled like snow and woodsmoke. A little piece of winter, tied up in twine.

Maybe I’d tell them about Bitty and her clowder of cats, or the way the pixies here hid behind roof beams and rearranged my spice jars when they got bored. There were stories here worth telling.

And there were people here worth staying for.

I didn’t make the decision that night. Not completely.

But I let the question settle into me like the fire’s warmth—gentle, steady, and glowing just beneath the surface.

I could still move. Still wander. The road didn’t vanish just because I lingered.

But for now, Deeproot Hollow felt more like a place to grow than to pass through.

And maybe, just maybe, I could bloom a little here, too.

I closed the notebook and left it open on the table, the pros and cons still there in ink, gently curling at the corners from the fire’s warmth. I set my empty mug in the washbasin and added another log to the hearth, watching the flames catch and twist upward.

There was still time. At least a month of winter left, maybe more if the storms lingered. The road would wait, and so would the village.

I didn’t have to decide tonight.

So I banked the fire low, changed into my nightclothes, and slipped beneath the quilt with the scent of rosehip still on my hands and the weight of the letter tucked safely under my pillow.

Sleep would come, and with it, dreams. And maybe in the quiet between snowfalls, the answer would come, too.

📓 JOURNAL – WINTER, WEEK 7

Received a letter from home today. Full of warmth, stories, and quiet questions.

I’ve begun a list—stay or go—but the answer isn’t clear yet.

There’s still snow on the ground, and time enough to decide.

In the meantime, I’ll keep working, keep helping, keep listening.

This place has roots. I’m starting to feel them beneath my feet.