Chapter 2 #2
She always did, but never like this, more a mere shadow.
But this? It brushed against her more sharply, more insistently, as though she could not place the same quiet distance between herself and another’s suffering.
It unsettled her, made her grip tighten just slightly before she forced herself to ease it again.
Calm, she reminded herself. Stay calm. And yet it took effort. More than it ever had before.
“You are troubled, healer.”
His voice came low, steady, carrying no accusation—only observation.
Bria blinked, caught off guard, her gaze meeting his.
“Nay,” she said softly, though she knew at once it was not entirely true.
His eyes held hers, searching—not with suspicion, but with a quiet awareness that made it difficult to look away.
“You do not find this difficult,” he said. “Not as you do now.”
It was not a question.
Bria hesitated, then shook her head faintly. “It is nothing. The wound is deep.”
“Aye,” he said, though his gaze did not leave her. “And yet it is not the wound that unsettles you.”
Before she could answer, he shifted slightly—not enough to hinder Arella’s work, but enough to keep her attention on him.
“What village is this?” he asked.
“Willowmere,” Bria said, grateful for the change in direction.
His gaze flickered, as though marking the name, committing it to memory. “Tell me about your village.”
Bria welcomed the question, letting it steady her.
“Willowmere lies in Leighfeld,” she said. “It is known for its healers. Many come from other villages to learn what they can, and all who seek aid are welcomed.”
Arella worked in quiet focus as Bria spoke, the soft pull of thread through flesh a steady rhythm beneath her words.
“We are not far from the shoreline,” Bria continued. “On clear days, Drogath can be seen across the Sea of Shadows.” She paused a moment, then added, “The village of Norham lies a short distance inland. They often send for guidance when illness proves difficult.”
Her hands remained at his shoulder, her touch calm, though it continued to take more effort now than ever before.
“Willowmere is…” She hesitated briefly, searching for the right words. “It is a place where people come seeking relief and often find more than they expected.”
A quiet settled between them, filled only by the low crackle of the hearth and the final careful movements of Arella’s stitching.
“A fortunate village,” he said again, more quietly this time.
Bria inclined her head, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than it should have. There was something in the way he listened—attentive, measuring—that stirred her curiosity.
“You are not from this region?” she asked.
His eyes shifted back to hers, that same steady awareness in them. “Nay.”
“Then where?” she asked gently, her curiosity growing.
A brief pause followed, as though he weighed his answer. “Farther north. I have not traveled this way before.”
“The Northland?” she asked. “Scotara does trade with it.”
His gaze sharpened just slightly. “Aye, it’s people weave exceptional cloth.”
“Much needed, since the land holds a harsh cold, or so I hear.”
A faint hint of something touched his expression then, but she couldn’t grasp it.
She studied him a moment longer, then asked, “Have you come from Caerith?”
“The king’s city?”
She nodded. “It is north from here.”
“I have never been there,” he said.
There was no hesitation in the answer. No sign of deception that she could see. Still… something in him remained guarded.
“Few who travel south avoid it entirely,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Then I am among the few.”
Arella let out a quiet breath. “That is the last of it,” she said, tying off the final stitch. “You have held well.”
Arella stepped back slightly, studying the work. “Keep it clean. Do not strain the shoulder, or you will undo what I have done.” Her eyes looked past him.
Bria’s glance followed, and she spotted a sword atop a bench, its handle etched with intricate designs.
He gave a short nod. “I will manage.”
Bria did not remove her hands, not yet.
She felt the wound ease beneath her touch, the sharp edge of pain dulled though not gone. It lingered still, and she held to her task, letting what calm she could gather settle over him.
It came easier now. Not as it once had—but easier than before.
“How did you come by this wound and when?” Arella asked.
“That need not concern you.”
Arella wasn’t deterred by his blunt response.
“Aye, it does. This wound did not come from the slice of a blade. It is too jagged as if torn—an animal attack. We have received news of an exceptionally large animal that hunts the forest. It has already mauled a Hunter to death, which tells us it is out for blood. Did such a creature attack you?”
“The animal who thought I would make a tasty feast will pose no threat to your village, nor to anyone ever again,” the man said.
This time Arella was blunt, something that came easily to her. “We only have your word on that.”
“Then it will have to do,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. Anger tensed his muscles beneath her hands, the memory of the incident no doubt disturbing him, and she let her calm soak into him.
“Then it is a good thing you stumbled upon Willowmere and here you will remain for a week or more so I can make sure your wound heals properly,” Arella said, leaving him no room to argue.
Hannah spoke up. “And you will need more than a brew for fever to make certain you suffer no ill effects from the creature.”
“Aye, Hannah is right. So, here you will stay until we say otherwise,” Arella ordered.
“How could I refuse such a charming invitation?” he said with a slight smile.
“At least you’re a wise warrior,” Arella said, her brow puckering as she kept a steady gaze on him.
“Are you a mercenary by chance? Though you have no scars, the way you didn’t flinch when I stitched you tells me you are no stranger to stitches.
I know not what brings a mercenary to this area and I do not want to know. But Willowmere is a peaceful village—”
“I am no mercenary and I bring you no harm,” he said with a firmness that silenced Arella.
Hannah approached him then, holding a small cup. “This will help with anything the animal’s bite may have left behind. Later, you will need one to ward off fever.”
He took it without question, drinking it down in one steady motion before handing the cup back.
“You trust easily,” Bria said before she could stop herself.
His gaze returned to her, sharper now. “Healers heal. They do not harm.”
Bria drew a slow breath, aware once more of the faint tension that lingered in her touch. She began to withdraw her hands.
The moment her fingers left him—the absence struck her, subtle but there. As though something had been there that no longer was.
She stepped back, folding her hands lightly before her to still the slight tremble. “You should rest. A bed would serve you better than a bench.”
“I will rest when I must,” he said.
“Stubbornness does not aid healing,” Bria cautioned.
A faint flicker of something crossed his expression, amusement, perhaps.
“And yet I have lived by it,” he said.
She was tempted to shake her head at him but didn’t. “That does not mean you should continue to do so.”
For the briefest moment, something eased between them, and then it was gone.
He shifted slightly, testing the movement of his shoulder before settling once more.
“And you, healer,” he said, his voice quieter now, more intent. “You spoke of Willowmere… of the sea… of what lies beyond.”
Bria felt the change before the question came and how the air seemed to still just slightly.
“Tell me,” he said, “how far is Willowmere from Driochmor?”