I woke to find Erik already gone. He must have left before dawn. I rekindled the flames and dressed quickly, my leg protesting with each movement. The soreness from yesterday had deepened overnight into something more persistent, a dull ache that refused to be ignored. It felt like I was back to square one.
By the time I reached the healers’ den, the sun had fully risen, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold. Inside, the usual morning routine, except with Lysandra.
She stood near the hearth, surrounded by a small crowd of villagers seeking her counsel. An elderly woman with a persistent cough. A young mother worried about her infant’s fever. A warrior with a poorly healed shoulder wound. Lysandra attended to each with patience and grace.
“Marielle!” Olivia spotted me and waved me over to our usual station. “Morning, how are ya!”
“Just tired,” I said, settling onto my stool with a barely suppressed wince.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Your leg still bothering you? I thought you were getting better?”
“It’s fine.”
“Doesn’t look fine.” She set down her mortar and pestle, leaning closer to study my face. “You should ask Lysandra to look at it. She’s been working miracles on Morgan’s daughter, the one with the festering wound on her arm. Completely healed. Not even a scar.”
“I said it’s fine, Livi.” The words came out sharper than I intended.
Olivia blinked, hurt flashing across her face before she masked it with a too-bright smile. “Okay. If you say so.” She returned to her grinding, the silence between us suddenly uncomfortable.
I focused on sorting through a basket of herbs—the names I forgot to study—my hands moving automatically while my mind wandered.
“Did you hear she blessed three births yesterday?”
“And cured that boy’s night terrors with just a touch—”
“The Jarl himself has requested an audience with her—”
“She’s teaching me a new suturing technique this afternoon—”
On and on it went. I tried to tune it out, but it was impossible. Lysandra’s presence had become inescapable, like roots through soil—silent, inexorable, impossible to extract without tearing everything apart.
“Marielle?”
I looked up to find Lysandra standing beside my workstation, her golden eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“May I?” She gestured to the stool beside me.
I nodded mutely, not trusting my voice.
Lysandra settled gracefully onto the seat, her movements fluid as water. Up close, she was even more striking—her skin luminous in the firelight, her pale hair falling like a curtain of silk over one shoulder.
“I’ve noticed you limping,” she said, her voice gentle with concern. “Your leg. It’s still troubling you, isn’t it?”
“It’s healing,” I said carefully.
“But slowly.” Lysandra tilted her head, studying me with those unsettling golden eyes. “Too slowly, perhaps. May I see it?”
“That’s not necessary—”
“Please.” She reached out, her pale hand hovering near my arm but not quite touching. “I only want to help. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
Refusing would draw attention, and I’d already been drawing too much of that lately.
“Alright,” I said quietly.
Lysandra’s smile widened, just slightly. She knelt beside my stool with practiced grace and gently pushed up my trouser leg, revealing the bandaged wound underneath. Her fingers were cool as they prodded the edges.
“Hmm.” She made a soft sound of consideration. “The inflammation is worse than it should be. And the tissue here—” she pressed slightly, making me wince, “—is healing poorly. This should have closed weeks ago.”
“I’ve been working it too hard,” I said, the excuse sounding weak even to my own ears.
“Perhaps.” Lysandra’s golden eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for just a heartbeat, I saw something flicker in their depths. It was gone too quickly to identify. “Or perhaps the wrong remedies have been used. Not all salves are created equal, after all.”
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. “I have something that will help. A tincture I’ve been perfecting—it works wonders on stubborn wounds. I’ll bring it to you this evening.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist.” Her smile was radiant, impossible to argue against without seeming ungrateful. “After all, what kind of healer would I be if I let a fellow resident suffer unnecessarily?”
She glided away before I could protest further, returning to her admirers by the hearth. I pulled my trouser leg back down with shaky hands.
Olivia leaned over, her eyes bright with excitement. “See? I told you she could help! You’re so lucky she noticed—most people have to wait days for a private consultation with her.”
“Lucky,” I echoed.
* * *
The day dragged on with agonizing slowness. My leg continued to ache, a constant throb that made it difficult to focus on anything else. By midafternoon, I was struggling to stand for long periods, and Halla—noticing my discomfort—sent me to sit and work on preparing poultices instead.
Lysandra appeared periodically throughout the day, always surrounded by grateful villagers, always offering perfect solutions to near-impossible problems. And each time she passed my station, those golden eyes would find mine, just for a moment, and that knowing smile would curve her lips.
Like she could see right through me.
Like she knew exactly what I was.
By the time the dinner horn blew, I was exhausted and unsettled in equal measure.
Olivia pulled me toward a table where several familiar faces had gathered—including Erik, who sat at the far end with a mostly untouched plate in front of him.
His ice-blue eyes found mine immediately, and something in his expression made my chest tighten. He looked… tense. More so than usual.
I settled onto the bench across from him, Olivia taking the seat beside me and immediately launching into conversation with the woman on her other side. The noise of the longhouse washed over us, but in our little corner, there was an island of silence.
Erik pushed his plate away, his gaze never leaving my face. “How’s your leg?”
“Sore,” I admitted quietly.
His jaw tightened. “Getting worse?”
I nodded.
“And let me guess—” his voice dropped lower, “—Lysandra offered to help.”
My hand moved to my pocket, where the small glass bottle rested. I pulled it out slowly, setting it on the table between us. The liquid inside was dark, almost black, with faint traces of something that seemed to shimmer when the light hit it just right.
“Lysandra stopped me before I left the healers’ den,” I said, keeping my voice low. “She told me if I took this tomorrow morning, my leg would be as good as new.”
Erik’s hand shot out, closing around the bottle like it was a snake about to strike.
He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the small vial, his expression darkening with each passing second. The liquid swirled inside, that faint shimmer catching the firelight in ways that liquid shouldn’t move.
Then, slowly and deliberately, he uncorked it.
The smell hit immediately—sharp and acrid with an underlying sweetness that made my stomach turn. Erik’s nostrils flared, his entire body going rigid.
He slammed the cork back in and shoved the bottle deep into his coat pocket.
“You won’t drink that.”
The words were flat. Final. Dangerous.
Around us, the nearby conversations had died. Olivia’s eyes darted between Erik and me, her expression confused and worried. Even the strangers at our table had gone quiet, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere.
“But my leg—” I started.
“Is healing just fine.” Erik’s eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath. “And I’ll be damned if I let her sink her claws in any deeper.”
Olivia leaned forward, her voice hesitant. “Erik… she’s helping everyone. Why not Marielle?”
Erik stood abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor. The entire table flinched at the sound.
“Because helping isn’t the same as healing,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that made several people nearby turn to stare.n
He looked down at me, and for just a moment, something almost like fear flickered across his face.
“She wants something,” he said quietly, meant only for me. “And I’m going to find out what.”
Then he was gone, striding toward the longhouse doors and disappearing into the night beyond.
The table erupted into uncomfortable murmurs. Olivia touched my arm gently, her face creased with concern.
“What was that about?” she whispered.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. My hand felt empty without the weight of the bottle, and despite Erik’s warning, part of me wanted to chase after him and demand it back. My leg hurt extremely. Lysandra had offered help. I might’ve needed it this time.
But I remembered the way Erik had recoiled from the smell.
Maybe it was for the better.
I forced myself to eat. Around us, the longhouse gradually returned to its normal chaos, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. It had to do with whatever Erik was planning to do. I finished my work at the healers’ den in a distracted haze that evening, Olivia chattering beside me about the new suturing technique Lysandra had demonstrated. My hands moved through the familiar motions—grinding, mixing, sorting—but my mind was elsewhere.
With Erik. With the bottle now hidden in his coat. With whatever he’d meant when he said he would find out what Lysandra wanted.
By the time I returned to the cabin, full dark had fallen. The fire was low, barely more than embers, and the space felt cavernously empty. I settled onto the couch with a cup of tea, trying to ignore the persistent ache in my leg and the heavier ache of worry in my chest.
Then I saw it.
A piece of parchment, folded once and left on the small table beside Erik’s sword belt. My name written on the outside in his angular, efficient script.
I picked it up with trembling fingers and unfolded it.
Marielle—
Gone to deal with Lysandra. Don’t wait up. She needs to be stopped before she hurts the village.
—E
My heart stuttered in my chest. Deal with her? What did that mean? Confront her? Threaten her? And what if he was wrong? What if Lysandra really was just trying to help, and Erik’s suspicion was misplaced?
But even as the thought formed, I dismissed it. I’d felt the wrongness too. Seen the way Lysandra’s eyes had tracked me throughout the day. The way she’d smiled when offering me that bottle.
I set the note down carefully and stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. Outside, the wind howled, and snow began to fall again, heavy and thick.
The hours crawled by. I tried to read by firelight but couldn’t focus. Tried to sleep but couldn’t quiet my racing thoughts. Every creak of the cabin, every gust of wind made me jump, thinking it was Erik returning.
But the door remained closed.
Midnight came and went. My tea went cold. The fire burned low again, and I added more logs. My leg throbbed insistently, a reminder of the bottle Erik had taken, the help I’d refused.
Finally, exhaustion won.
I dragged myself to the bed and pulled the furs over me. My last conscious thought was of Erik out in the snow, confronting a woman with golden eyes and perfect smiles, armed with nothing but suspicion.
And wondering if that would be enough.
ns216.73.217.74da2
and then Add to home screen.