Chapter 7: Onward Roads

I rose with the sun, though I’d barely slept. My satchel sat open on the small table by the window, its rune-etched flap folded back to reveal the soft, flickering depth of its spatial enchantment. I spent the early hours checking through everything one last time—bundled herbs wrapped in linen, wax-sealed jars of tinctures, smooth slate rune-stones, and the worn journals I’d filled during my stay. I tucked in Naerel’s older notebooks as well, wrapped together with a leather cord. Each item vanished neatly into the pocketed space as I placed them inside, weightless but accounted for.

Downstairs, Naerel had already set out breakfast: thick slices of nutbread and a pot of honey, still warm. She poured two mugs of steeped sage and fennel tea without a word. The only sound in the kitchen was the soft clink of ceramic and the shuffle of boots on old wood.

“When does the carriage pass through?” I asked at last, my voice a little hoarse.

“Shortly after sunrise,” she said. “It stops in the clearing at the east bend. You won’t miss it.”

I nodded, then looked down at my tea. “Thank you. For everything.”

Naerel only hummed in response, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a folded piece of thick parchment, sealed with green wax. She handed it over without ceremony.

“For Old Bitty,” she said. “Don’t read it. She’ll know if you do.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She gave me a look that said she knew I was telling the truth—and also that she knew I’d be tempted.

We shared a quiet breakfast, and when it was time, Naerel walked with me to the edge of the path. The forest beyond was still pale with morning light, mist curling at the roots of trees. Just as the carriage came into view, she handed me one last bundle.

“Dried purplecap. For trade or for tea,” she said. “Don’t let it crush.”

I tucked it carefully into the satchel and gave her a final hug—brief, tight, and full of things I didn’t have words for. Then I climbed aboard.

The carriage was wide and open-sided, with a canvas roof and well-padded benches. A few other travelers were already aboard—an elven scholar with ink-stained fingers, a dwarven woman in dusty boots, a pair of goblin traders speaking in low, fast whispers. Everyone looked tired, their expressions polite but distant. No one spoke more than necessary.

I didn’t mind.

I settled in by the window and pulled my cloak close. The road unfurled ahead like a story I hadn’t read yet, and I had time—hours, maybe days.

Outside, the trees blurred into green streaks. Inside, I opened my journal and began to reread my notes: the herbs I’d studied, the effects I’d recorded, the small mistakes I’d corrected with Naerel’s help. After a while, I set it aside and pulled out one of her old journals instead.

Her script was tight and efficient, notes scribbled in margins, lines of recipes crossed out and rewritten. There were plants I hadn’t seen before—hollowroot, sleepchime, arrowmint—with quick sketches and clipped observations. It was like stepping into the rhythm of someone else’s mind, and I soaked up every line.

When I grew tired of reading, I sketched. Not the scenery—we moved too fast for that—but memory sketches: the curling stem of marigold, the spore-pattern of oakcap, the rough-edged underside of a bitterwort leaf. I tried to replicate the shape of each rune I’d learned on spare parchment, committing them deeper into muscle memory with each careful stroke.

I didn’t know how long the journey would take. Days, at least. Maybe more. But there was space now. Space to rest, reflect, and keep learning.

And as the carriage rumbled on, rocking gently with each turn in the road, I let myself be still—held between the chapter I’d just finished, and the one waiting up ahead.

By the time the carriage rolled into the village, dusk had softened the treetops into silhouettes. Lanterns flickered to life along the winding main lane, their golden light spilling over cobbled paths and ivy-wrapped signposts. The village was small—just a scattering of timbered houses, shuttered shops, and a squat, welcoming inn with a wide porch and flower boxes brimming with marigolds.

The carriage eased to a stop out front, and I stepped down, stretching out the stiffness in my legs. My satchel hung at my hip, runes hidden from sight beneath the fold of the flap. The other travelers disembarked wordlessly, already drifting toward the inn’s door or down side alleys toward home.

The innkeeper—a broad-shouldered tiefling woman with ruddy skin, silver horns, and sleeves rolled to her elbows—stepped outside and looked me over with a critical but not unfriendly eye. She took in my boots, my cloak, the satchel, and the faint scent of herbs clinging to my clothes.

“Rooms available,” she said. “Hot food, clean sheets, baths if you want ’em.”

“I’d like to stay the night,” I said, shifting my weight. “But I don’t carry much coin. I was wondering if you might accept work instead.”

That earned me a raised brow. “What kind of work?”

“Runecraft,” I said. “I’m trained to set wards—pest repellents, stasis charms, damp resistance. I could refresh the protections around your inn.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just studied me again, slower this time, her expression unreadable. Then she huffed a breath, half a laugh.

“Well. We’ve had half our root cellar spoiled already this season and I keep meaning to scrub off the old marks. If you’re serious, we’ve got plenty that needs doing.”

“I’m serious,” I said, though part of me was already bracing for just how much work she meant.

Within the hour, I found out.

She had her staff begin clearing out rooms—those with guests were asked to step out briefly—and fetched a ring of old keys for me. The inn, The Thistlebind House, had far more space than it first appeared. Upstairs alone there were six guest rooms, each with fading or half-erased chalk markings tucked near the thresholds.

I started there. Quietly and carefully, I inspected each room. I knelt to clean the old runestones tucked into corners, scraped off faded lines, and re-inscribed them one by one. Sleep runes. Pest wards. Damp protectives. I pressed my magic into each one, feeling the way it settled into the stone, warm and familiar. My magic buzzed softly at the edges of my senses—tired but eager.

From there, I worked through the storeroom, the kitchen, and the bathing chambers. I moved carefully through each space, washing and redrawing sigils, setting new stones where needed. Guests passed me by now and then, curious but polite, and no one asked questions.

The cellar was last—and hardest. Stone walls and cool air, lined with barrels and crates. A single lantern hung from a hook, casting long shadows as I descended. I found the old ward marks—nearly faded to nothing—and set to work.

By the time I finished, my fingertips were smudged with chalk and soot, and my magic had thinned to a low hum under my skin.

I emerged upstairs past midnight, and the tiefling innkeeper was waiting with a tray balanced in one arm.

“Didn’t expect you to get it all done,” she said. “Figured you’d leave a note and finish in the morning.”

I managed a tired smile. “Didn’t want to leave it half-done.”

“Well,” she said, offering me the tray, “in that case—stew’s still warm, bread’s fresh, and there’s blackberry cordial. You’ll eat, then sleep like the dead.”

The food was simple and perfect. I sat in the empty common room, letting the warmth of the meal ease the last of the ache from my bones. The inn itself felt calmer now—subtly settled, as if even the walls had exhaled.

When I finally lay down that night, in a room wrapped in the hum of my own warding, sleep came easily.

And morning would come too soon.

The scent of baking bread and woodsmoke woke me gently. I stretched beneath the warm quilt and let my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the inn’s window. My body ached faintly in that familiar, used way—traces of yesterday’s work still humming through my arms and fingertips.

Downstairs, the common room had already begun to stir. I ate a light breakfast of oat porridge, sliced apples, and a strong, herby tea with a taste I couldn’t place but found oddly invigorating. The innkeeper gave me a sharp nod as I brought my empty bowl to the counter.

“You’ve earned more than a bed and a bite,” she said gruffly. “Saved me a cellar of spoiled stores and half a dozen complaints.”

She pressed a small bundle of coins into my hand before I could protest.

“I—thank you, but I didn’t expect—”

“Don’t argue,” she said, already moving on to refill another guest’s mug. “Put it toward the next place. Just in case bartering falls flat.”

With a grateful nod, I slipped the coin into my satchel. The weight of it was comforting—not just for its practical use, but for what it meant. My work had value.

The morning carriage rolled up as I stepped outside. The same driver tipped his hat as I climbed aboard. This time, there were more passengers: a trio of goblins wrapped in colorful shawls and patched vests, a human farmer snoring gently in the corner, and a dwarf reading a book with frayed pages and no cover.

I settled beside the goblins, who greeted me with polite curiosity and nods.

“Traveling far?” one of them asked—an older goblin with wiry whiskers and bright, clever eyes.

“Far enough,” I replied with a smile. “Studying plants. Healing.”

“Ahhh,” said another, leaning forward. “Herb-worker! You’d like the mosswine leaves we grow in the south valleys. Good for fevers, and the stew isn’t bad either.”

I pulled out my journal without thinking. “Mosswine leaves?”

For the next hour, we bounced along the rutted road as they told me about the healing plants common in their homeland—stinkroot, used in salves to clear congestion; gullyvine, a flowering creeper brewed for stomach cramps; and something called fishmint, which they assured me smelled awful but was a potent balm for burns when mixed with honey.

I sketched quickly as they spoke, jotting names and notes, grateful for their laughter and generosity. They asked a few questions in return, curious about what I carried in my satchel and how I’d learned to bind runes into stone. When I showed them one of my slates, the eldest nodded with real interest.

“You’re building a good path,” he said. “Best healers I knew traveled light and listened more than they spoke.”

The sun climbed higher, and the trees began to thin as we passed over a low ridge. I leaned back, letting the gentle motion of the carriage and the goblins’ easy chatter carry me onward.

The road stretched long and winding, weaving through pockets of pine forest and golden fields. Sunlight slanted through the trees in shifting rays, dappling the carriage windows with light and shadow. Occasionally, a birdcall pierced the quiet or a breeze stirred the canopy above, sending leaves tumbling lazily down the slopes.

We passed creeks that glittered between mossy rocks, a ruined watchtower leaning at the edge of a crumbling hill, and once, a herd of wild deer grazing at the treeline, who lifted their heads in quiet regard as the carriage rumbled by. The peace of it settled over me like a well-worn shawl.

The goblins dozed off eventually, heads bobbing gently with the rhythm of the wheels, leaving me to sketch the mosswine leaf they had described, along with a few herbal concoctions they had mentioned. I labeled everything carefully. I was starting to understand Naerel’s insistence that journals should grow outward, like roots from a tree.

Beside me, the dwarf cleared his throat and lowered his book.

“You’re the one with the runestones,” he said gruffly, nodding toward the slate that peeked out of my journal pouch.

“I am,” I said, smiling. “Though still learning.”

“Hmm.” He tucked the book under his arm. “I’m a stone-smith. No magic in these fingers, but I’ve worked with masons who use sigils to shape their work. Don’t need a spell to know what they mean.”

That caught my attention. “What kinds of sigils?”

He pulled a bit of chalk from his pocket and gestured to the blank inside of the carriage wall. “There’s this one—used in reinforcing walls. Keeps the grain of the stone from cracking over time. Not a rune, mind you, but carved deep and steady, and it helps the stone remember its shape.”

He drew a looping glyph, simple but symmetrical. “And this—used near mine tunnels. Glows faintly when carved right. Keeps you from walking blind when your lantern dies.”

“That one’s new to me,” I said, already sketching it down. “And useful.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Old cave-runners use this last one near food stores—helps keep the black mold from growing. Not a cure, but a shield, like turning a storm with a good roof.”

He drew again—this time a layered spiral with a line through the middle.

I copied each one carefully, heart fluttering. Even if they weren’t spells in the traditional sense, these sigils held old wisdom. Earth-born logic. Utility born of hard work and survival. That, too, was a kind of magic.

“I’ve never seen these in my books,” I said.

“You won’t,” he chuckled. “These come from calloused hands and passed-down memory. You’ll only find them in caves or by firelight, when someone trusts you enough to share.”

I met his eyes. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, but there was a faint smile under his beard. “Use them well, healer.”

Outside, the sun had begun to dip lower, turning the trees to burnished gold. Somewhere in the distance, I saw a village beginning to take shape—a few rooftops, a curve of chimney smoke, and the promise of another stop along my growing path.

By the time the carriage rolled into the next village, the light had mellowed into a warm, amber haze. The town was a little larger than the last, with tidy stone buildings, flowering window boxes, and a central square where townsfolk moved about in a quiet end-of-day rhythm. The inn sat just off the square, a cheerful place with a swinging painted sign of a fox curled around a teacup.

The innkeeper—a middle-aged half-elf woman with sharp eyes and flour-dusted sleeves—eyed me up and down when I stepped inside.

“You don’t look like a merchant,” she said, before I could speak.

“I’m not. Just passing through,” I answered, lifting my satchel slightly. “Healer, in training.”

Her gaze flicked to my slate stones and the journal tucked under my arm, then softened.

“Well, if you’re offering to redo my wards, I appreciate it, but they were just refreshed last month. Still strong.”

I smiled, relieved. “Then I’ll happily pay coin this time.”

“Good. You’ll want the last room on the left upstairs. Washroom’s down the hall. Supper’s just about ready.”

Grateful, I nodded and stepped into the common room, where the dwarf and the two goblin traders had already claimed a corner table near the hearth. They waved me over and made room without question.

Dinner was stew again—this time thick with barley and wild mushrooms, served with buttered root slices and spiced greens. The conversation was pleasant and low. The goblins told a few dry jokes about swamp trade routes and once again tried to convince the dwarf to open a stone market in their marsh homeland. He grunted and claimed his knees weren’t built for wet climates.

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I laughed softly, finishing the last of my tea.

The comfort of it all settled into my bones—a quiet evening after a long day of travel, surrounded by voices that had become oddly familiar in such a short time.

When I climbed the stairs to my room, the moon had just crested above the rooftops. I paused at the window to breathe in the cool air and look out at the quiet square. Tomorrow I’d take the side road Naerel had marked in her notes. The last leg of the journey to the deep-forest village.

Sleep came easily that night, tucked under a wool blanket with the distant sound of soft goblin snoring down the hall.

The morning dawned crisp and bright, with a hint of dew still clinging to the inn’s shutters. I woke early, slipping downstairs before the other travelers stirred. A simple breakfast was already laid out—bread, soft cheese, and dried fruit. I ate quickly, savoring the tart bite of preserved plum, then asked the innkeeper for ink and paper.

She gave me a knowing look and handed me a sheet from behind the counter. “Post runner leaves at midday,” she said. “I’ll make sure it goes out.”

I nodded my thanks and sat at one of the small tables in the corner, sunlight just beginning to stretch across the wooden floor.

Dear Family,

I hope this letter finds you well, even if it takes a while to reach you. I’ve left Naerel’s cottage and am on the road again—learning, exploring, and doing the work I always dreamed of. The forests have been kind so far. I’ve met a few good people and picked up more knowledge than I thought I could hold. My satchel is heavier with herbs, slates, and journals, but lighter with worry. I feel more capable than I did when I left home. I’m heading next to a deep-forest village that Naerel called “unique.” I’m not sure what I’ll find there, but I hope it’s another step on this path I’ve chosen. I think of you often. Give my love to everyone.

With warmth and tea,

Elara

I folded it carefully and gave it to the innkeeper with a few coins. “For the post.”

She tucked it into a leather satchel hanging behind the bar. “It’ll get there,” she said. “Might be slow, but it always does.”

Outside, the carriage was already being prepared. I climbed in and settled into my usual seat beside the window. The dwarf nodded at me in greeting, and the goblin traders dozed quietly, bundled in layers against the chill.

The road wound gently through low hills and soft fields, giving way slowly to the treeline ahead. I watched it pass—sketching in my journal, rereading old entries, and occasionally flipping through Naerel’s well-worn notes. Her handwriting danced between precise instructions and blunt warnings in the margins.

Just past midday, the carriage rolled to a slow stop at a crossroads.

“This is you,” the dwarf said, stretching out a hand to help me down.

The road to the right continued on to the next village, still faintly visible on the horizon. But the left-hand path—narrower and less worn—sloped gently down into a thick forest where the sunlight turned green and dappled.

I stepped down onto the gravel, tightening the strap on my satchel.

“Thank you,” I said to all of them. “Truly.”

“Good luck, herbalist,” one of the goblins said with a wave.

“Don’t get lost in there,” the dwarf added, gruff but not unkind.

The carriage rolled on, wheels crunching over gravel until it disappeared into the distance. I stood for a moment longer, breathing in the sharp, pine-sweet air, then turned to the forest path.

It felt good to be walking again—feet steady on packed earth, birdsong overhead, and the whisper of leaves greeting me like an old friend. I slipped between the trees with a soft smile, heart light, and senses wide open.

The forest was calling, and I was ready to listen.

The forest path welcomed me with a hush that city roads could never match. Towering trees leaned gently overhead, their branches threading into a leafy canopy that filtered the afternoon sunlight into soft, golden spears. Moss and old leaves muffled my steps, and the air was cool and damp with the scent of lichen, pine, and earth.

I didn’t rush. With two days’ walk ahead, there was no reason to. My satchel rested lightly on my shoulder, and I let myself fall into an easy rhythm—step, breathe, listen. The quiet buzz of insects drifted around me, mingled with the occasional trill of birdsong from deeper in the woods.

As I walked, I kept one eye on the road and the other sweeping the undergrowth. Signs of growth peeked out beneath ferns and along fallen branches. It wasn’t long before I spotted the familiar curve of a fallen tree just off the trail, its base softened by rot and shaded beneath thick branches. I veered off carefully, kneeling to inspect the base.

There, nestled in the damp wood and leaf litter, a small clutch of purplecap mushrooms pushed up from the soil. I smiled to myself. The cap’s subtle lilac sheen was unmistakable, and they seemed healthy—firm, no sign of rot or pest.

I harvested them with care, brushing off dirt and tucking them gently into a lined pouch. I made a quick note in my journal with a charcoal stub:

Purplecap – forest roadside, northwest bend. Under elmfall. Excellent condition.

Back on the trail, I found more than I expected. A tangle of silver-blooming valerian had crept close to the path, its leaves trembling as I approached. Nearby, wild thyme grew low and stubborn between stones, and a tall patch of foxstem waved like tiny banners in the breeze.

I paused again and again, gathering only what was fresh and plentiful, careful not to overharvest. For each plant, I whispered thanks to the land, as Rennet had taught me, and made my notes. My satchel slowly filled with the comforting smells of herbs and mushrooms and sun-warmed greenery.

By late afternoon, I had covered only half the distance I might have, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a race. This was work—my work—and the road was both teacher and classroom.

As the shadows stretched longer, I found a small clearing just off the trail with a patch of soft moss beneath an overhang of rock. It wasn’t large, but it was sheltered and dry, and that was more than enough. I set my walking staff beside me, opened my satchel, and began sorting the day’s finds into small cloth bundles, each labeled and wrapped with care.

When I finally settled down with a warm drink brewed from mint and sweetroot shavings, the sun was dipping low and fireflies began flickering in the underbrush.

I sat back against my pack and breathed deeply, content.

Tomorrow, I’d reach the village. Tonight, I’d sleep in the arms of the forest.

As the light dimmed beneath the thickening canopy, I found a hollow nestled in the lee of a great fallen tree. The trunk was blanketed in thick moss, and one side of its upturned roots curved just enough to offer shelter from wind or rain. I walked the perimeter slowly, murmuring under my breath as I traced simple runes into bark and earth. They glowed with a faint golden shimmer as they took hold—basic wards, just enough to alert me to larger creatures and provide a little concealment.

I set down my staff and called my satchel to hand. With a quiet thought, I summoned my cooking tin, a small clay pot of dried soup mix, and my sealed water flask. The forest gave up kindling easily, and soon I had a modest flame crackling beneath a small tripod grate. While the soup began to simmer, I wandered a few steps toward the edge of a nearby pond, spotting a patch of tender greens that looked just right. I rinsed them carefully in the cold water, then added them to the pot with a small nod of thanks.

Dinner was plain, but comforting—wild root and barley stew, with bits of mushroom and greens, eaten with a chunk of foraged bread I’d dried earlier in the week. I sat on a flat stone, the bowl warming my hands as firelight flickered across my cheeks and dusk settled in around me.

Once I’d rinsed my bowl and banked the fire low, I rolled out my bedroll beside the warm trunk and layered my cloak over it for extra warmth. I pulled my sketchbook from the satchel and settled cross-legged near the embers. For a while, I worked in the quiet, drawing the shapes of the mushrooms and berries I’d gathered earlier. My notes came slowly but precisely—textures, scents, where I’d found them, and what I suspected they might be good for.

The forest around me softened into evening. Crickets sang from the underbrush, and night-birds called out from somewhere above. I touched the pendant at my neck, a warm piece of sunstone strung on a leather cord, and whispered a quiet goodnight to my family—wherever my last letter might find them.

Then I curled into my blankets, let the cool air wrap around the edges of the warmth I’d made, and allowed the gentle sounds of the forest to lull me into sleep.

Morning arrived gently, with a hush of mist curling through the trees and dampening the edges of my blanket. I blinked up at the canopy overhead, watched a droplet fall from a fern above, and felt the soft chill of forest air on my cheeks. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled a sleepy, spiraling song.

I sat up slowly, stretching the sleep from my limbs, and reached for my satchel. With a thought, I pulled out my little travel cup and a pouch of morning herbs—peppermint, orange peel, and a pinch of goldblossom. While the kettle warmed over the rekindled fire, I wrapped my cloak around my shoulders and let the rising steam nudge me fully awake.

Breakfast was quiet and simple: a wedge of nutbread, a few dried plums, and the herbal infusion warming my hands. Not extravagant, but it filled my belly and steadied my thoughts. I packed up camp at an easy pace, brushing damp leaves from my bedroll, then tapping the faint golden runes I’d carved the night before to dissolve them. Each one winked out with a whisper, their protective energy returning to the earth.

By the time I found the path again, the sun was beginning to break through the trees in soft golden beams. The road wasn’t much more than a trail winding through underbrush, but I preferred it that way. I walked with my staff in hand and eyes half on the forest edges, alert for anything useful or interesting.

It wasn’t long before I spotted a patch of twilight cress beneath a willow. The silver-veined leaves shimmered slightly in the shade. I crouched, murmured thanks, and clipped a few for my pouch, careful to leave enough for it to regrow. A little further down the trail, bright lion’s sage had begun to bloom. Its cheerful yellow heads bobbed in the breeze, and I gathered a few stems, the scent clinging faintly to my fingers.

At the base of a rotting log, I found a cluster of purplecap mushrooms, just beginning to fruit. I pulled out one of the flat-bottomed baskets stored in my satchel—gods, I love that enchantment—and gently packed the mushrooms inside. The log was slick with moss, so I took my time, not wanting to slip and end up soaked or bruised.

I continued like that for most of the morning—walking, pausing, gathering. A small stream crossed the path, clear and fast-moving. I knelt at its edge to collect a few stems of watermint growing along the rocks and used the chilly water to rinse my hands and splash my face. The sun caught the droplets on my cheeks as I stood again, refreshed.

By midday, my foraging pouches were pleasantly full. I’d found pennyroot, some marsh clover, and even a few windblown petals of something unfamiliar. I’d press those later and see if Naerel might recognize them. I stopped in a small glade to eat—cheese and travel biscuits, nothing fancy—and stretched out on my cloak beneath a tree with birdsong all around me.

When I began walking again, I knew I was getting close. The trees thinned, the road widened, and just ahead stood a leaning wooden signpost:

Deeproot Hollow – 2 miles.

I smiled to myself. Naerel had called it Deeproot Crossing or Old Hollow like it was a half-forgotten memory. This had to be the same place. Names changed depending on who you asked—and what decade they were born in.

The first glimpse of Deeproot Hollow stole my breath.

The village sat where forest gave way to field, tucked neatly against the ancient trees like it had grown up from the roots themselves. Stone cottages dotted the gently sloping land, their walls worn smooth with age and patched in places with ivy and moss. Narrow cobblestone roads wound through them like a spider’s web, uneven but lovingly maintained, and the scent of peat smoke and baking bread drifted from crooked chimneys. Low stone fences divided small gardens and animal pens, the stones stacked by hand and softened by time—laced with wildflowers and thick moss that made them seem more grown than built.

It reminded me of something from an old talebook—one of those forgotten places where people still bartered with eggs and stories. But Deeproot Hollow was no forgotten village.

Along the outer edge, where the forest pressed up behind the cottages like a watchful friend, I saw something else—homes built not of stone, but into the trees. Towering oaks and silver-barked willows had been reshaped by magic, their trunks hollowed with graceful spirals of bark-lined stairs and carved balconies that shimmered faintly in the sun. The trees themselves had clearly been guided to this shape, their branches arching protectively overhead like sheltering arms. I recognized the gentle curves of elven craft—living wood coaxed rather than cut.

It made me smile. This place had grown in more ways than one.

Humans, elves, and likely others lived here side by side. The mix was visible not just in the homes, but in the fences, the garden layouts, the hanging charms and wind-chimes that whispered in half a dozen styles. And beyond it all, both behind and ahead, there was still space to grow. The forest hugged the village from one side, cupping it gently, while on the other, fields unfurled like patchwork—barley, squash, wild-root, and tall climbing beans staked with care. Someone had recently dug a new furrow, and I could see rows of green just beginning to sprout.

Deeproot Hollow wasn’t just surviving. It was thriving—quietly, steadily, and with room still left to become whatever it wanted to be.

And, if I was lucky, maybe I could do the same.

By the time I reached the edge of Deeproot Hollow, my feet were sore, my cloak was dusted with road grit, and my hair had started to curl from the damp. All I wanted in the world was a long soak and something warm in my belly. I passed a pair of children chasing a ball through the street—one with curling ram horns, the other with a shock of elven silver hair—and offered them a tired smile. They waved back, and I kept walking, following the subtle slope of the cobbled path toward what I hoped would be the village center.

The cottages grew closer together near the heart of town, each with their own small flourished touches: painted shutters, bundles of herbs tied to doorways, carved posts with protective runes. I kept an eye out for a hanging sign or the familiar smell of cooking stew, and sure enough, just past the apothecary—a squat building with colored glass windows—I spotted a larger stone structure with smoke curling from its chimney and a hand-painted wooden placard swinging above the door.

The Crooked Elm, the sign read, illustrated with a twisting tree and a sleepy-looking badger curled beneath it.

It would do.

Inside, the scent of roasted parsnips and sage hit me like a blessing. A tall half-orc woman stood behind the bar, polishing mugs and humming under her breath. She glanced up as I entered, eyes flicking from my damp curls to my travel-worn boots.

“Room or meal?” she asked, voice low but friendly.

“Room, please,” I said. “And—if it’s possible—a bath?”

She nodded once and jerked her chin toward a young goblin lad seated near the hearth. “Moss’ll get the water going. Room’s five silvers. Bath’s two more. Includes a clean towel and a bit of soap.”

I handed over the coins without hesitation and followed the boy down a narrow hallway, up a creaky set of stairs, and into a small room with a feather-stuffed bed, a narrow window, and a deep copper tub that had already been pulled in. He vanished to fetch water, and I used the time to peel off my outer layers and stretch the ache from my shoulders.

The bath, when it was finally ready, was nearly hot enough to make me squeak, and I sank into it with a groan of pure relief. My muscles sighed, the road dirt melted away, and I breathed in the faint lavender scent of the soap like it was a healing tonic.

Once I was clean and wrapped in a fresh tunic, I felt more like myself again.

I sat on the edge of the bed, toweling my hair dry, and tried to recall the name Naerel had given me weeks ago.

Old Bitty.

She’d said Bitty knew everyone and everything that went on in Deeproot Hollow, and that if I wanted a proper introduction to the village’s healer, I’d do well to find her first.

I stood, gathered my things, and slipped my cloak back on, still slightly warm from the bathhouse’s hearth.

Time to meet the local gossip.

After the bath, I felt like a new woman. Still tired, yes—but the kind of tired that hums contentedly beneath the skin instead of pulling at the bones. I made my way back downstairs, thanked the half-orc innkeeper with a grateful nod, and stepped into the afternoon bustle of Deeproot Hollow’s market square.

The center of town was a tidy sprawl of stalls and carts arranged around a mossy well. Vendors called out with cheerful determination, hawking jars of honey, hand-dyed thread, fresh mushrooms, and steaming pasties. It smelled like spices, fresh bread, and wet stone. A few folks nodded as I passed, eyeing my satchel and staff with idle curiosity. Travelers weren’t rare here, but they weren’t invisible either.

I scanned the crowd, looking for someone who might answer to Bitty.

It didn’t take long.

Near the edge of the market, beside a cart precariously stacked with baskets of wildroot, stood a tiny woman wrapped in layers of shawls. Her hair was white and fluffy as thistledown, and her long skirt was hitched on one side to reveal two different shoes—neither of them on the correct foot, from the looks of it. She was arguing animatedly with a tall dwarf over the price of beet jam, while sneakily slipping apples from one basket into another with an air of utter innocence.

“That’s thievery, Bitty,” the dwarf was saying, arms crossed.

“No, it’s sorting! You said the red ones were riper, and I’m just being helpful!”

“You’re mixing them by stem curvature!”

“Well, everyone knows a curved stem means a sweeter fruit,” she sniffed. “Honestly, Grun, you should be thanking me.”

She turned then and caught me watching her with barely-contained amusement. Her sharp blue eyes locked onto mine like a hawk spotting a mouse in tall grass.

“Well, now,” she said. “There’s a face I don’t know, and I know most of them.”

I stepped forward, resisting the urge to curtsey—she had the presence of someone who deserved it, whether or not she looked like a confused bird nesting in a pile of scarves.

“Elara,” I said, offering a smile. “Naerel sent me. She said you might help me find the local healer. She gave me a letter for you.”

Bitty’s entire expression shifted—not softer, but clearer. Like a mist lifting.

“Did she now? That silver-haired bat. Took her long enough to send someone.” She turned on her heel—nimble for her age—and waved me along. “Come on, then. Don’t wave that letter about like it’s your first coin. We’ll go to my cottage where I can read it properly, without every garlic-seller in the square listening in.”

I followed her as she weaved expertly through the crowd, occasionally muttering greetings and insults in equal measure. She didn’t walk so much as bustle, and I had to hurry to keep up.

Bitty’s cottage stood at the edge of the market green, tucked beside an old walnut tree with a carved spoon nailed to its trunk for reasons I didn’t dare ask. The house was small and lopsided, with a garden full of mismatched herbs, sun-bleached bones, and wind-chimes made from teacups and keys.

Inside smelled like dried mint, cat fur, and something baking that I dearly hoped was sweetbread.

Bitty waved me into a crooked armchair and plopped into one across from it with a theatrical groan. “Well then. Let’s have it.”

I opened my satchel and pulled out the sealed letter from Naerel, placing it gently into her outstretched hand.

She cracked the seal with a nail, read silently for a long moment, then snorted. “She always did think she was the clever one.” Another pause. “But this makes sense.”

She looked at me again, more serious this time. “So you’re the girl with the fire and the plants. Hells, she really did send me a Fellborn. What’s the world coming to?”

I blinked. “Is that... a problem?”

Bitty chuckled, low and warm. “No, dear. It’s a sign. But we’ll talk more about that after supper.”

Bitty didn’t say another word until supper. She moved around the kitchen like a gust of leaves, sweeping open cupboards and muttering under her breath about lazy cats, slippery flour jars, and the high cost of pepper root these days. I offered to help and was swiftly told to sit down and “save your hands for cutting herbs and saving lives, not burning dinner.”

So I sat, watched, and let the smells of garlic and sage and something faintly nutty fill the cottage.

The meal, when it came, was simple and delicious—roasted tubers, squash with cracked salt, and a thick lentil stew that had likely been bubbling on her stove for most of the day. A slice of crusty brown bread showed up beside it, still warm.

We ate in companionable quiet at first, the light from the hearth casting amber shadows across the mismatched plates. Bitty chewed with the firm purpose of someone who’d fought for every meal at some point in her life and had no interest in wasting this one. I followed her lead, grateful for the warmth in my belly and the stillness around us.

When we were both halfway through our bowls, she leaned back and fixed me with a look that felt a little too much like being summoned for an evaluation.

“Right then,” she said, tearing off a piece of bread. “You’ll need to clean out the healer’s cottage tomorrow.”

I blinked, a spoon halfway to my mouth. “I’m sorry—what?”

Bitty waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. “Naerel didn’t tell you, I suppose. Should’ve. But no, the old healer passed about a month back. Slipped away in her sleep after her evening tea. Peaceful.”

I set my spoon down gently. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She was a good one,” Bitty said with a fond nod. “Grumpy, sharp as vinegar, and she knew the difference between boilweed and bloodfern by the smell alone. No apprentice, of course—never trusted anyone to touch her notes. But she left it all behind. Journals, books, tinctures, poultices... Even a few rune-carved stones she swore were duds but kept in a locked drawer anyway.”

I swallowed, not from food. “You want me to sort through it?”

“I expect you to,” Bitty said, reaching for her tea. “Council business.”

That caught me off guard. “You’re on the council?”

“I am the council.” She winked. “One of them. I’ve got the longest memory and the widest garden, which makes me useful. And when someone needs to step up, I do.”

I leaned back in my chair, feeling like the floor had shifted under me. “I didn’t come here to settle in, Bitty. I was looking for someone to learn from. To keep moving.”

“And yet you’re here,” she said, not unkindly. “And winter’s coming in fast. Whether or not you meant to stay, it’s looking likely.”

That made my stomach twist a little. “It’s only... late autumn. Isn’t it?”

Bitty gave a low chuckle. “You’ve been watching the trees, but not the sun. Days are shorter than you’ve noticed, and that storm two nights ago was the first nip of frost off the northern range. You keep traveling past the next full moon, you’ll be sleeping in snowbanks.”

I stared into my cup of tea. The idea of hauling my supplies through wind and sleet with nothing but a canvas tent and my satchel for warmth made me feel suddenly, deeply tired.

“You wouldn’t be tied here,” she continued. “Not forever. Not even through spring, if you don’t want it. But someone’s got to go through that cottage. Sort what’s useful. Toss what’s turned. Gods know what’s still fermenting in those jars, and none of the townsfolk want to poke around for fear they’ll mix up hair salve with laxative.”

I choked on a laugh despite myself.

“She really left everything?” I asked after a moment. “No one’s been inside?”

“Door’s locked, but the wards are fading. You’ll be able to get in just fine. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but I expect you’ll manage.” Bitty leaned in slightly. “And she’d have liked you, I think. You’re not all talk. You pay attention.”

I fiddled with the edge of my bread. “This isn’t what I expected. I thought I’d spend a week here, maybe two. Ask a few questions. Learn a few things.”

“And what would you be learning out on the road when the frost sets in?” she said, raising a brow. “Hunger? Cold? A recipe for frostbite poultice you could’ve avoided needing in the first place?”

Her tone was sharp, but it wasn’t cruel. It reminded me of Naerel, in a way. And my grandmother before her—people who pushed when you hesitated, not to scold, but to make you grow.

I stared at the flickering fire for a long moment. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Bitty said, standing with a grunt and scooping up the dishes. “But I’ll be at the healer’s cottage tomorrow morning with the key and a fresh lantern either way. You can decide then if you’re staying the season, or just long enough to help us set things right.”

I nodded and rose to help her, brushing crumbs from my tunic. “Thank you for dinner.”

She waved me off again. “Bah. Thank me by not blowing anything up tomorrow.”

I made my way back to The Crooked Elm under a cold, star-pricked sky. The air had turned sharper in just the last few hours, and my breath fogged faintly as I walked. The stone road gleamed slightly with moisture, and the trees behind the village whispered like they knew more than they were saying.

I let myself into the inn quietly, climbed the stairs to my room, and sank down on the bed, satchel still at my side.

Clean out the healer’s cottage. Stay the winter. Sort the herbs, the journals, the secrets she left behind.

I hadn’t even realized the season had shifted. When had the air turned? When had the light grown thin?

I opened my satchel and pulled out my journal, flipping to a blank page.

Things to consider:

– Supplies for winter

– Inventory of healer’s cottage

– Shelf life of stored potions

– Strength of local ingredients

– If I stay... what can I learn here?

Naerel must’ve known. Of course she had. She’d sent me not to meet someone, but to replace someone.

I sighed, placed my fingers on the pendant at my throat, and sat quietly until the fire in the hearth burned low. My body ached for sleep, but my thoughts spun in careful circles.

I didn’t want to travel through winter. That was true. And I didn’t like the idea of leaving a village like this without someone to tend their sick, especially when I might be the only one nearby with the skill.

But was I ready to stop moving?

I didn’t have an answer yet. But tomorrow would bring one—ready or not.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL: DEEPROOT HOLLOW – ARRIVAL

Date: Late Autumn (exact moon phase uncertain – must start tracking)Location: Deeproot Hollow, edge of the Elderwood

New Flora Observed:

* Sweetcoil Root – Found near roadside before entering village. Mild sweetness. Possible use in energy tonics or teas. Tendency to mold if not dried properly.

* Sagebloom (Dried) – Hanging outside many homes. Common protective herb, often symbolic. Would like to compare village use to notes from Naerel.

* Wildroot (Cultivated) – Sold in baskets in town square. Likely a regional staple. Ask Bitty if any used medicinally or just for cooking.

Village Notes:

Deeproot Hollow sits where forest yields to field—stone cottages, mossy fences, cobbled roads. Feels older than it looks. Elven homes built directly into reshaped trees along the village edge—gorgeous craft, signs of old magic. A place shaped by many hands and long histories. Market is lively, multicultural. Smells of bread, honey, earth. Bitty knows everyone. Possibly everything.

Personal Reflection:

Bitty says the local healer died a month ago. No apprentice. Left everything behind. I'm being asked—told, really—to go through it all. Inventory what’s good. Toss what’s not. Winter is closer than I realized. I can feel it in the air now, like a breath waiting to freeze. I didn’t plan to stop. But I also didn’t plan for this. I think Naerel knew what she was doing. Maybe I’ll stay. Just until the thaw.