Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Willowmere
Where No One Suffers Alone
The brew had steeped long enough.
Bria lifted the small pot from the low flame and poured it carefully into a waiting cup, watching the thin curl of steam rise before her. The scent of familiar herbs filled the small space of her cottage, providing a moment of calm, though unease still lingered.
It had been three days since she had returned from the forest. Three days since the incident with the creature.
Her hands remained steady as she set the pot aside, though her thoughts did not follow so easily. The memory lingered with a clarity she could not dull—the size of it, the sound it had made, and the way it had stood before her, close enough that she had felt its breath.
And yet… it had turned away.
Bria wrapped her hands around the cup, drawing in its warmth as though it might settle what still moved uneasily within her.
The village had not returned to what it had been, not fully.
Life continued, as it must, but something had changed, something she felt in the quieter moments and saw in the way people carried themselves.
They spoke less, listened more, and no one went into the forest alone.
She had heard it said more than once over the past days, sometimes quietly, sometimes with forced confidence that fooled no one. The paths remained, the work still needed doing, but the trust that had once guided every step beyond the village had been shaken.
And still, she had said nothing of what she had seen.
The thought pressed at her again, as it had since the incident. Was keeping silent the right thing to do? She told herself there was no sense in stirring more fear, not when there was already enough to trouble every mind in Willowmere. But was that simply an excuse?
Bria lifted the cup and took a small sip, then set it aside unfinished.
Work waited. It always did. Besides, it would help ease the guilt that lingered for remaining silent.
She drew her wool cloak about her shoulders, then with a quick slip of her hand freed her long, warm brown hair from beneath it. The wavy strands fell to the middle of her back, and she thought to braid it quickly. But the braid would never hold, the strands too stubborn to stay put.
She grabbed a thin strip of cloth and tucked it in the pocket of her skirt in case she needed it, then stepped outside.
The morning air greeted her with a chill that lingered longer than it once had, the early light still soft as it stretched across the village. Smoke rose from chimneys, and for a moment, everything might have seemed as it always was.
Then the voices reached her. They weren’t loud, nor raised in alarm, but gathered.
Bria turned her head slightly, her attention drawn to a small cluster of villagers not far along the path. They stood close together, their conversation low, though not quiet enough to escape her notice as she moved nearer.
“…came in just a short while ago,” one said.
“Aye, I saw him myself,” another answered. “Wounded, though not nearly as bad as the Hunter had been. Still, he looked like a man who had seen more than he wished.”
“From the forest?” a third asked.
“Where else would he come from?” came the reply. “And alone, at that.”
“A seeker or wanderer, no doubt,” another commented.
“Nay, one look was enough to see he’s a warrior,” someone argued.
“Or a mercenary, careless souls that they are,” one said.
A murmur followed, unease passing between them.
“You think he might have crossed its path?” someone asked.
“If it did, he wouldn’t be here to tell about it,” another said and they all nodded, agreeing.
Bria slowed, her gaze shifting briefly toward them before she continued on.
Whatever had brought the man to Willowmere, it would not remain rumor for long. The healer tending him would find out what happened to him.
“Bria!”
The call came sharp enough to turn her at once.
Old Brenn, a bone keeper, made his way toward her, his stride purposeful despite the years that marked him. His weathered face was set, the usual calm he carried replaced with something more urgent.
“You are needed,” he said without preamble. “At the main healing cottage.”
Bria did not question him. She nodded and turned at once, falling into step beside him as he led the way.
It didn’t take long to reach the main healing cottage. Bria followed Brenn inside and paused only a few steps in.
The space stretched wider than any dwelling in Willowmere, two cottages joined as one.
Along one side, beds had been arranged in careful order, each set apart enough to allow for those who required constant tending—those too ill to rise or too wounded to be moved.
The scent of herbs lingered in the air, sharp and familiar, mingling with the steady warmth of the hearth.
Hannah, a fever tender, stood near it, her attention fixed on what she was brewing in the small pot suspended over the flames.
Across the room, Arella and Leya, both menders, stood together, their backs turned to her as they focused on the man seated at the long wooden table.
Then they parted, revealing the wounded man.
Bria had expected to find him in one of the beds.
Instead, he sat upright, as though refusing the need for one.
The moment she saw him, she stilled.
He was stripped to the waist, his broad shoulders bare beneath the flickering light.
A deep gash cut across his right shoulder, the blood dark against his skin, though it had slowed enough to show the wound was sustained recently.
Muscle shifted beneath his skin as he held himself steady, his strength evident even in stillness.
But it was not the wound that held her gaze.
It was him.
His hair, thick and dark, skimmed his shoulders, touched faintly by the damp of either rain or sweat, she could not tell which.
It framed a face carved with sharp planes—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a brow that held a quiet intensity even as he sat in silence.
There was something in him that did not rest easily, something held tight and controlled.
Arella and Leya stood on either side of the man, their attention fixed on the wound.
“It is deep,” Leya said, studying the torn flesh with a careful eye. “Too wide to leave. It will need stitching.”
Arella gave a slight shake of her head. “The edges are not clean. Stitching might prove difficult. Searing might be a better choice.”
The man remained still as the two women debated how to tend to him. His jaw was set firm, and his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as though the pain was of little consequence.
Then, as if sensing Bria’s presence, his gaze landed on her, lingering on her face.
“You, healer,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the painful wound. “You have no opinion?”
Bria was caught off guard. No one had ever asked for her opinion. She quickly gathered her senses and said, “I am not a mender.”
“Bria is a comfort healer,” Arella said, not looking away from the wound. “Her touch will ease your pain.”
He stared at Bria as if making his own assessment of her, then said, “That will be welcomed.” He glanced between Arella and Leya. “Stitch it and be done.”
Arella gave a brief nod. “Then we begin at once.” She glanced at Bria. “Come. Lay your hand on him now, so he is eased before we start.”
Bria stepped forward.
She had done this countless times—offered calm, drawn pain away, steadied those who could not steady themselves.
There was no thought to it and never any hesitation. And yet… she paused.
Her gaze moved over him, taking him in now with purpose rather than passing notice.
The strength in him was undeniable, held in the tension of his muscles as he sat rigid and unmoving.
His skin was smooth, marked only by the occasional scar—faint lines that spoke of past battles endured and survived.
A warrior.
There was no mistaking that. But a warrior for whom?
The thought came unbidden, lingering just long enough to stir her curiosity before she set it aside. This was not the time for questions.
She stepped closer and reached out, placing her hand against his shoulder—away from the wound—her touch meant to steady, to soothe, to ease what pain she could before the work began.
It came without warning.
A sudden rush—sharp and consuming—nothing like the quiet easing she was used to giving.
Heat flared through her, swift and startling, stealing her breath for the briefest moment.
It was not pain, nor fear, nor anything she had ever known in another.
It was something else entirely. Something that made her hand falter, though she did not pull it away.
His gaze lifted to hers.
For an instant—no more—his dark eyes burned with fierce and unmistakable desire.
It flashed there, sudden and intense, and then it was gone. Gone so quickly she could not be certain it had been there at all.
His expression settled, controlled once more, as though nothing had passed between them.
But Bria felt it. Felt the echo of it still stirring through her, unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself, forcing her focus back where it belonged—to the wound.
“Keep him calm,” Arella said, already reaching for needle and thread. “We begin now.”
Bria kept both hands firm against his shoulder, her fingers lightly curved as she had done so many times before.
Only, it was not the same.
She drew in a slow breath, calling on the calm that had always come so easily to her. It was there—she could feel it—but it did not settle over her as it should. Instead, it wavered, as though something within him resisted being calmed.
She focused harder, letting her touch remain gentle but sure, offering what comfort she could.
The man did not flinch when the needle pierced his skin, not once.
Even as Arella worked, drawing the edges of the wound together with careful precision, he remained unnaturally still, his jaw tight, his breath measured.
Bria felt it—the pain.