Chapter 9: Around We Go

I woke to the faint glow of morning light slipping through the edges of the loft window, turning the wooden beams above my head into bands of honey gold. For a moment, I stayed still, the quilt pulled up to my chest, listening to the sleepy quiet of the cottage.

It didn’t feel like it belonged to someone else anymore. Not entirely.

I rose slowly, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders before pulling on my clothes. The air had a bite to it now, even inside. Autumn had officially turned toward frost.

Downstairs, the hearth had gone cold overnight. I murmured a quick cantrip and coaxed a small flame to life, feeding it with kindling until it crackled steadily. The kettle went on, and I unpacked the jar of blackberry jam and the last of the eggs Bitty had brought. A simple breakfast—boiled egg, toasted bread, and tea steeped with lemon balm and a pinch of rosemary.

The warmth helped. So did the quiet.

But under that stillness, nerves stirred.

Today, I was meant to start rounds. Bitty had said she’d walk me through the route, that I’d just be checking in. Simple enough, in theory.

But she hadn’t said when—or where to meet her.

I cleaned up after breakfast and gathered what I thought I might need: joint balm, chest salve, a few peppermint sachets, a tin of calming tea blend. I packed them into a sturdy canvas satchel, double-checking the seals on each jar. My notebook went in last, along with a stub of charcoal and a bit of cloth to wipe my hands between stops.

By the time I stepped outside, the village had already begun its quiet rhythm. Smoke curled from chimneys, carts rumbled down the cobbled lanes, and I heard the distant squawk of a chicken protesting something.

I walked briskly to Bitty’s cottage, hoping she’d be waiting, shawled and smug on her front step, ready to tell me I’d packed too much or not enough.

The shutters were closed. The garden was quiet. I knocked once, then again—harder.

Nothing.

No answer. No smoke. No movement. Just me and a quiet stone house with a door that stayed shut.

She wasn’t there.

I stood a moment longer, uncertain, then turned back toward the only other place I’d felt even mildly anchored since arriving in Deeproot Hollow.

The Crooked Elm.

The inn smelled like it always did—woodsmoke, warm stone, and something savory from the kitchen. Morning light slanted through the windows, and a few early risers were tucked into corners with mugs in hand. The innkeeper looked up as I entered, her dark eyes sharp beneath a few loose strands of silver-streaked hair.

“Well,” she said, setting down a towel and leaning her elbows on the counter. “Look who’s back. I heard you moved into the old healer’s place.”

I stopped a few steps from the bar, unsure how to respond to being known so quickly.

“Word travels fast,” I offered.

She snorted. “Faster than smoke up a chimney. But it’s good news. That cottage was too quiet. Glad to hear it’s got someone useful in it again.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, embarrassed and flattered all at once. “I’m just helping for now.”

“Helping counts,” she said. “Especially around here.”

I gave her a grateful smile and shifted my satchel higher on my shoulder. “I was hoping to find Bitty. She said she’d show me the route for rounds today. But she’s not home.”

The innkeeper raised a brow. “Hiding already, is she?”

“Apparently,” I muttered.

She gave a quiet laugh. “Sounds about right. She likes to vanish the moment someone starts leaning on her too hard. She’s probably watching you from some window, just to see if you’ll figure it out.”

I stared at her for a second, trying not to laugh. “That’s... exactly what it feels like.”

“Then you’re off to a fine start,” she said. “If it helps, most of the folks who need help won’t keep quiet about it. Walk long enough, and someone will wave you in. Might even chase you down if their joints are bad enough.”

I let out a slow breath, then gave a small nod. “Thank you. Really.”

The innkeeper smiled—not soft, but approving. “Good luck, Healer Elara.”

That word—healer—settled on my shoulders again. Not crushing. Just real.

I stepped back out into the chilled morning, pulled my cloak tighter, and looked down the winding streets of Deeproot Hollow. Bitty had sent me out without a route, a list, or a map.

Just a satchel full of remedies and the quiet expectation that I’d figure it out.

I stood just outside the inn’s doorway, watching the village shift into its full morning rhythm. Most folks were clearly at work—hauling things, tending gardens, walking briskly with purpose. Bitty had likely planned this all along, the way she did everything—one step ahead, half a dozen truths tucked behind her teeth.

If I couldn’t do proper rounds without her help, then I’d do something else just as useful.

Start with the businesses, I thought. Most of the elders and families would be out working or in their homes until the evening anyway. But the shopkeepers, stall-holders, and crafters—they were easy to find. Easy to talk to. A soft entry into a harder task.

I’d introduce myself. Let people know where I was staying. Make it clear I wasn’t here to take over, just to help.

And tonight, I’d sit in the Crooked Elm’s common room. Anyone who needed something could find me there.

That felt manageable. Not quite confident, but close enough to try.

I adjusted the strap on my satchel and turned toward the most obvious first stop.

The bakery.

The scent hit me before I reached the door—warm bread, golden crust, a hint of spice and butter. The bakery sat just off the main square, its walls pale stone with a faded blue door propped open by a sack of flour. A small wooden sign swung gently above it: Willow & Crust.

Inside, heat wrapped around me like a blanket. Baskets of bread lined the front counter—braided loaves, dense rounds of rye, rolls still steaming and dusted with herbs. The shelves behind were stocked with jars of jam and butter, hand-labeled in a looping script.

A woman stood behind the counter, forearms dusted with flour and her dark curls pinned back with a carved comb. She had a strong, capable build and the calm, deliberate movements of someone who knew her trade down to the gram.

She looked up as I entered, one brow arching. “You’re the one in the healer’s cottage now, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes—I’m Elara. I just moved in yesterday. I wanted to introduce myself.”

“Bitty said you were coming.” She brushed her hands on her apron and extended one toward me. “I’m Mareth. I keep the ovens burning.”

I shook her hand, a little surprised by the solid strength of her grip. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mareth leaned back slightly, giving me a look somewhere between curiosity and quiet approval. “You here for good?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “For now, at least. I’m sorting through what the last healer left, and trying to make myself useful. I thought I’d stop by the businesses today to say hello—most folks are out in the fields, and I didn’t want to interrupt anyone working.”

“Smart,” she said. “Folk around here don’t mind a stranger, long as she doesn’t act like she knows everything already.”

I smiled. “I promise I don’t.”

That made her laugh.

I opened my satchel slightly and gestured toward it. “I brought a few things—nothing complicated. Joint balm, calming tea blend, chest salve. If you or anyone here needs something, I’m staying in the healer’s cottage for now.”

Mareth’s smile softened. “Good to know. My husband’s joints hate the cold—he works at the mill just outside town. Might send him your way.”

“Please do.”

I hesitated, then added, “I’ll be sitting in the inn’s common room this evening. Just for an hour or two. If anyone needs a quick check or a refill of something basic, they’re welcome to stop by.”

“That’ll go over well,” she said. “Folk here like their comforts close to the hearth.”

She paused, then turned and pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle from behind the counter. “Here. Leftover honey rolls from the morning batch. Take them with you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“You can,” Mareth said firmly. “Consider it a thank-you. For trying.”

I accepted the package with both hands. The rolls were still warm.

“Thank you,” I said again, more quietly this time.

“See you tonight, then,” she said, already turning back toward her oven. “And don’t be surprised if Bitty shows up halfway through pretending she never vanished in the first place.”

Instead, I stood just outside the inn’s doorway, watching the village shift into its full morning rhythm. Most folks were clearly at work—hauling things, tending gardens, walking briskly with purpose. Bitty had likely planned this all along, the way she did everything—one step ahead, half a dozen truths tucked behind her teeth.

If I couldn’t do proper rounds without her help, then I’d do something else just as useful.

Start with the businesses, I thought. Most of the elders and families would be out working or in their homes until the evening anyway. But the shopkeepers, stall-holders, and crafters—they were easy to find. Easy to talk to. A soft entry into a harder task.

I’d introduce myself. Let people know where I was staying. Make it clear I wasn’t here to take over, just to help.

And tonight, I’d sit in the Crooked Elm’s common room. Anyone who needed something could find me there.

That felt manageable. Not quite confident, but close enough to try.

I adjusted the strap on my satchel and turned toward the most obvious first stop.

The bakery.

The scent hit me before I reached the door—warm bread, golden crust, a hint of spice and butter. The bakery sat just off the main square, its walls pale stone with a faded blue door propped open by a sack of flour. A small wooden sign swung gently above it: Willow & Crust.

Inside, heat wrapped around me like a blanket. Baskets of bread lined the front counter—braided loaves, dense rounds of rye, rolls still steaming and dusted with herbs. The shelves behind were stocked with jars of jam and butter, hand-labeled in a looping script.

A woman stood behind the counter, forearms dusted with flour and her dark curls pinned back with a carved comb. She had a strong, capable build and the calm, deliberate movements of someone who knew her trade down to the gram.

She looked up as I entered, one brow arching. “You’re the one in the healer’s cottage now, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes—I’m Elara. I just moved in yesterday. I wanted to introduce myself.”

“Bitty said you were coming.” She brushed her hands on her apron and extended one toward me. “I’m Mareth. I keep the ovens burning.”

I shook her hand, a little surprised by the solid strength of her grip. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mareth leaned back slightly, giving me a look somewhere between curiosity and quiet approval. “You here for good?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “For now, at least. I’m sorting through what the last healer left, and trying to make myself useful. I thought I’d stop by the businesses today to say hello—most folks are out in the fields, and I didn’t want to interrupt anyone working.”

“Smart,” she said. “Folk around here don’t mind a stranger, long as she doesn’t act like she knows everything already.”

I smiled. “I promise I don’t.”

That made her laugh.

I opened my satchel slightly and gestured toward it. “I brought a few things—nothing complicated. Joint balm, calming tea blend, chest salve. If you or anyone here needs something, I’m staying in the healer’s cottage for now.”

Mareth’s smile softened. “Good to know. My husband’s joints hate the cold—he works at the mill just outside town. Might send him your way.”

“Please do.”

I hesitated, then added, “I’ll be sitting in the inn’s common room this evening. Just for an hour or two. If anyone needs a quick check or a refill of something basic, they’re welcome to stop by.”

“That’ll go over well,” she said. “Folk here like their comforts close to the hearth.”

She paused, then turned and pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle from behind the counter. “Here. Leftover honey rolls from the morning batch. Take them with you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“You can,” Mareth said firmly. “Consider it a thank-you. For trying.”

I accepted the package with both hands. The rolls were still warm.

“Thank you,” I said again, more quietly this time.

“See you tonight, then,” she said, already turning back toward her oven. “And don’t be surprised if Bitty shows up halfway through pretending she never vanished in the first place.”

My next stop was tucked around the corner from the square, a modest wooden storefront with big-paned windows that let in the morning light. A bolt of forest green wool hung in the display, draped over a dress form beside a smaller mannequin wrapped in a bright orange scarf. A carved wooden sign above the door read: Thimble & Thread.

I stepped inside to the soft sound of chimes strung with thimbles, buttons, and a few dangling silver charms. The air smelled of lanolin, lavender sachets, and wood polish. Bolts of fabric lined one wall—dyed wools, undyed canvas, rough-spun linen, and a few bolts of finer velvet tucked in for special occasions. Another wall held racks of partially-finished garments, neat stacks of mended cloaks, and a few sets of hanging tools: shears, needles, chalk.

A woman with long greying hair and very sharp eyes looked up from a half-sewn garment laid across her worktable. She wore a magnifying lens clipped to one side of her glasses and had three pins tucked neatly behind her ear.

“You’re not from here,” she said—not unkindly, just observational.

“Elara,” I said with a smile. “I’ve just moved into the healer’s cottage.”

Her expression shifted immediately, the edge of curiosity softening into something warmer. “So you’re the one Bitty was muttering about. Good. That place’s been quiet too long.”

“I’m hoping to be helpful,” I said. “And to stay, at least through the winter.”

The woman stood and brushed stray thread from her apron. “Vessa Wren. Seamstress. We also do weaving through the cold months, though it’s mostly sweaters, blankets, and grumbling.”

I smiled. “I was actually hoping I could place an order. I wasn’t planning to be anywhere settled through winter, and my clothes weren’t chosen with snow in mind.”

Vessa tilted her head, already appraising me from shoulder to boot. Her eyes flicked toward the swish of my tail as it curved slightly behind my legs. She muttered under her breath, “Gonna have to adjust the back panel.”

Then, louder, “Do you need a tail covering for winter? Haven’t equipped a Fellborn before.”

I grinned. “Thankfully, no. It doesn’t feel the cold. Some of us wrap them for protection, but mine’s pretty insulated on its own. Just needs to be able to come through the back of the trousers comfortably.”

She gave a brisk nod. “Good. One less piece to knit. Right, then—three tunics, three pairs of trousers, winter-weight. Anything else?”

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“Two sweaters, if you’ve got someone weaving.”

“Margo’s on it,” she said. “Her hands are fast, even if her head’s in the clouds half the time.”

We moved through the measuring process quickly—Vessa taking note of shoulder width, boot height, tail length and position, and arm length with quick, efficient scribbles in her ledger. She didn’t fuss, didn’t flinch, just worked like someone who’d fitted all kinds of people and never thought twice about it.

Once the measurements were done, I hesitated, then pulled a small slate from my satchel. “I don’t know your pricing, but I’d be happy to barter for part of it. I inscribe domestic runes—protection, temperature stabilization, pest wards. I could reinforce your fabric storage before the snow hits. Keep things dry, help ward off rodents.”

That made her pause, one brow rising. “You can stabilize the humidity?”

“Enough to keep mildew from settling in,” I said. “It won’t stop decay entirely, but it’ll buy you time. Especially for natural fibers and leather.”

Vessa tapped her charcoal against her ledger. “My storeroom gets damp every winter, and I’ve lost good canvas to mice more than once. You rune the storeroom and the back of the workshop, I’ll knock half off the order.”

“Done,” I said, relieved.

“You’ll have the first set by the end of the week,” she said, already turning back to her table. “Sweaters might take a little longer—depends on how poetic Margo’s feeling.”

“I understand completely.”

She glanced over her shoulder as I opened the door. “You doing rounds today?”

“Trying,” I said. “Thought I’d start by visiting the businesses. I’ll be in the common room at the inn this evening for anyone who wants to check in. Informal, no pressure.”

Vessa nodded. “Folk like that better anyway. If they need help, they’ll come find you.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Truly.”

“Keep that tail clear of the spinning wheels,” she called as I stepped outside.

The general store sat near the crossroads at the edge of the main square, its wide wooden porch shaded by an overhanging roof and strung with bundles of dried herbs, lanterns, and a wind chime made from spoons. A faded sign above the door read: Hollow Goods & Sundries, with smaller print beneath it that someone had lovingly painted in a curl of script: “If you need it, we probably have it. If we don’t—check the barn.”

The door creaked as I stepped inside, and the smell of beeswax, old paper, and dried apples filled the space. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with sacks of flour and oats, candles, jars of preserves, simple tools, buttons, coils of rope, and other bits of useful everything. A barrel near the counter was half full of kindling bundles, and another held dried beans in small burlap sacks.

Behind the counter stood an older woman with her grey hair tied up in a kerchief, counting coins into a small tin. Beside her, a man with thick suspenders and a sun-weathered face was restocking a shelf with clay jugs. They looked up as I entered, and the woman immediately gave me a warm, appraising smile.

“You’re the new healer,” she said—not unkindly, just certain. “Elara, right?”

“That’s me,” I said, smiling. “I’ve just moved into the cottage. Thought I’d introduce myself—and get a look at the lay of the land.”

“Well, you’ve found Deeproot’s one-stop shop,” the man said, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “We’re Renn and Ellyn Thatch. This store’s been ours going on thirty-five years.”

“You must know the whole village,” I said.

Ellyn grinned. “Better than the back of my own hand some days.”

I stepped up to the counter, then reached into the side pocket of my cloak to retrieve a small slate rune tile. The surface was etched with careful lines and dots, the faint shimmer of residual magic still lingering in the grooves.

“I also do runes,” I said, offering the tile across. “Basic home wards—dryness, pest prevention, temperature stabilization. I wasn’t sure if you had anything like that set up, but if you do, I’d be happy to check them.”

Renn gave a low hum and took the slate from Ellyn’s hand for a closer look. “We’ve had wards on the storeroom and cellar since before we took the place over. The old healer used to come by every year to freshen them.”

“She learned from Naerel,” Ellyn added. “Didn’t say much, but she knew her marks. Last refreshed the wards before frost last year—should hold for another month or so. But,” she gave me a knowing look, “you never know when a runesmith’ll wander through again.”

“Well,” I said with a smile, “you’ve got one now. If you’d like, I could refresh them this week.”

Ellyn and Renn exchanged a look.

“We’ve got a son,” Ellyn said slowly, “makes delivery rounds into town twice a week. He could stop by your place, keep your woodbox filled through the winter. He’s reliable, and it’s no trouble for him.”

“In return for the rune work?” I asked.

“In return for the right rune work,” Renn said, smiling. “Sound like a fair trade?”

“More than fair,” I said sincerely. “I can swing by tomorrow, if that works.”

“Works just fine,” Ellyn said. “And thank you.”

I tucked the slate back into my pocket. “I’ll be in the common room at the inn this evening, too. If anyone needs to check in or ask about supplies or remedies, I’ll be there for a couple hours.”

“You’ll get the hang of it here in no time,” Ellyn said, beaming.

“And if Bitty hasn’t scared you off yet,” Renn added, “you’re already halfway to being a Hollow resident.”

I laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Ellyn patted the counter. “We’ve also got cold salve, lamp oil, and new socks if your boots start to argue with the cold.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I stepped back outside, the porch creaking under my boots. The air was brisk and clear, and the rhythm of the village continued around me—brooms sweeping porches, hammering from somewhere down the street, and a child’s laughter bouncing off the stone walls.

Three visits.

A few more to go.

But already, it felt like I was building something here—thread by thread, rune by rune.

I caught a flicker of movement just ahead—a glimpse of shawl fringe and wild curls disappearing behind the bakery corner.

“Bitty?” I called, quickening my pace.

But when I reached the next bend, there was nothing. Only a cat grooming itself in a patch of sun and a fluttering line of laundry strung between two stone cottages. The narrow lane beyond curved toward the blacksmith’s forge, smoke curling steadily into the pale blue sky.

Of course she was gone. Again.

I exhaled and shook my head, continuing down the road. The smithy was easy enough to find—set apart slightly from the cluster of homes, with wide open double doors and a solid timber frame stained dark with age and soot. The sharp scent of iron and coal hit me first, followed by the warm, rhythmic clang of metal on metal.

Inside, the forge glowed like a dragon’s eye. A wide-bodied half-orc stood at the anvil, striking a glowing horseshoe with practiced ease. He was bare-armed despite the chill, his olive skin gleaming with sweat. Muscles shifted beneath his tunic with every blow, and a long leather apron protected him from sparks that burst with each strike.

He spotted me almost immediately—turning toward the door with a wide grin and booming voice.

“There she is! Deeproot’s new rune-slinger!”

I blinked, startled by the sheer volume, but I couldn’t help smiling. “Word travels fast.”

“Married to the innkeeper, love. She hears everything, and I hear it next.”

He drove the final shape into place with two more hammer strikes, then dropped the horseshoe into a trough with a satisfying hiss. “Name’s Bren. Welcome to the village.”

“Elara,” I said, stepping closer. “I was doing a loop of the businesses today. Just checking in.”

“Well, glad you stopped by. You runesmiths are rare enough—I was hoping to snag you before winter locks the place down.” He pulled a cloth from a nearby hook and wiped his arms. “You ever reinforce a forge before?”

“A few times,” I said. “Temperature containment, energy retention, warded ventilation—though that one takes time.”

“Exactly what I was hoping,” he said, tossing the rag over one shoulder. “This old place leaks heat like a cracked kettle. I lose more coal to the cold than to the work. I’ve patched what I can, but a solid set of runes could change my whole winter.”

“I could inscribe heat retention wards near the ceiling beams and the doorframe,” I offered. “Some foundational work on the walls would help with temperature shift. It won’t trap the heat entirely, but it’ll keep the ambient loss lower.”

“Sounds perfect. When can you start?”

“I’ve got a few stops left today,” I said. “But I could begin tomorrow, depending on how much surface space you’re willing to clear.”

“I’ll have the walls cleaned and the forge banked by midday. Just name your price.”

I hesitated. “Would you be willing to sharpen my tools in exchange? I’ve got a dozen blades and trimmers from the stillroom that need care. They haven’t seen a whetstone in months.”

His grin widened. “You just made my day. Love a proper barter. Bring ’em by tomorrow—I'll make them shine.”

He offered a large, calloused hand and I shook it, the skin rough but warm.

“I’ll also be in the inn’s common room tonight,” I added. “If anyone else comes asking after rune work or remedies.”

Bren nodded. “You’ll have a line, mark my words.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll come anyway.”

He turned back toward the forge as I stepped away, the glow of the coals painting the walls in warm orange flicker. I glanced back once, then turned toward the next part of town.

Still no sign of Bitty.

But I had a feeling she was keeping her distance on purpose.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Adventurers’ Guild building in Deeproot Hollow was tucked between the seamstress’s shop and a broad old elm tree that had long since grown into the curve of the road. The structure was modest—more lodge than hall—with a wooden shingle sign swinging above the door that bore a stylized sword-and-scroll emblem. The windows were clean but cluttered with noticeboards from the inside, their edges lined with scraps of parchment, colorful pins, and curling ink.

I stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the smell of old paper, wax sealant, and the faint tang of smoke and leather. The room was empty of adventurers, but the noise came anyway—from behind the cluttered counter at the far end, where a gnome stood on a stool, arms deep in a drawer.

“Back in a tick!” the gnome called without looking. “I know that file’s here somewhere!”

He emerged a moment later with a triumphant “Ah-ha!” and blinked at me, eyes twinkling behind thick lenses. His beard was braided with copper wire, and a large quill was tucked behind one ear.

“You’re not one of my usuals,” he said brightly, hopping off the stool and striding around the counter with the energy of someone twice his height. “New blood? Local or passing through?”

“Elara,” I said, smiling. “Settling in for the winter, it seems. I’ve taken over the healer’s cottage for now.”

“Ha! Bitty told me you’d be about,” he said, shaking my hand with both of his. “Name’s Porrin. Quartermaster, clerk, registrar, delivery runner, and occasional complaint deflector for this fine establishment.”

He waved broadly to the empty room as if a grand parade had just passed through.

“No adventurers today?” I asked, taking in the weapons rack, the scuffed benches, and the stack of requisition forms teetering behind the desk.

“All out getting their boots muddy,” Porrin said with pride. “Couple of local crews and one traveling band heading north. They'll all be back eventually—with bruises, bags full of questionable loot, and requests for potions they forgot to pack.”

He leaned forward with a sly grin. “Which brings us to you, my dear.”

I raised a brow. “Me?”

“You do runework, yes? Wards, protections, preservation circles?”

“I do.”

“Lovely,” he said, already rummaging for something on the desk. “Adventurers adore that sort of thing—especially in winter. Nothing says ‘frostbitten disappointment’ like a cracked flask of potion or a soggy map. You’d be doing them a service.”

He plucked a quill from behind his ear and grabbed a square of thick parchment.

“I’ll just pop a notice up on the board, shall I?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Nonsense! Wards for tents, bedrolls, bags, you name it. You’ll be raking in coin by solstice.” He scribbled furiously while speaking, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. “Elara, certified rune-healer, available for protective glyph work and arcane reinforcement. Inquire at the healer’s cottage or the inn. There. Oh! You’re also looking for herbs, yes?”

“I—well, yes, but—”

“No buts!” he said cheerfully. “Some of them pick up all sorts of strange things out there. Rare roots, cave mosses, dried flowers they think might be treasure. I’ll pin up a second note. Healer seeks uncommon plant materials and natural curiosities for study or trade. That sound good? Good.”

Before I could respond, the second note was written, folded, stamped with the guild's seal, and pinned beside the first with a little green tack shaped like a beetle.

Porrin stepped back and beamed. “There. Your future prosperity, secured.”

I laughed despite myself. “Do you always move this fast?”

“If I slow down, I start thinking,” he said with mock solemnity. “And that way lies paperwork and naps.”

“Well… thank you,” I said sincerely. “Even if I didn’t entirely get a say in it.”

“That’s what friends are for,” he said brightly. “Now go on—get back to your day. I’ll let the others know about you when they wander in looking for someone to reattach a burned eyebrow.”

With that, he disappeared behind the counter again, already muttering about inventory numbers and misplaced lantern oil.

I stepped out into the lane, blinking in the sunlight. The wind carried a faint scent of loamy earth and woodsmoke, and a single crisp leaf tumbled past my boot.

One more stop done.

One more part of the village that felt a little more like mine.

By the time I made it back to the inn, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting golden bars of light across the cobblestones. My feet ached faintly, and the chill in the air was starting to bite, even through my cloak. The door creaked open to reveal the warm, familiar scent of roasting vegetables, baking bread, and hearth smoke.

The common room was quieter than the day before. A few patrons lingered over mugs and early meals, and the fire snapped comfortably in the hearth. I slipped inside and made my way to an empty table by the window, tugging my cloak loose as I sat.

Mira, the innkeeper, appeared before I could even get my satchel unbuckled.

“Late lunch?” she asked with a smile.

“Very late,” I admitted, returning it. “It’s been a day.”

She nodded knowingly and bustled off, returning not long after with a wooden tray. A bowl of thick vegetable stew, a wedge of sharp cheese, and a warm slice of herb bread that smelled like rosemary and chive.

“On the house,” she said. “And thank you—for settling in. Word’s getting around.”

I flushed a little, dipping my head. “Thank you, Mira.”

Once she’d returned to the bar, I pulled out my worn journal and a stub of charcoal, setting them beside my bowl. The first bite of stew was rich and comforting, and I exhaled as the warmth began to ease the tension from my shoulders.

Between spoonfuls, I wrote.

Journal Entry – Midafternoon, Deeproot Hollow

Rounds went well.

The baker welcomed me kindly. The seamstress is practical and clever—I bartered rune work for winter clothes. The general store owners offered wood in exchange for a refresh of their cellar wards, and the blacksmith, Bren, was loud and delightful. Wants heat retention glyphs tomorrow.

I caught a glimpse of Bitty again, but she vanished before I could reach her.

The Adventurers’ Guild outpost was the most surprising—Porrin the gnome has already pinned notices up for me offering rune services and herb trades. I didn’t even get to say yes. But maybe that’s what I needed.

Everyone seems to expect I’ll stay. I haven’t told them otherwise.

Tonight, I’ll sit in the common room and be available. It feels like a test—but maybe one I can pass.

I paused, staring down at the final sentence, charcoal still in hand. I didn’t cross it out.

Instead, I added a small flourish beside it—a habit I’d picked up from Naerel’s notes. A leaf curl. A mark of change.

Then I closed the journal and leaned back, cradling my stew bowl in both hands. The fire crackled nearby. Somewhere outside, the breeze rustled the last of the autumn leaves.

Even if I didn’t quite feel like it yet, I was becoming a part of this place. One step at a time.

By the time the sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long lavender shadows over the village, the inn’s common room had begun to fill with the warm murmur of voices and clinking mugs. The hearth blazed, its fire crackling as more patrons filtered in, brushing off the early evening chill.

I sat in a corner near the window with a small cloth-bound notebook open in front of me and my satchel tucked discreetly at my side. I’d set out a little wooden sign Porrin had scrawled for me: Healer available for consultation — No fee, just come say hello.

At first, no one came. But then a weathered farmer with a creaky hip eased down onto the bench across from me and tugged off his gloves.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for joints that hate the cold?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

I did.

From my satchel, I pulled out a small tin of warming salve—one I’d checked just yesterday in the cottage. I popped the lid and let him catch the scent: spiced clove, wild ginger, and a faint resinous note from pine sap.

“This should help ease the stiffness,” I said, handing it over. “Just a dab before bed, and again in the morning if it’s particularly bad.”

“Bless you,” he said, tucking it carefully away. “Name’s Harven. Good to meet you, miss Elara.”

After Harven came two older women who wanted something for chapped skin. Then a mother with a curious toddler who tugged on my sleeve and asked if I made “magic tea.” I offered a mild brew with dried calendula and a touch of honeyroot for the little one’s dry cough, along with a second tin for the mother to steep at home.

Each person left with a small remedy, a promise of more to come, and a warm thank-you. I began jotting notes in my book:

* More joint salve (ginger, pine sap, clove)

* Skin balm, calendula base

* Honeyroot tea blend

* Consider starting elderberry tincture soon

By the time the room began to quiet, the satchel was lighter, and my notebook had grown heavier with plans.

But what surprised me most wasn’t the list—it was the way they lingered.

Few of them left right away. Most stayed, perched on benches and hearth-stools nearby, exchanging stories. Several asked me about where I’d trained, what my favorite herbs were, whether I’d ever treated a griffin bite (I had not). One older dwarf asked how I kept my curls from frizzing in the mist. I hadn’t realized how many people just wanted to know me.

It was strange. Not bad. Just... different. I wasn’t used to being the center of the room.

I fidgeted with my teacup, unsure how to deflect the gentle interest without seeming unkind.

That’s when Bitty appeared.

She swept into the room with her usual rustle of shawls and sly amusement, leaning on her cane as if she’d just happened to wander in.

“There you are,” she said, voice loud enough to carry but not loud enough to embarrass. “Running you like a pack mule already, are they?”

I laughed softly, grateful. “They’ve been very kind.”

“Well, they’d better be. It’s not every day we get someone with proper salve in their satchel and the good sense not to charge for a look at a knee.” She gave a nod to the room, then fixed me with that familiar glint in her eye. “But it’s time for you to go home. No good healer burns herself out on day one.”

I didn’t argue. I stood, packed my things, and offered a polite wave to the remaining villagers. Several called out goodnights, and one of the older women promised to stop by tomorrow with a pie “just to be neighborly.”

As we stepped outside, the air had grown crisp and the stars were just beginning to shimmer over the edge of the forest. The walk back to the cottage was quiet—Bitty didn’t say much, and I was glad for that. My thoughts were still full of faces and names, salves and teas, conversations and kind gestures.

When I reached the front steps, she finally spoke again.

“You did good, girl.”

I smiled, tired and warm all the same. “Thank you.”

“Rest now. Tomorrow’ll be waiting.”

With that, she disappeared into the night, leaving me to unlock the cottage door and step into the quiet scent of herbs, wood, and home.

The cottage was quiet when I returned, save for the soft crackle of coals banked in the hearth. I lit a lantern with a touch of magic and set it near the table, shrugging off my cloak and hanging it by the door. My satchel went next to the stillroom shelves to be restocked tomorrow.

The weight of the day caught up to me all at once. I yawned, rubbing the back of my neck as I climbed the narrow steps to the loft.

The bed was warm under its pile of quilts, and I sank into it with a grateful sigh. For a long moment, I just lay still, letting the quiet wrap around me like another blanket.

But sleep didn’t quite come—not yet.

I reached for my journal and the stub of charcoal on the bedside table. The lantern still glowed softly on the lower level, its light just enough to write by.

📓 JOURNAL ENTRY — LATE EVENING, DEEPROOT HOLLOW

First walkabout complete. The village is healthy, mostly—stiff joints, dry skin, general wear and tear of a hardworking place. Kind people. Curious, but not overbearing. Bitty rescued me. Again. Need to plan ahead now. There’s only a few weeks left before the first snow. I should harvest:

* Willow bark (joint salves and pain relieving tea)

* Late lavender (calming tinctures)

* Rosehips and elderberries (immunity)

* Any remaining calendula

* Check for coldroot or frostmoss on the forest edge

* Will also need to prep:

* Infused oils

* Emergency poultices

* Tea blends

If I stay organized, I can be ready. I have to be ready. This place is counting on me—even if I’m still not sure I’m meant to be the one they count on.

I paused, tapping the charcoal lightly on the page.

Then, without quite meaning to, I added a small note in the margin beside the harvest list:

Ask Porrin if adventurers have seen frostmoss in any local ruins.

With that, I closed the journal, tucked it beneath my pillow, and blew out the bedside candle.

Outside, the night wind whispered through the trees, rustling the last of the autumn leaves.

And for the first time in a long while, I let myself believe that I was exactly where I needed to be.