Chapter 15: A Knock Before Dawn

I was still tangled in sleep when the pounding started—sharp, quick knocks rattling the cottage door like a sudden storm.

I sat up, heart thudding, quilt slipping from my shoulders. It was still dark out, the kind of pre-dawn hush that clung to the corners of the world. I fumbled for my robe and padded barefoot across the cold floor, the fire long since gone to embers.

Another knock, louder this time.

“Alright, alright,” I muttered, unhooking the latch. The door creaked open to reveal a bundled figure, cheeks red and beard bristling with frost.

Gerrit Underpost stood on my doorstep, puffing steam with each breath. He was the gnome who handled logistics for the Adventurer’s Guild outpost—usually seen with a clipboard or grumbling over inventory logs.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said quickly, eyes sharp beneath a knit cap. “One of the adventuring parties didn’t come back last night.”

I blinked, the fog of sleep vanishing all at once.

“Didn’t come back?”

“They were just supposed to do a surface sweep,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Routine stuff—check the warded door, gather samples, maybe clear a few pests. They were due back by sunset.”

I nodded, already reaching for my satchel.

“No sign of them?”

“No,” he said. “And no signals, either. We’ve got a group heading in at first light.”

“And you want me on standby?”

He exhaled, clearly relieved. “Yes. Hopefully it’s nothing—delayed scouting, maybe—but if anyone’s hurt, you’re the only one in the village trained to handle something serious.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said, mentally scanning my supply shelves. “I can have the my emergency kit and a bed ready within the hour.”

Gerrit nodded sharply. “I’ll send a runner if they bring someone back.”

“Do you know who was in the party?”

He hesitated. “Three total. The fellborn scout, that young elf with the fire staff… and the human cleric, Saren, I think.”

I remembered them. The scout had sharp eyes and said little. The elf was polite but nervous, like he was waiting to be found out. I hadn’t spoken to the cleric much, but I recalled their steady voice during the last Guild meeting.

“Alright,” I said. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

“I will.” He hesitated at the bottom step. “Thanks, Elara. I know it’s early.”

I offered a tired but sincere smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He turned and disappeared into the falling snow.

I shut the door behind him and leaned against it, the cold still clinging to my arms. The cottage was quiet again—but the peace had gone. I stood there for a moment, hand still resting on the doorframe, heart beating faster than I wanted it to. Nothing had happened yet. They might all return safe and grumbling, cold but unharmed. It might be a false alarm. But it also might not.

I turned away from the door, took a breath, and went to put the kettle back on. If someone was coming back hurt—or worse—I needed to be ready. The cottage creaked quietly as I moved through it, lighting lamps and poking at the hearth until flames caught again. I kept my shoulders steady, breath slow, hands moving.

First: the stillroom. I opened the shutters to let in the pale morning light, then tied my apron around my waist. The shelves lining the walls were mostly in order, but I gave each one a quick check, running my fingers along the jars and labels.

I pulled down the fever tincture, checked the seal on the jar of burn salve, shook the bottle of pain-numbing drops to make sure the sediment hadn’t settled. I laid out my bone-handled shears, bandages, gauze, honey paste, dried moss poultices, and a fresh pot of balm for bruising.

Then I paused. The anxiety was still there, humming under the surface like the buzz of a misaligned rune. I pressed my hand to the edge of the worktable and let myself feel it—just for a moment. Not panic. Not fear. Just… uncertainty. That edge-of-the-horizon tension, the one that came from not knowing how bad it might be, or whether I’d be enough.

Then I straightened my spine, breathed in the clean scent of rosemary hanging from the rafters, and let it go. I didn’t know what was coming. But I could be ready for it.

I filled a small iron kettle with water and set it on the hearth to heat, then added a few drops of calming essence to the wide ceramic diffuser dish near the stillroom doorway. As the scent of lavender, neroli, and dried mint filled the air, the cottage felt just a little softer around the edges.

I fetched clean towels from the storage cabinet and folded them into a tidy stack on the side table. Then I laid out a clean cotton robe on the peg by the back wall, just in case whoever came in needed to change out of wet or torn gear.

I re-checked the warming rune under the stone floor—still faintly glowing—and adjusted the lanterns to a gentle amber, soothing but bright enough to work by.

My hands moved without needing direction now. Years of practice had built this rhythm into me. Prep the space. Trust the knowledge. Make things safe.

When the stillroom was in order, I moved to the guest room.

It wasn’t fancy—just a small, quiet space off the main hallway with a narrow bed, a tall window, and a carved wooden chest at the foot of the frame. I stripped the linens and laid out fresh ones, soft wool blankets tucked beneath the quilt. I fluffed the pillow and added a second, just in case they needed to sit upright.

At the small bedside table, I placed a clay pitcher of water and a cup, then tucked a small beeswax candle beside it. I opened the window briefly to air out the room, letting in a breath of cold morning air before closing it again.

If someone had to stay the night, they’d be warm, clean, and cared for.

By the time I was finished, the sun had risen above the treetops and the snow had stilled into a soft, white hush. The stillroom glowed with steady light, and the guest room was waiting, quiet and calm.

I stood in the center of the cottage and let myself feel it again—this space, prepared. This quiet before whatever came next.

My tea had gone cold, but I didn’t mind.

I set the satchel by the door, just in case I needed to leave quickly. Then I sat by the hearth with a warm mug of ginger and rosehip, listening to the hush outside and the slow crackle of flame.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

The knock came just after midmorning—rapid and urgent, the kind that didn’t wait.

I was already halfway to the door when it came again.

A young runner stood on my doorstep, panting, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. “They’re bringing someone. Fellborn scout. He’s hurt—bad. Fevered. Unconscious. They’re less than a minute behind me.”

I nodded sharply. “Guest room’s ready. Bring him straight in.”

The runner bolted back down the lane, and I pushed the door wide, heart hammering as I turned and cleared the path from entry to stillroom to bed—every corner checked, everything in its place.

Snow crunched outside. Boots. Voices. And then the door opened wide to let in a gust of wind and a cluster of adventurers carrying a limp form between them.

“Easy now,” I said, motioning them inside. “Straight to the back. Set him on the bed.”

They did as told, with the quiet, solemn focus of people who’d been worried all night.

The figure they laid down was tall and heavy with unconscious weight—broad through the shoulders, limbs slack, breathing shallow. His skin was a deep, dark red, the color of smoldering coals. Sweat clung to his brow despite the cold outside. Short, black hair curled damply at his temples, and a pair of sleek, curved black horns swept back from his forehead.

I felt a flicker of something sharp and startled in my chest. He was—gods, he was striking. But unconscious.

And I was a professional.

“He’s got a burn on his tail,” said one of the party members—a human cleric, Saren, I guessed. “Bad one. Scrapes and cuts too, and he’s running hot. We think he fell into a pit trap. There was a slime down there—acidic.”

I was already moving. “You found him like that?”

“We heard the trap trigger and tried to get down after him,” said the elf with the fire staff, his voice tight. “It took all night. He was out cold when we finally reached him.”

“How long ago?”

“Dawn. Maybe a little before. We carried him out as fast as we could.”

I pressed the back of my hand to the scout’s cheek and jaw—his skin was hot to the touch, dry, and his breathing shallow but steady. Fever had already set in.

“Help me get him out of his gear,” I said briskly, already reaching for the satchel beside the bed. “We need to check for further injuries. Any idea how long he was exposed to the slime?”

“No,” said Saren, stepping up to help. “We don’t know how fast it happened. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours.”

I didn’t like that answer, but it was all they had.

We worked carefully—removing his outer layers, lifting his arms, easing off belts and padded leather. His clothing was damp and half-dissolved in places, as if something had eaten away at the fibers. Beneath it, his skin bore angry red welts along his ribs, acid scoring across one shoulder and the curve of his thigh.

But the worst of it was his tail.

The long, sinewy appendage was blistered along one side, the skin there raw and seared. Parts of it had crusted over in places, while others still oozed. The damage wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been properly cleaned either—not yet. I’d need to flush it thoroughly and watch for infection.

I kept my voice even, my hands steady, as I worked.

“Any history of healing magic rejection?” I asked.

The elf shook his head. “Not that I know of. He’s tough. Doesn’t talk much.”

“That tracks,” I murmured. His body was solid—muscle and tension beneath the burns, and faint scars already crisscrossed his forearms. Someone who’d been doing this a long time.

“Do you know his name?”

“Kaelen,” said Saren. “Scout with the northern guild.”

“Alright. I’ll need you to wait in the main room. I’ve got it from here.”

They nodded and stepped away, the elf pausing in the doorway. “You’ll let us know if—?”

“I will,” I said gently. “He’s in good hands.”

Once they were gone, I let the tension slip from my jaw and bent over the still form on the bed.

“All right, Kaelen,” I said softly, uncorking a flask of boiled water and reaching for my disinfecting herbs. “Let’s see if we can keep you in one piece.”

After his party left, I returned to the guest room and gently closed the door behind me.

Kaelen hadn’t moved. His breaths still came slow and even, but his skin remained too hot. I sat beside him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. The flush in his cheeks had deepened, a sign that the fever was cresting.

It was time to get him more comfortable.

I set my mug aside and reached for the basin of cool water. A fresh cloth, wrung out and folded, went back across his forehead. Then I moved carefully, bracing his shoulder as I lifted him just enough to peel away the damp, sweat-soaked linens beneath him.

He didn’t stir, even as I worked.

Beneath the covers, he wore only underclothes now—enough for modesty, but bare enough that I could tend to his wounds and help his body breathe. I slid the wet sheets away and tucked clean, cool ones under his hips and back, moving in practiced, efficient motions. The fever had already soaked through one set—there would likely be more before it broke.

Once the bedding was changed, I pulled a single light sheet over him. Just enough to keep the air from chilling his skin while still letting the heat escape. I checked the bandaging on his tail and shoulder—both were holding. No signs of swelling yet.

The fever blend I’d used was one I’d made back when the mother and child from the west road fell sick. I’d added a few tweaks for Kaelen’s constitution—cooling herbs balanced with a thread of flameleaf to stabilize the internal heat, a dash of feverfew, and dried watercress root to support his breathing.

Fellborn systems burn differently than most. Not just hotter, but deeper. We hold our pain further in, and when we heal, we do it fiercely. It was familiar terrain to me. I knew how to walk it.

I watched his face as I dipped another cloth and wiped the sweat from his jaw, his brow, the hollow of his throat.

He was still burning up, but it wasn’t a runaway fire. It was a battle.

And he was holding the line.

The guest room smelled faintly of mint and clean linens now, mixed with the gentler spice of my balm jars. Outside the window, the snow had thinned, casting a grey glow across the sill. I dimmed the lantern to a low flicker and pulled the small stool closer to his bedside.

I’d sleep here tonight, if I slept at all.

A stack of clean cloths rested at my feet. Another pot of water steamed gently beside me. And Kaelen lay still, fevered but steady, his breaths shallow but strong.

It wasn’t over. But it was no longer teetering on the edge.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured, voice soft in the hush of the room. “We’re not strangers, not to this kind of fire.”

He didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect him to. I settled in, folded another cloth, and began again.

The hours passed in a hush, marked only by the rhythm of cloth to skin, water to bowl, breath to breath.

Kaelen didn’t stir, but the fever held. It hadn’t worsened. It hadn’t broken. It just burned steadily on, like a fire banked low inside him.

I kept to a rhythm—change the cloth, check the pulse, shift the linens, offer sips of herbal blend when he would swallow. I stayed near but never hovered, letting the silence be part of the care.

The room warmed and cooled with the passing light. Snow drifted lazily beyond the windows, softening the edges of the day. I cracked the window once, briefly, to freshen the air and let a curl of cold in. Kaelen didn’t move, but his tail flexed once, a small twitch beneath the covers.

That was something.

By mid-afternoon, I had settled into the stillness. The kettle simmered gently in the corner, and I sipped at a mug of rosemary tea I’d forgotten I’d poured. I had laid out more fever blend in case he needed it, and a second basin of fresh water waited by the hearth.

Then came the knock.

Not urgent this time—a short, polite rap.

I opened the door to find one of the inn’s younger servers, bundled in a heavy scarf and holding a covered basket with steam trailing from the edges.

“Mira said you probably hadn’t eaten,” the girl said, cheeks pink from the cold. “She made lentil stew with winterroot and sent her soft rolls. There’s gingerbread too, if you need something sweet.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest.

“I do need something sweet,” I said with a tired smile, taking the basket. “Tell her thank you. And let the adventurers know he’s still stable. The fever hasn’t broken yet, but he’s holding steady.”

“I’ll tell them,” she said, then hesitated. “They’ve been asking, you know. Worried, even the grumpy one with the cloak.”

I chuckled. “That sounds like Saren.”

She nodded and took off running again, scarf trailing behind her like a banner.

I brought the basket inside and set it on the worktable, the scents wafting up instantly—savory herbs, soft bread, a hint of molasses. I took a few quick bites, standing, watching the snow begin to thicken again outside.

Kaelen hadn’t moved. But his breathing was slower now. More even. Not quite restful, but no longer as strained.

When I brought a cool cloth to his brow, he shifted slightly toward the touch. That, too, was something.

Later, I changed the linens again. The fever had wrung another round of sweat from him, and I worked carefully to make sure the bandages stayed clean and undisturbed. His skin was flushed but not burning now, the color in his face still deep but less distressed.

I replaced the cloth at his neck and tucked the sheet loosely over his hips and legs. The fire had burned low, but the rune stone under the floor still hummed gently, holding the chill at bay.

Between tasks, I cleaned my tools, rinsed and replaced the water bowls, and checked my herbs. I didn’t dare leave—not yet. But tending the space was its own kind of meditation.

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The stillroom had become a quiet engine of care, each piece in its place, each moment folded neatly into the next.

By evening, I lit the lamps and moved the second chair closer to the bed. I had stitched some bandage rolls while watching his breathing, and now I sat beside him with the leftover roll of gauze resting between my hands.

“You’re doing well,” I said aloud, voice quiet in the lamp-lit room. “Fever’s still holding, but it’s not climbing. That’s a good sign.”

He didn’t answer, of course. His eyes remained closed, lashes dark against fever-warm cheeks, but his expression had lost that strained edge it wore when he first arrived.

I let the silence return.

It was strange, watching over someone I didn’t know. But it didn’t feel unfamiliar. I’d done this before—countless times—for strangers, neighbors, friends, even enemies during hard seasons. The work was the same.

What changed was the weight of it.

And Kaelen… something about him tugged at me. Not just his strength or the way his body bore the injuries without collapsing. There was something in the way he breathed, like his whole self was committed to staying. Fighting for every hour.

That, I understood.

As the lanterns burned low and night thickened against the windows, I leaned forward and replaced the cloth again. His skin was damp now—but cooler. Slightly.

When I took his wrist in my hand to check his pulse, his fingers twitched faintly against my palm.

And then—just for a moment—his tail shifted again beneath the sheet, curling a fraction toward his hip.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Still sleeping. But healing.

Still here.

By the time evening settled fully over the cottage, the rhythm of the day had softened. I’d changed the linens again, cleaned and rewrapped the bandages, and brewed another pot of tea—this one for me, not him. The stillroom had dimmed to soft lamplight and low flame, the air heavy with the scent of clean cloth, faint herbs, and fire-warmed stone.

Kaelen’s breathing had shifted. Not just steadier, but cooler. His forehead no longer radiated heat like an oven door. The flush in his cheeks had faded to a more natural tone.

I dipped the cloth in fresh water and touched it to his brow again, just to be sure.

Cool. Not cold. Not fever-hot.

Cool.

My shoulders dropped, the last thread of tension unwinding from the base of my neck.

The fever had broken.

I sat beside him again, feeling the shift in the room. He was still asleep, but there was something lighter in it now—less of a battle and more of a drift. I changed the compress again and refolded the blanket over his hips.

I’d just begun cleaning up the discarded bandages when his breathing hitched.

I turned.

Kaelen’s eyes were fluttering open.

At first, he only stared at the ceiling. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted toward the lantern near the bedside. His brow furrowed. His lips moved faintly. Then his eyes found mine.

He tensed—just enough for his fingers to curl into the blanket—but I was already leaning in.

“Easy,” I said softly. “You’re safe. You’re in Deeproot Hollow. You fell. Your party brought you back.”

His brow remained furrowed, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. I could see him cataloguing what little energy he had. Processing. Deciding.

“You’re the healer?” His voice was a rasp, rough with disuse and dehydration.

I nodded. “Elara. Fellborn, like you. I’ve been treating you since you came in. You had a high fever. Acid damage. Some burns. You’ve been out for nearly a day.”

He blinked slowly. “Hurts.”

“I know,” I said gently. “You’ve been through a lot.”

I reached for the small glass vial on the side table—the pain tincture, diluted enough to take without food—and uncorked it. I helped him lift his head, just barely, and guided the dropper to his lips.

He didn’t flinch at the taste, just swallowed with a faint grimace and let his head rest back on the pillow.

I followed it with a second brew I’d been steeping in the stillroom all afternoon: a tea made from glimmerberries, harvested weeks earlier and dried carefully for moments just like this. When steeped properly, they didn’t sedate like stronger herbs, but brought a soft clarity, easing pain and tension, coaxing the mind toward sleep.

The steam from the cup was faintly iridescent in the lamplight.

“This will help,” I said. “It won’t knock you out, but it’ll keep the pain from chasing you.”

He blinked slowly. “Don’t want to sleep yet.”

“You don’t have to. Just sip when you’re ready.”

He didn’t move for a while. Just lay there, blinking sluggishly, gaze occasionally drifting over the room like he was trying to memorize it—or figure out if it was real.

Eventually, he rasped, “My gear?”

“Safe. Cleaned what I could. The rest’s in the main room.”

“My tail?”

“Wrapped and healing. It’ll be sore for a while, but you’re keeping it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A faint sound left him—barely a huff, but it might’ve been a laugh.

“I’ve got you,” I said quietly, adjusting the pillow behind his shoulders. “Just rest. You don’t need to do anything right now.”

His eyes lingered on me for a long moment, something cautious and unfamiliar in them. Then he gave the smallest nod, slow and heavy with fatigue.

I guided the cup to his lips and helped him sip.

He drank half, then exhaled a slow, long breath and let his eyes slip closed again.

He didn’t speak again that night. But his sleep was different now—calmer, no longer caught in the grip of pain or fever. I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest and let the stillness settle back in.

He’d made it through.

And I’d be here when he woke for real.

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

The cottage was quiet.

Kaelen’s breathing had evened out, low and steady in the guest room. The fever had broken, the worst of the pain was dulled, and the glimmerberry tea had done its work—easing his muscles without pushing him too far under. He looked… restful. Finally.

I dimmed the lanterns and slipped out into the main room, moving carefully, body aching from the long hours of leaning and lifting. My hands smelled faintly of mint and burn balm. I didn’t bother scrubbing it off. I didn’t want to.

The hearth still glowed with a soft, embered light. I laid another log on top and stirred it gently, not for warmth, but for the comfort of flame.

My blanket was already draped over the chair near the fire. I curled into it, mug of cooled tea between my palms, and stared into the flicker and crackle of the fire.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall asleep. Just close my eyes. Just for a bit.

I woke with a start, blanket slipping from my shoulder.

The fire had burned low again. The cottage was quiet.

I pushed myself up and padded softly back to the guest room.

Kaelen hadn’t moved, but his breath was still even, his forehead no longer damp. I touched the side of his neck, checking his pulse—steady and strong. The faintest twitch of his tail under the blanket.

Satisfied, I returned to the hearth.

I woke again to silence. A deeper silence.

Not wrong, just… still.

I sat up and listened for several long seconds before getting up and making my way to the guest room once more. The moon had risen outside, casting silver light across the floorboards.

Kaelen was still asleep, but his brow had furrowed slightly. I checked his temperature—cool. The fever was gone, but the ache of recovery was likely creeping in.

I replaced the cloth behind his neck and refolded the blanket over his chest. His tail shifted once, curling reflexively.

His lips parted like he might speak, but the breath that came out was only sleep.

I stayed for a minute longer, just in case, then slipped away again.

The third time I woke, I didn’t even try to stay in the chair.

I gathered my blanket, grabbed the cushion off the bench, and made myself a small nest in the corner of the guest room. I kept the lantern on low and tucked my herbal pouch within arm’s reach. Just in case.

From the floor, I could hear him breathing. That small sound had become its own kind of lullaby.

I let my head rest against the wall, and for the first time in days, I let myself sleep fully, even if only for an hour or two at a time.

By the time the horizon began to lighten with the hint of dawn, I’d checked on him half a dozen times. His fever hadn’t returned. His wounds hadn’t reopened. His sleep had held. So had mine. Not deeply. Not completely. But enough. Enough to keep going.

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

I woke to the faint shift of weight above me—barely a sound, just the creak of a mattress and the whisper of a sheet being moved.

My eyes opened.

The guest room was full of early light, the kind that crept slowly past the shutters and made everything feel soft and silver-edged. I sat up, the blanket slipping from my shoulders, and turned toward the bed.

Kaelen was awake.

This time, truly awake. Not fever-dazed or drifting in and out. His eyes were clearer, his brow relaxed despite the effort it took to stay still. He looked exhausted, but present.

“How’s the pain?” I asked, voice soft from sleep and quiet so I wouldn’t startle him.

He blinked slowly. “Still there. But not screaming.”

“Good. That’s the tincture doing its job.”

He gave a slow exhale and glanced down at himself, then at the clean room, the linens, the pitcher of water.

“I’m guessing I didn’t walk out of that dungeon on my own.”

“No,” I said with a small smile. “Your party carried you out. They did everything right. And I’ve been monitoring you for a day and a half now. You’re stable. Fever broke last night.”

He nodded, then winced. “Feels like I’ve been hit by a wagon.”

I pushed myself up to kneel beside the mattress and checked the side of his neck for warmth. Still cool. Still holding. “That’s probably because you fell into a trap, landed in acid, burned your tail, and passed out while your party searched for you overnight.”

“Right.” He grunted faintly. “The acid. That’d do it.”

“And the tail.”

He grimaced. “How bad is it?”

“Not the worst I’ve seen, but serious. Deep surface burns along one side, some blistering. You’ll need to keep weight off it. No climbing, no running. No gear belts around it either. And no dungeon diving until the skin’s fully healed and you’re past risk of infection.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long?”

I gave him the honest answer. “A few weeks, minimum. If you heal well and rest properly.”

He made a sound between a sigh and a grumble. “That’s… longer than I’d like.”

I raised a brow. “I don’t imagine the slime asked your opinion.”

That earned the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll behave.”

“You’ll recover faster if you do.”

His eyes flicked toward me again. “And my party? They okay?”

“Worried sick about you. Mira sent food when she knew I wouldn’t leave your side. Saren and the others asked for updates through half the day. I told them you were stable.”

He paused, then asked, “Can they visit?”

“Of course. Maybe this afternoon, once you’ve had some proper food and I’ve redressed your wounds.” I tilted my head. “Want me to send word?”

He nodded. “Please.”

There was something reserved in the way he said it, like the word wasn’t easy for him. Not the request itself, but the idea of needing anything.

I didn’t comment. I just stood, stretched, and smiled faintly.

“You’re lucky they care about you.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

Once I was certain Kaelen was settled—clean water within reach, a light blanket draped across his chest, fever gone and pain dulled—I stepped out of the guest room and quietly closed the door behind me.

The cottage felt lighter now. Not just in temperature or noise, but in energy. The heavy weight of worry had lifted. The worst had passed.

I slipped on my boots, wrapped my scarf loosely around my neck, and stepped out into the morning air.

The snow had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the world blanketed and bright. Deeproot Hollow was waking slowly, its streets dusted with white, smoke curling from chimneys, the scent of bread and pine hanging on the crisp air.

I crunched my way toward the inn.

Inside, it was warm and lively—voices low but cheerful, boots thudding against the floorboards, mugs clinking together behind the counter. Mira looked up from the hearth as I stepped in and waved me over with a knowing smile.

“Well?” she asked, before I could say a word.

“Fever broke last night,” I said. “He’s alert this morning. Sore, but steady.”

She let out a soft breath. “Thank the gods. That boy looked half gone when they carried him in.”

“He’s tough,” I said. “It’ll be a few weeks, though. Tail injuries don’t forgive fast.”

“No, they don’t,” she said, already reaching for a cloth to wrap something. “You here for food?”

“For both of us,” I said. “Something simple, warm, easy to chew. He hasn’t eaten since before the fall.”

“You’re lucky I just pulled a pot of barley stew off the hook. Good winterroot in there, and soft bread to go with it.”

“Perfect.”

She packed two portions in a wrapped basket, tucked in a jar of preserved plums, and handed over a thick square of honeycake with a grin. “For you. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Oh—and if Saren or the others come by, let them know he’s awake but resting. I’ll bring word to them later, but they can visit this afternoon, after he’s had food and a bit of quiet.”

“I’ll tell them,” she said. “They’ve been pacing like wet dogs near the fire all morning.”

“Then let them know the growling’s over. He’s going to be alright.”

I tucked the basket into my arms and made my way back through the snow.

The walk was short, the wind low, and I felt more awake with every step. The worst had passed.

Now came the healing.

And breakfast.

The scent of warm barley stew filled the cottage as I stepped inside and set the basket on the worktable, brushing snow from my shoulders and kicked off my boots.

The fire had kept the place warm, and the gentle heat from the rune beneath the guest room floor helped balance the morning chill. I poured fresh water from the kettle and warmed the stew bowls over the hearth while I checked the guest room.

Kaelen was awake, propped slightly against the pillows with one arm over his middle. His eyes opened as I stepped in, still a bit glassy, but far clearer than before.

“Smells like real food,” he rasped.

“It is,” I said with a smile. “Stew and bread from the inn. Mira sends her regards. She also sends honeycake, but you’ll have to earn that.”

He made a faint sound—something like a chuckle, but lower, roughened by fatigue.

I helped him sit a bit higher, tucking extra pillows behind his back and draping a clean cloth across his lap. When I brought in the tray, his eyes tracked the steam rising from the bowl with quiet longing.

“You’ll need to go slow,” I said, handing him the spoon. “I can help, if you need.”

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, fingers closing around the handle with deliberate care.

He did manage it on his own—one slow spoonful at a time. I ate beside him in the second chair, sipping from my bowl and watching to make sure he didn’t overdo it. He was quiet, but not withdrawn. More watchful than distant.

We ate in a comfortable hush, broken only by the clink of spoons and the soft creak of the cottage as it warmed with the day.

“How bad was it?” he asked quietly, once the bowls were mostly empty.

“Bad enough,” I said. “You were unconscious when they found you. Burned, fevered, exhausted. If they’d found you even an hour later, it could’ve been much worse.”

He nodded faintly, staring into the empty bowl. “I remember falling. The ground gave way.”

“A trap?”

“Looked like one. Old, but still active. Dropped me into a nest of acid slimes.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand slightly. “Didn’t have time to think. Just burned.”

“You fought it off?”

“I tried. Killed one. Maybe two. Passed out not long after.”

“Your team searched all night,” I said. “They didn’t stop. Saren asked me twice if I thought you’d wake up.”

His gaze lifted to meet mine. “Did you?”

“Yes,” I said simply. “I know how our bodies handle fever. You were in bad shape, but you weren’t giving up.”

He nodded again and leaned back slowly into the pillows.

After a quiet moment, he asked, “Can they come?”

“Later this afternoon, if you're up for it. I let them know you’d need rest first.”

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I know they’ll be loud.”

“You’re allowed to fall asleep on them,” I said lightly. “I’ve prepared a look that will silence even Saren.”

Kaelen gave the faintest smile, more in his eyes than his mouth.

“I’ll clean up,” I said, rising and gathering the bowls. “You rest. I’ll bring the honeycake when you’ve earned it.”

He didn’t argue, just leaned back again and let out a long, slow breath.

Back in the kitchen, I washed the bowls, wrapped the leftover bread, and sliced the honeycake for later. The light had shifted—brighter now, sun curling at the edges of the windowpanes, the snow outside sparkling like salt crystals in the morning light.

Something warm had settled in the room.

Not comfort exactly.

But familiarity.

The knock came just past mid-afternoon—three sharp raps, followed by a muffled voice.

“Elara? It’s Saren. We brought snacks. And shame.”

I opened the door to find the cleric standing with a bundled parcel in one hand and his usual raised eyebrow expression. Behind him stood the rest of Kaelen’s team—the elf with the fire staff and a halfling I hadn’t met before, her backpack nearly as large as she was.

“You’re cleared for a short visit,” I said, stepping aside. “But you’ll keep your boots by the door, your voices down, and your jokes light.”

Saren grinned. “Light? I only have medium jokes.”

“Then ration them.”

They entered quietly, respectful despite the banter, and I guided them toward the guest room.

Kaelen was sitting up slightly, tail propped on a cushion, blanket draped low across his waist. He looked better than he had that morning—eyes clearer, color steadier—but the lines of fatigue still traced the corners of his mouth.

“Look who’s vertical,” Saren said, easing into the chair at his side. “We were starting to place bets. I owe ten coppers.”

“I’m keeping them,” Kaelen rasped.

“You fell into a pit,” said the elf, leaning against the doorframe. “The one part of the floor we explicitly agreed was suspicious.”

“It was suspicious,” Kaelen muttered.

“Yeah, that’s why we marked it, Kaelen.”

The halfling set down a pouch of dried fruit on the bedside table. “If we find slime on your boots, we’re cutting you off from rations for a week.”

Kaelen gave a faint snort—more air than sound, but clearly amused.

I watched from just outside the room, arms folded loosely, leaning against the frame. The energy in the space lifted with them in it, the heavy tension of fever days replaced by light teasing and the comfort of people who knew each other well.

They didn’t stay long. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough time to check in, poke fun, and reassure themselves that he was still him beneath the bandages and blankets.

But I saw it in his posture—how the slope of his shoulders changed, how his eyes blinked slower.

He was fading.

I stepped forward.

“That’s enough for now,” I said, calm but firm. “You’ve all had your moment. He needs rest.”

Kaelen didn’t argue, and neither did his team. Saren rose first.

“Thanks, Elara,” he said, tugging his scarf into place. “Seriously.”

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” I said. “But he’s on the path. Come back in a few days if he’s up to it.”

They filed out with less teasing this time, softer expressions and a few backward glances. The halfling winked at Kaelen as she slipped through the doorway. “No more pit traps, alright?”

Kaelen didn’t answer, but the edge of his mouth twitched.

I closed the door gently behind them.

He was half-asleep already, head leaning back against the pillow, breathing deep and slow.

I approached the bedside and adjusted the blanket slightly, making sure his tail was still properly cushioned.

“You held up well,” I said softly.

His eyes didn’t open, but he murmured, “They’re louder than the slime.”

I smiled.

“They mean well.”

“So do slimes,” he muttered.

I chuckled and dimmed the lantern. “Get some rest, pitfall champion.”

And he did.

By the time Kaelen stirred again, the sky had turned pale lavender through the window—dusk pressing gently against the shutters.

I reheated the leftover stew over the hearth, added a few herbs from the stillroom to freshen the flavor, and cut generous slices of Mira’s honeycake to go with it. Simple, steady food. The kind that told a body it had made it through another day.

Kaelen ate slowly, his movements careful but more fluid than this morning. He didn’t say much, but I caught him watching me a few times between bites. Not wary—just thoughtful. Like he was still figuring out how he’d ended up in my guest bed being spoon-fed cooling tea and burned-tail advice.

“You’ve got a good team,” I said as I set a fresh cup of water beside him.

“I know.”

“They care.”

“I know that too,” he said quietly.

We ate the rest of the meal in comfortable silence. He managed the cake on his own and even leaned back afterward with something close to satisfaction on his face.

“I’m going to check your bandages in the morning,” I told him as I cleared the bowls. “You’re stable, but it’s still early. No sudden heroics.”

“No heroics,” he agreed. “I’m taking the coward’s path for now.”

“Smartest kind of bravery.”

That earned me a tired but honest grin.

Once he was settled with another damp cloth and a low rune-glow to keep the room warm, I dimmed the lantern and left him to rest.

The cottage had quieted again. No wind tonight, no snow. Just the soft creak of the beams, the last hiss of the kettle, and the steady beat of my own footsteps climbing the stairs.

Upstairs, I lit a small lamp and pulled my journal from the shelf beside the bed.

I’d missed a few entries this week—understandable, but still odd. Writing helped me sort my thoughts. Helped me understand how the days fit together.

I turned to a fresh page and began to write, the ink flowing smoothly in the warm light.

📓 JOURNAL – WINTER, WEEK 8

Kaelen—Fellborn scout, Guild-trained, quiet even in pain—survived.

Fell into a dungeon trap and into my care. Acid burns. Severe tail injury. Fever. I’ve treated worse, but not recently.

He’ll recover. He’s strong, and his team is loyal.

I think he’s not used to being looked after. They never are, the ones who’ve survived too much on their own. He watched me during dinner like I was a puzzle with half the pieces missing. That’s fair. I still feel that way some days, too.

I was exhausted when they brought him in. But something in me steadied as soon as I started treating him. I know this kind of fire. I’ve walked through it before, and I didn’t walk alone. Maybe he won’t, either.

I set the journal down, blew out the lamp, and curled beneath my quilt as moonlight pooled softly at the edges of the window. Downstairs, Kaelen slept. And for the first time in a while, I let myself sleep without listening for a knock at the door.