Chapter 2
Talla awoke with a groan that rattled through her bones like rocks in a box.
Every joint in her body popped as she shifted under the quilts, a symphony of protests from shoulders to knees that reminded her of the years piling up.
Her muscles ached with the kind of deep fatigue that came from too many long days, and her spine creaked with every tiny motion, as if the cold had seeped in overnight and stiffened everything it touched.
She lay there for a heartbeat, staring at the rough beams of her ceiling, the temptation of more sleep whispering like a sly friend.
The bed was warm, the blankets heavy with the scent of wool and smoke from the shuttered fire.
But she knew better than to listen.
Sleep was a thief in winter, stealing hours she needed for the village.
With a sigh that fogged the chilly air, she swung her legs over the side and planted her feet on the freezing wooden floorboards.
The shock of cold shot up her legs, chasing away the last remnants of drowsiness. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the grit of sleep, and pushed herself up, the mattress sagging behind her.
It was early, and the world still clung to darkness.
But Talla dressed with the quick, practiced movements of someone who had done this ritual for decades.
She pulled on her heavy skirt, the fabric thick and rough against her skin, layered with patches from years of mending.
Then came the woolen shawls, wrapped tight around her shoulders and chest to trap what warmth she could.
No time for the mirror hanging on the wall, its surface dulled by dust and age.
She knew it would show bags under her eyes like shadowed valleys, lips cracked from the biting wind, and gray hair streaked with white that seemed to spread a little more each month.
Vanity could wait for a day when the sun shone brighter, and the work was lighter.
Right now, the village needed her, and Talla had never been one to turn her back on it.
Work was her anchor, the thing that kept her from drifting into the emptiness that had threatened to swallow her since her late husband had passed. It gave her purpose, a way to fill the quiet hours with something meaningful. Without it, she feared she would crumble like old bread left in the rain.
She snatched her lantern from the hook by the door, the handle cold enough to sting her palm, and stepped out into the frost-covered lane behind her house.
Wyrnhollow lay wrapped in stillness, the ground sparkling under a thin layer of ice that crunched beneath her boots with each step.
The chilly morning air nipped at her cheeks, turning them red, and she pulled her shawl higher, her breath puffing out in white clouds that lingered like ghosts.
Even the crows, usually the first to complain about the dawn with their harsh calls, had yet to stir from their roosts in the bare trees.
The village felt suspended, as if time had paused to catch its breath before the day began in earnest.
Talla savored these moments, the quiet before the chaos, when she could hear her own thoughts without the clamor of voices pulling her in every direction.
The air smelled of wood smoke from dying fires and the sharp tang of frost, a familiar scent that grounded her.
She remembered mornings like this from her youth, when the world seemed full of promise, before loss had carved its marks.
Talla made her way to the well, her steps measured to avoid the slick patches where water had frozen overnight into treacherous sheets.
The pump handle was slick with ice, and she had to wrap her sleeve around it to get a proper grip, the fabric sticking slightly as she worked the lever.
Water sloshed into the bucket with a metallic ring that echoed in the silence, cold droplets splashing onto her hands and making her fingers tingle.
She lugged it over to Margaret’s door, setting it down with a thud that seemed too loud in the quiet morning.
Margaret’s husband had passed last winter from a cough that refused to loosen its grip, and the widow struggled with heavy lifting these days, her back bent from years of toil.
It was a small thing, filling the bucket, but small things added up in a place like Wyrnhollow, where winter bit deep and resources were thin.
Margaret would wake to find it there, and that would ease her morning just a bit.
Talla thought of her own mornings after her husband died, how minor acts of kindness from neighbors had kept her from breaking completely.
Next came the bakery steps, crusted with yesterday’s mud and scattered leaves that had frozen in place overnight.
Talla swept them clean with brisk strokes, the broom whispering against the wood, sending little clouds of dust and frost into the air.
The motion warmed her arms, but her back twinged with each swing, a reminder of the toll the years took.
She took a moment to stretch, feeling the pull in her muscles, and continued.
The crate outside the apothecary had toppled in the wind again, the contents of jars filled with dried herbs and empty vials spilled across the path.
She righted it carefully, stacking the items back inside with a clink of glass, making sure nothing had broken, the scents of lavender and mint wafting up as she handled them, a brief reminder of warmer seasons.
Then to the Flask, where she gathered eggs from the coop behind the building, the hens clucking sleepily as she reached into their nests, her fingers brushing warm feathers.
The eggs were small this time of year, but still precious, their shells smooth and cool in her palm, promising breakfast for those who could afford it.
It was the same routine every day, a mental list she ticked off like beads on a string, each task a small victory against the chaos of life.
It gave her fulfillment of structure and purpose.
She liked this work, as it let her see the gratitude in people’s eyes when they woke to find their burdens lightened just a touch.
She knew that some others in the village felt much the same.
This morning, Hemla had offered to handle the bread baking in the bakery, a kindness Talla appreciated more than she let on.
Hemla was young, full of energy, and her loaves always came out fluffier than Talla’s these days, with a crust that cracked just right, the smell wafting through the village like a promise.
As she headed for the temple, Talla added a few more tasks to her list.
The Forgotten Quarter always needed something.
This week, with a cracked wall patched with thatch from the mill, empty bellies filled with whatever crusts she could spare from the bakery, children watched while parents scraped by on odd jobs or begging.
She often wondered what would become of those folks without the quiet help she and Theron provided.
He with his hunts, bringing in game when the traps came up empty, or the fields yielded nothing but weeds, she with her steady hands and endless list of chores that kept the place from falling into complete disrepair.
They made a good pair in that way, even if neither would admit it out loud.
Theron was a mystery, always had been, showing up one day with nothing but his bow, a small pack, and a quiet demeanor, but his contributions kept the quarter from falling apart completely.
Without him, the winters would be harsher, the bellies emptier, the hope thinner.
She thought of the children there, their faces dirty but eyes bright, and felt a surge of determination to keep going.
The open temple courtyard felt colder than the rest of the village, the wind funneling through the buildings and scraping against her skin like icy fingers, sending shivers down her spine that she shook off with a grunt.
She gripped the broom tighter, her knuckles whitening from the effort, and swept the stone path leading to the doors of the temple with careful strokes, pausing now and then to press a hand to her aching back, feeling the knots twist under her palm like stubborn roots.
The cold seeped through her layers, making her fingers numb and her breath short, but she pushed on, the repetitive motion warming her from the inside out, her breath coming in steady puffs that mingled with the frost.
All temple grounds were sacred, or so the old stories said, but to Talla they were just another place that needed tending, the stones worn smooth from generations of feet.
Inside, the temple was empty and quiet, the air thick with the scent of old incense and dust that hung like a veil, stirring slightly as she entered.
She pushed against the heavy doors, the hinges groaning in a creak she had once found unappealing but now took as a comforting greeting, like an old friend grumbling at being woken.
At the altar, she lit a candle, the flame flickering to life and casting long shadows across the worn stone, illuminating the faded carvings of the six gods long silent, their faces weathered by time and neglect.
Then she moved to the hearth, her hands shaking slightly from the cold as she raked the embers, coaxing them back to flame with patient breaths, the glow growing until it pushed back the chill and filled the room with a soft warmth that chased away the shadows in the corners.
Only after she had hung the kettle over the flames, the metal clanging softly against the hook, did worry for Theron creep in.
She had not seen him for almost three days now, which was unusual.
There was no fresh meat delivered to the Forgotten Quarter, no smoke curling from his chimney in the mornings, no quiet nod from across the square when their paths crossed.
A quiet concern settled into her chest, heavy as a stone, making her pause with the kettle still in hand.
He was not the type to vanish without reason, but something felt off, like the village had lost a piece of itself, a steady presence that kept things balanced.
She thought of the times he had shown up with a deer slung over his shoulder, or a brace of rabbits, sharing without asking for thanks, his eyes distant but kind.
The Forgotten Quarter relied on him, and so did she, in her own way.
After finishing her work in the temple, she packed her tools away in the small sack she carried and let her feet carry her to his home.
The village was just beginning to stir, the sun peeking over the rooftops and melting the frost in patches, turning the ground to slush that sucked at her boots.
Shutters groaned open on rusty hinges, dogs nosed about in the thawing mud, sniffing for scraps or chasing shadows, their barks echoing.
A mother called after her child, who darted across the lane with laughter trailing behind, the sound bright and innocent in the morning air.
The square was mostly empty, save for an old man stacking firewood outside the Flask, his breaths coming in puffs as he worked, his gloves worn thin from use.
He offered her a cheery nod as she passed, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, a small warmth in the cold.
She returned it with a tight smile but did not stop, her steps quickening with growing unease, the sack slung over her shoulder bumping against her hip with each stride, the tools inside clinking softly.
Arriving at Theron’s door, Talla tried to peer through the window, but frost coated the glass like a veil, blurring everything inside to vague shapes that gave no clues.
She moved to the door and knocked, the sound sharp in the morning quiet, echoing off the temple wall nearby.
No answer.
She knocked twice more, louder this time, her knuckles stinging from the cold wood.
Still nothing, just the faint rustle of wind in the eaves, carrying the scent of wood smoke from distant chimneys.
She pressed her ear to the wood and caught a quiet sound from within. Listening closer, it was impossible to mistake the muffled sob, the wet gasp, and the words she could not quite make out, slurred and broken. Her heart sped up, pounding in her ears like a drum, a rush of fear making her hands tremble as she gripped the latch.
“Theron,” she called through the door. “It’s Talla. Open up.”
The sounds ceased. Silence filled the space beyond, heavy and strange, like the air before a storm breaks, charged with unspoken trouble.
She tried the latch. It was stiff, resisting at first from the frost that rimmed the metal, but gave way with a protest of metal on metal. That was odd. Theron was careful about his door. He had once told her he always kept it locked, a habit from his wandering days, when trust was a luxury he could not afford, his voice low as he shared that rare glimpse of himself.
The room inside was a mess, chaos frozen in time. His bow and coat lay crumpled on the floor near the door, as if thrown there in haste or delirium. The table was flipped upside down, its legs sticking up like the limbs of a dead animal, a chair knocked over beside it. His battered trunk stood open with its contents spilled across the floor. The air smelled of damp wool and sweat, thick and cloying, with an undercurrent of something sharper, like fear or despair, making her nose wrinkle.
Theron lay on his side, curled over and shivering under a heavy blanket that did little to hide his trembling, his body wracked with shakes that made his sleeping cot creak. He faced the wall and did not seem to notice her entering, his body locked in its own world of pain, oblivious to the world around him. She crossed the room in quick strides, the floorboards creaking under her weight, knelt by his side, and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch, opening his eyes wide, the whites red and veined like cracked marble, staring at nothing.
“Theron,” she hissed, her voice low but urgent. “What’s happened? Talk to me. Look at me.”
His skin was slick with sweat, gleaming in the dim light filtering through the window, and he was unshaven, stubble dark against his pale face like shadows on snow. His eyes stared red and uncomprehending as his lips moved but no sound came out, just a faint wheeze that sent a chill down her spine. Reaching out tentatively, she touched his brow. He was burning up, heat radiating from him like a forge, waves of it making her pull back for a second, her hand tingling from the contact. Talla had never seen Theron sick. Ever. He was always the one out in the cold, bringing back game when others huddled by fires, his strength a constant in the village, a rock she could lean on without asking. To see him like this, broken and vulnerable, shook her to her core.
She scanned the rest of him but saw no obvious wounds, although his hands were a mess. Raw, red, and split, one knuckle crusted with blood as if he had punched a wall or clawed at something in delirium, the skin broken and angry, weeping clear fluid. He muttered something again, just a thread of sound, barely audible over the wind outside, and she leaned close to listen, her ear nearly brushing his lips, her breath held in anticipation.
Miserably, he whispered, “…it came back… it all came back…” He sounded like a man who would die from heartbreak alone, the words laced with a sorrow that cut through her, stirring her own buried pains from losses long past. She gently touched his face, wiping away the sweat with her sleeve, the fabric coming away damp and warm, clinging to her skin. Her eyes spotted the water barrel in the corner, half-frozen with a skim of ice that glittered in the light, and she hurried over, chipping through the ice with her knife, the blade scraping against the surface with a grating sound that set her teeth on edge. She dipped the ladle and returned with it trembling in her hand, water sloshing over the sides onto the floor in small puddles.
“Here,” she whispered, lifting it to his lips. But he would not drink. His mouth stayed slack, his head unmoving, eyes unfocused on some distant point only he could see. The water trembled, untouched, reflecting the dim light from the window like a mirror to his suffering, her own face staring back at her, lined with worry.
Talla exhaled, noticing how her breath fogged in the freezing air. The room was colder than a tomb, with the chill seeping through the walls and floor, making her shiver uncontrollably. She stood, gathered kindling from the pile by the hearth, her fingers numb as she arranged it in the grate, and got a small fire going to heat the little space. Flames licked up, casting flickering shadows on the walls that danced like ghosts, the warmth slowly spreading through the room. Then she grabbed an overturned bucket, filled it with more water from the barrel, breaking more ice with her knife, and set it on the ground beside the cot, ready for use when needed.
“Don’t you dare die on me, you stubborn bastard,” she whispered, her voice cracking a little as she rushed to grab a rag she found by the fireplace. It was clean enough, so she dunked it into the icy water and wrung it out, droplets splashing onto the floor with soft plops that echoed in the quiet.
She perched gingerly on the cot’s edge, the frame creaking under her weight, then dunked the rag again. With slow, even strokes, she patted it back and forth across his face, from brow to neck and back again. As if the tempo alone would lure him back from whatever edge he teetered on, pulling him from the brink with persistence and care.
For a moment, the village outside disappeared. The only sounds were the man’s ragged breathing and the soft swishing of water as she worked, the rag dripping steadily onto the floor. Dipping the rag again, Talla felt a flood of memories rush in, unbidden, sharp as knives. This was not the first time she had sat like this, tending to someone slipping away. Her husband, years ago, his body wasting from the cough that took him too soon, his hand weak in hers as he faded, his last words a murmur of love that she still heard in quiet moments like this, echoing in her mind. The children she had nursed through fevers, some who made it with her care, others who did not, their small faces pale and trusting, their loss a hole in her heart that never fully healed. Gods, but she missed them all. The pain of it twisted in her gut, but she pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand, the repetitive motion grounding her in the present, keeping the ghosts at bay.
By mid-morning, Talla was beginning to panic. The fever burned brighter, soaking through Theron’s heavy blanket and glazing his face with sweat that beaded like dew on a fevered leaf. She continued with the rag and water, wiping and dabbing, but these last few hours had her shaking almost as badly as he was, blind fear buzzing just under her skin like angry bees, making her hands unsteady, her mind racing with worst cases, images of him slipping away forever.
She could not take it any longer. She hated sitting and watching a person waste away, the powerlessness gnawing at her like a hungry rat in the dark.
“Theron.” Her voice sharpened as she leaned closer, her face inches from his, smelling the sweat and sickness. “If you can understand me, I’m leaving for a while. You need a healer.”
He did not reply, but just continued to moan, his eyes moving rapidly underneath lids as if he chased nightmares in his sleep, his body twitching occasionally as if fighting invisible foes, sweat flying from his brow.
She yanked open the door and burst out into the lane, boots splashing through the morning slush, breath tight in her chest like a vice, her mind racing with urgency. The cold air slapped her face, waking her fully, but her thoughts were already at the healer’s house, urging her forward through the village paths.
The healer lived on the outskirts of the village, just past the carpenter’s house, in a small cottage with herbs drying from the eaves like hanging talismans against illness. Talla took the shortcut between the two houses, her feet pounding the ground in a rhythm of urgency, the slush splashing up her skirts. She almost tripped over a half-frozen pile of firewood hidden under a thin layer of snow. Catching herself and cursing under her breath, her hand scraped against the rough bark, drawing a ragged line of blood that she ignored. She smacked her fist down on the healer’s door until it rattled on its hinges, the sound echoing through the quiet morning and startling a dog nearby into barking, the animal’s yaps adding to the urgency.
It took a few seconds before the familiar shape materialized in the window, a shadow moving behind the glass with purpose. Amma had a wide face and silver hair cut short, practical for her work, easy to keep out of the way during examinations or mixing potions. Her eyes were usually appraising, seeming always to be sizing up your insides, measuring what ailed you before you even spoke, a skill honed from years of practice on the stubborn folk of Wyrnhollow and beyond. The healer opened up, already wearing the white linen robe she wore for emergencies, as if she had sensed trouble coming, her expression set in determination, ready for whatever came her way.
“Talla?” she asked, her voice quiet but edged with readiness, stepping out onto the threshold, the cold not seeming to bother her as she pulled the door wider.
“Amma, it’s the hunter. He’s dying,” Talla gasped, words tumbling out in a rush, her breath visible in the air like smoke. “He’s burning up and can barely speak. You have to come, now. Please, he’s not responding to me.”
Amma did not argue or question, her face hardening into focus like a blade being drawn from its sheath. She was already turning back inside her house, fishing a woven satchel from a wall hook and stuffing it full of whatever she could grab. Bundles of dried leaves crinkled as they went in, a small knife glinted in the light from the open door, a roll of clean linen followed, and two clay flasks stoppered with wax clinked together. Her movements were swift, practiced, like a soldier gearing for battle, no motion wasted, her hands steady.
Talla grabbed her by the sleeve and hauled her out into the street, the urgency making her grip tight, her nails digging in slightly through the fabric. She nearly toppled the older woman, but Amma just grunted and fell in beside her, boots crunching through the frozen mud, heading for Theron’s hut at a brisk pace that belied her age, her robe flapping in the wind like a banner of hope.
“What else?” The healer asked, falling naturally into the cadence of triage as they walked, her breath steady despite the hurry, her eyes forward. “Any wounds? Any signs of poison or bites from the woods? Tell me everything you know, every detail.”
“No,” Talla said. “Just from scraping his knuckles on a wall or something. He’s just… he’s not there, not really. Like something broke in him, inside, deeper than the body. He mutters things I don’t understand, in a language I’ve never heard, but it sounds old, like from the stories.”
The healer made a low noise, a sound that could have been sympathy but might have been annoyance at the vagueness of the description, her mind already turning over possibilities. “Could be chill fever, could be something else he picked up in the woods, some spore or bite he didn’t notice, or a curse from the old ruins. Or he’s finally run out of luck. Men like him push too hard, too long, thinking they’re invincible, until the body gives out.”
Talla did not care for Amma’s bedside manner. It was brisk, blunt, and about as soothing as a sharp rock under your bare foot, cutting straight to the truth without cushion or kindness. But she could not fault the woman’s competence. For leagues in every direction, there was no one better at pulling people back from the brink, her hands steady where others trembled, her knowledge deep as the roots of the old trees that dotted the landscape.
They tore through the square, past a pair of children kicking a bundled-cloth ball in the slush, their laughter cutting through the air like a bright note in the gloom. The game was immediately abandoned as Talla and the white-robed healer whirled past, the children’s wide eyes following them with curiosity and caution.
At Theron’s open door, Talla paused, caught her breath, the cold burning in her lungs like fire from the run, and motioned Amma inside with a wave of her hand, her arm trembling from the effort.
The atmosphere of the room changed as Amma entered. Quieter, heavier, like it knew to stop breathing in the presence of someone who wrestled with death daily, the air thickened with anticipation and purpose. She did not speak but set her bag on the floor with a thud that echoed, rolled up her sleeves to her elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle from years of labor, and got to work. She did not even spare a glance at the overturned trunk or the sour smell of sweat and fear that hung in the air, thick as fog, her focus solely on the man before her. Her hands moved to his wrist, steady and sure, fingers pressing down with practiced pressure. Her thumb bore down hard and unrelenting. She closed her eyes and searched for the pulse, her face a mask of concentration, brows furrowed deep, listening to the body’s secrets as if they whispered to her alone.
“It’s slow, soft, and barely there,” Amma said, answering Talla’s silent question that hung in the air like smoke from the fire. After a long moment, she exhaled and released his wrist, letting it drop back onto the cot with a soft thud that seemed loud in the quiet, her expression grim.
“Fever’s deep in him,” she said. Her gaze flicked to Talla’s, the look half challenge, half command, as if testing her resolve to see this through to the end. “Did he have chills before this started? Shaking, teeth chattering, anything like that? Tell me if he complained of pain or weakness.”
“I don’t know,” Talla admitted. Her voice was barely a whisper, the weight of ignorance heavy on her, making her feel small and useless. “I haven’t seen him for days. He… he’s not the type to ask for help, always keeping to himself, always out there.” She gestured towards the forest.
“Most men are not,” Amma replied, her tone matter-of-fact, as if it were a truth she had learned the hard way through countless patients. She reached into her satchel and withdrew a tightly bound strip of linen. It was already damp and cool from whatever she had packed inside, the scent of herbs wafting up, sharp and medicinal, cutting through the sickness in the air. She applied it to Theron’s brow, pressing it down firmly, her fingers lingering to feel the heat pulsing beneath, gauging its strength. Then she pulled out and unstoppered one of her clay flasks. It smelled sharply of some kind of pungent herb with a tang of something bitter and metallic, like copper mixed with willow bark, a scent that filled the room and made Talla’s nose wrinkle.
“This is water with some other medicinal components. Give him a few mouthfuls of this every hour,” she instructed, her voice firm and leaving no room for argument or doubt. “If he vomits, wait a few minutes and try again. Keep his chest covered and legs wrapped up tight to hold the heat in, draw the fever out slowly, give his body time to fight.”
Amma studied her up and down, as if trying to decide if Talla was up to the task, her eyes narrowing slightly in assessment, taking in the weariness in her posture. Apparently satisfied, she said, “Medicine and broth only. Strong as he is, he’ll need it to fight this off. Harl’s soup tonight at the Flask. Go get a pint of it and keep it warm. Feed it to him slow, let it settle in his stomach.”
She stood, rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension from the examination, and regarded Theron with a kind of professional pity, like he was a puzzle she had seen too many times but still hoped to solve one last time. “He’s a hard one, but even stone can crack with a fever like this. Keep him still, no matter what he says or does.”
Nodding solemnly, Talla watched as Amma packed her satchel with efficient movements, then set both flasks on the edge of the table with a clink that echoed in the small space. “Don’t let him get up, even if he begs. This will pass, or it will not. Only thing we can do is try to keep the fever from burning him out from the inside and give his body a chance to heal itself.”
Talla tucked the words away like precious tools, already plotting her next moves. Firewood to gather, broth to fetch, more water to boil. She could handle that, had handled worse in her time, though the fear lingered like a shadow.
Amma paused at the door, glancing at the fireplace where the flames danced low, casting long shadows that shifted like living things on the walls. Then she added, “You’ll need more firewood by nightfall. And get some rest yourself, or you’ll be no good to him or anyone else in the village. You already look ready to drop, matron.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Talla promised, her voice steadier than she felt, determination settling in like an old habit she could not break.
The healer tugged the hood of her white robe close against the wind and stepped out, melting into the cold like a ghost vanishing into mist, her footsteps fading quickly as she walked away.
With only Theron’s harsh, shallow breathing for company, she walked over to him and wrapped his legs tighter in his blanket, tucking the edges in to trap the heat, her fingers brushing his skin, still warm but less scorching. The room had gone colder with the loss of Amma’s comforting expertise, the air biting at her exposed skin like tiny teeth. She wrapped another blanket over his legs, fixed the damp cloth to his forehead, feeling the heat lessen just a bit under her touch, and stared at the flasks, their clay surfaces beaded with moisture from the cold, promising help. She prayed that whatever was in them would work, that the bitter tang would pull him back, her hands clasping together for a moment in silent supplication to the gods she sometimes doubted.
She grasped one flask and removed the stopper, the cork popping softly in the quiet room. Bending over Theron’s face, she whispered, “Come on, you Jac-damned fool. Swallow this.”
She dribbled a little onto his lips, watching closely as the liquid pooled, her heart pounding. At first he choked and almost spat it back, the liquid running down his chin in rivulets, making her heart skip a beat. But then his jaw twitched, and he swallowed, just enough to give Talla a spark of hope that flickered like the fire in the hearth, warming her inside.
She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the fabric rough against her neck from years of washings, and prepared the next dose in a small cup, measuring it carefully with her eye, the liquid dark and swirling like a storm. There was work to be done, and she was never one to shirk her work. But as she sat there, spooning the medicine into him when he stirred, she felt the weight of the day pressing down, her own body aching from the strain, her mind wandering to her tasks left undone in the village, the people who might need her while she was here.
The afternoon dragged on, with the light shifting through the frosted window as she tended to him, the sun climbing and then dipping, casting long shadows across the floor that stretched like fingers reaching for him. She kept the fire fed, adding logs when the flames dipped low. The crackle of wood was a steady companion in the otherwise silent room, the heat building until sweat beaded on her own brow from the effort. Theron muttered in his sleep, words in that strange language again, fragments that sounded like pleas or curses, rising and falling with his breaths, making her wonder about the lands he had come from, the life he had led before Wyrnhollow. The village knew him as the hunter, the quiet man who provided for them, but she had always sensed there was more, layers he kept hidden like scars under clothing, stories he buried to avoid the pain of recalling them.
By evening, her back screamed from the chair, the hard wood digging into her spine like a dull knife, but she pushed on, refusing to leave him alone in his struggle. The storm outside picked up, wind howling like a beast at the door, rattling the shutters and sending drafts through the cracks that made the fire flicker and dance. She knew she needed the broth Amma had mentioned, the warmth and nourishment to help him fight, to give him strength against the fever. With one last check of the blankets, making sure he was covered against the cold that seeped in, she stood and headed out, the cold greeting her like an old enemy as she stepped into the night, the wind tugging at her shawl.