Page 12

12

Eden

THE HEALER FROWNED and rubbed his beard while he pondered my question. “Superstitions?”

“Yes,” I asserted. “Even if you think it’s nonsense.”

He sighed and moved toward a shelf. His fingers brushed against the spines of old books as if he were searching for a memory rather than a title. “Ailments I can help with, but superstitions…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Most of that was abandoned years ago.”

Something in his tone disturbed me. “What do you mean?”

The healer waved a dismissive hand. “The village used to have certain… practices. Old customs meant to ward off magic. But people stopped bothering with the magic that was outlawed, and the kingdom quelling anything remotely suspicious. They figured there was no point.”

My head turned toward Oberon, and our eyes locked in silent understanding. A place steeped in fear and quiet rituals upheld for generations had abandoned its ways just as the people fell ill? It gave me goosebumps.

The healer shifted beneath my scrutiny, wearing a wary expression.

“What customs?” I pressed.

He shrugged. “Simple things: symbols carved into doorways, salt scattered across thresholds, and leaving offerings outside the village when the seasons changed. Nothing that should matter.” He hesitated before adding, “Nothing that should have caused this.”

Pulling out my journal, I flipped to an empty page. As I noted the details, my fingers tightened around the charcoal, and my brows furrowed in concentration. These weren’t just superstitions; they were protective measures—ones the village had relied on for years. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was calculated. Or worse—coerced.

Oberon’s discerning voice cut through my thoughts. “You don’t believe in coincidences.” He didn’t ask; he noted.

My charcoal scraped against the parchment. “Not when people are dying.”

The healer guided us to the inn, pausing briefly to share a few quiet words with the innkeeper before handing over a single key.

“Shared room,” he said cautiously. “It’s all we can afford.”

The weight of the books and notes in my arms captured my focus. Their knowledge was more important than our sleeping arrangements. I nodded and adjusted my grip as he departed down the dim corridor.

Oberon opened the door and stepped inside first. The room was modest, with wooden floors creaking beneath our boots and a single narrow window allowing a sliver of night. A lone candle flickered on the bedside table, casting a faint golden light against the walls.

I walked past him without a glance, heading straight for the desk. The books landed with a solid thud, parchment rustling while I spread them out. The chair groaned under my weight. There was much to sift through—histories of past plagues, theories on cursed lands, and recipes for tinctures that promised relief. It was enough to keep me awake for several nights. The sooner I began, the sooner I would find what cured the villagers’ suffering.

Behind me, Oberon released a heavy sigh. “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor.” My attention stayed on the faded ink before me. Sleep wasn’t in my plans for the night.

His footsteps grew nearer. “Herbalist.” There was a pause. “Did you hear me?”

Sighing, I waved him off, skimming a paragraph on warding salts. “I heard you.”

“And?”

I turned the page. “And I’m sitting here.”

Silence lingered between us for a moment.

“That wasn’t an option,” he gritted out.

A slow hum escaped my lips in response. I was disinterested in entertaining him. He could remain frustrated. I had more pressing concerns than a bed neither of us would use.

The gentle clinking of buckles filled the space, followed by a metal clatter and a heavy thump against the floor. I sighed through my nose, refusing to face him. He wanted to be tenacious? Fine. But I had a job to complete.

The notes were messy—pages filled with symptoms, scattered observations, and half-formed theories. My fingers smudged the ink while I sifted through them, cross-referencing everything I had collected throughout the day.

Frowning, I tapped my charcoal against the page, the rhythmic motion grounding my thoughts. The healer mentioned the village had once practiced protective customs—warding symbols, salt barriers, offerings—but had since abandoned them.

What changed?

Prince Alric had long banned magic. What would change if someone were secretly using it? Why would people only start falling ill after the traditions ended?

I flipped the page, staring at my scrawled notes until the words blurred together in my vision. My limbs ached with exhaustion, and the multitude of possibilities alongside the scarcity of answers weighed heavily on my mind.

The candle’s flame flickered, casting restless shadows over the pages. Another night blurred into dawn, and the pieces still refused to fall into place.

My palm pressed against my temple and I dug my fingers into my scalp as if I might extract the answers from my skull. The symptoms didn’t match any known illness. No common element linked the afflicted. The village had been here for decades, maybe centuries. So, why now? Why did abandoning the old customs lead to this?

Sniffling, I flexed my fingers, stained with charcoal and ink. My pouch of nuts and seeds rested beside my notes. I chewed on a few, my mind too tangled to care. Sleep wasn’t an option. Not when I still hadn’t anything.

Another page turned. More notes. More theories. More of the same.

The floor creaked.

Oberon’s presence was a constant, silent force in the room. He came and went with the same unspoken routine—leaving in the morning and returning late at night. He never inquired about what I had discovered or why I remained at this desk, but his gaze felt weighty as he passed by.

The chair creaked as I shifted, easing the stiffness from my shoulders. The sky beyond the narrow window had darkened, with orange and crimson hues of sunset creeping in.

A scoff emerged from behind me, low and unimpressed.

I ignored it and flipped to the next page.

Oberon let out a humorless laugh. I envisioned the shake of his head and the clench of his jaw as he bit back a remark.

His footsteps approached the bed, the familiar jingle of buckles resonating in the space as he loosened his armor. Metal clattered against the floor, followed by the familiar, heavy thud of his sword being set down.

He remained silent for a long moment.

“How long?” His voice was hoarse from exhaustion.

I turned to look at him. “How long what?”

His eyes flicked toward the mess of parchment spread across the desk. “How long were you planning to do this?”

Bristling, I turned back to the desk. “Until I have answers.”

He grunted. “And if they don’t come?”

My charcoal rested on the desk with a light tap . “They will.”

Another silence stretched, broken by the sound of fabric shifting and the faint creak of the mattress.

“You won’t be of any use to them if you’re dead."

I scoffed. “I’m fine.”

MY EYES BLINKED open to the candle’s sputtering flame. Groaning, I stretched my stiff fingers and rubbed my tired eyes. I had dozed off again. The dim light of dawn filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over the desk. The notes before me blurred together until I forced myself to focus again.

I was so close. The patterns were there, but the pieces refused to align. The symptoms—their spread—followed no logic of an ordinary illness. It wasn’t the water, the grain, the livestock, or a common ailment. The healer had ruled out the usual suspects.

So what was it?

I rubbed my temples.

If the illness had been airborne, it would have spread differently. If it had originated from contact, families living together would have fallen ill simultaneously, but that wasn’t the case. The infection pattern was uneven and scattered. The disease affected a few households while leaving their neighbors untouched. Others had one sick individual while the rest of the family remained healthy.

It seemed rather illogical.

Unless it wasn’t natural.

A chill crawled over me as the thought settled.

Magic.

My pulse ticked faster.

Leaning forward, I skimmed my notes again with sharper eyes. If it were magic, it would explain the inconsistencies. If someone had woven something into the land, something bound to the old customs, then breaking those traditions could have shattered whatever protection was keeping it away.

The healer had mentioned that they once followed warding customs—salt barriers, symbols carved into doorways, and offerings left at the village’s edge. They had abandoned these practices. If those traditions protected the town, and someone had removed them, then maybe this wasn’t an illness; maybe it was a consequence.

My stomach churned, and I glanced at my pouch. It was empty. A dull ache gnawed at me as my stomach protested, but I had been through worse.

Rising from the desk, I stretched my stiff limbs and neck before moving toward my satchel, rummaging through what little I had left. If I were right, if this sickness were caused by magic, I could test it. Various plants responded when exposed to magic. A few amplified it, several dulled it, and others outright rejected it. If I triggered a response, I could find the source.

Across the room, Oberon lay on the floor, his back pressed against the wooden planks. Strands of dark hair fell over his forehead. One arm rested on his stomach while the other sprawled beside him. His long legs were bent at the knee, and his boots sat discarded at his side as if he hadn’t decided whether to sleep or keep watch. The dying embers of the hearth cast flickering shadows over him that highlighted the strong angles of his features and the scars on his exposed skin.

His breathing was deep and steady, but not at ease. Even in sleep, tension was clear in his jaw, and his fingers twitched restlessly as they reached for a blade. He was a predator forced into stillness, waiting for the moment he needed to strike.

He wouldn’t be there to shadow me, like a storm cloud poised to break. Careful not to make a sound, I grabbed my journal and herbs and quietly slipped out of the inn.

The fog clung to the buildings, curled over rooftops, and slithered through the narrow streets, swirling in thick, damp tendrils around my boots. The scent of damp soil and aged wood lingered in the air, a smell that followed rain but offered no promise of renewal. The silence was overwhelming. It pressed against my ears and made every step too loud, too noticeable.

Oberon’s horse appeared through the haze as I approached the village center, still tied to the well. The beast stood near a large bucket of water, filled to the brim. My steps slowed, and unease prickled at the edges of my mind.

Oberon must have tended to him.

The horse huffed, its breath curling in the frigid air. It flicked its tail and stomped its hoof—small, cautious movements that hinted at irritation or warning. Its dark eyes met mine for a moment. “You and I both,” I muttered.

The strange feeling lingered in my gut, an itch I couldn’t scratch, but I pushed forward. The knights’ quarters stood ahead, its wooden frame worn by time and weather. Its iron reinforcements, dark with rust, attested to its long resistance against the elements. I knocked, not bothering to wait for an invitation before entering.

The knight, who behaved as if my presence were a personal insult, stood. His scowl deepened at the sight of me, and irritation hung thick in the dim room. The glow of a single lantern cast jagged shadows against the walls, illuminating the hard lines of his face as he appraised me. His gaze flicked past me, his lips twisting into a smirk, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Where’s your dog?”

A slow breath steadied me. The words shouldn’t have bothered me; I shouldn’t have cared. Yet, they irritated me.

I straightened my back and met his gaze without hesitation. “Mind your tone.” His smirk widened, but I pressed on. “Sir Sinclaire is here on the prince’s orders. I suggest you consider your behavior, as I am unaware of what those orders entail.”

That wiped the smirk from his face.

My gaze drifted past him as I scanned the room. Exhaustion kept most from paying attention. A few watched with eyes gleaming in the low light, filled with curiosity. My focus returned to the arrogant knight before me when he stepped forward, closing the distance. He was tall, like most knights, but I refused to shrink back. If I had survived Marcus, I could handle him.

His smirk was slow and curling, dripping with condescension. “Bold of you,” he mused, tilting his head to look down at me. “Walking into a room full of men alone. Makes a man wonder…” His lingering gaze dragged over me as he stripped me bare with nothing but his eyes. “If you came here hoping to be handled a little rough. Can’t say you’re my usual taste, but I enjoy breaking in something new.”

A chill unfurled within me. With a raised brow, I smirked back. “Should I be afraid of you?”

For a moment, his expression wavered, but then he schooled his features into an air of smug amusement. “A clever girl would be.”

With a sigh, I tilted my head with feigned disinterest. “Good thing I’m more than just clever, then.” My voice dropped. “I’m here to do my job, not stroke your fragile ego. Your opinion of me is irrelevant.”

The smirk on his face widened. His hand shot out, and my breath hitched with anger. His grip on my jaw bruised, fingers sinking into my skin as if to make a point. “Bravery only gets you so far, Herbalist,” he hissed, his breath too close.

Fighting back a wince, I locked my jaw when his fingers squeezed. I had faced worse than an arrogant knight with a power complex. I oscillated between violence and insults before another voice intervened.

“Let her go.”

A second knight positioned himself behind him, arms crossed, and a heavy warning evident in his eyes. His words conveyed irritation rather than concern. “You’re being childish, Valdier. The rest of us would prefer to keep our heads.”

Valdier held his grip for a moment longer, his fingers flexing as he debated whether I was worth the effort. With a scoff, he shoved me back. His lip curled. “Not even worth dirtying my hands over.”

I straightened, refusing to reveal the ache blooming along my jaw as I smirked. “Miracles do happen. You managed to form a coherent thought.” His eyes flashed, but he didn’t reach for me again. Smart choice. I wouldn’t have played nice a second time.

Turning away, I retrieved the herbs from my satchel. “Now, if you’re finished sulking like a child denied his favorite toy, I have proper work to do.”

The mortar emitted a dull crack as I ground the herbs, letting my frustration seep into the motion. I mixed them with warm water from Oberon’s flask, disregarding the whispering knights. Their egotistical skepticism pressed against my back, but I had no patience for it.

The first dose poured into a small cup and I turned to the nearest knight, extending it toward him. “Drink.” He hesitated, glancing at me and the mixture as if it might kill him. My expression, or perhaps the way his breath still rattled in his chest, compelled him to take it.

Then another knight. And another.

Time passed, and the change was undeniable. Their pallid complexions brightened with color. Clammy skin dried out. The rattling in their breaths transformed into steady inhales. By mid-morning, they stood, stretched, and tested their limbs as if they hadn’t just been on death’s doorstep.

A grin tugged at my lips as I watched them move, but the realization pulled it away.

Magic.

It wasn’t just the herbs. The illness, the sudden decline, and their rapid recovery suggested that it was unnatural.

Valdier grunted and crossed his arms, his face contorting into a scowling frown.

I huffed, glancing at the knights who had been gifted new bodies. “You’re not just going to linger, are you?” They exchanged hesitant glances. I gathered the remaining mixtures and handed them to the men. “Take these to the villagers. Follow my instructions, or you will waste everyone’s time.”

They grabbed the doses with the written instructions and left. The remaining knights, especially those closest to the hearth, weren’t improving. Their condition had deteriorated. While the others stood, these men remained motionless. Stubborn fevers clung to them, and their breathing was shallow, rattling like rusted hinges.

A chill slithered through me.

It was the fire.

My pulse quickened as my mind raced through the details. Perhaps not the fire itself, but every house had a hearth. Each sick villager had relied on theirs for warmth. Those who had recovered were no longer near open flames, while those still suffering hadn’t moved away from theirs.

So, what was different?

Why were they still sick when the others had returned to normal?

I stepped closer to the fire. The heat of the fire on my skin didn’t hold my attention. It was the burn, the smell, the crackling, spitting embers of the flames, and their flickering dance of red and gold.

The timber.

Or rather, something on it that released dust or fumes into the air, something they inhaled every time they stoked the flames. A slow-acting poison. Not strong enough to kill quickly, but sufficient to leave them burning with fever and their lungs clouded by illness.

I threw the door open and rushed out of the knights’ quarters.

The world outside was different. The heavy, suffocating stillness had lifted, replaced by the first true stirrings of life I had heard since our arrival. Muffled conversations drifted from the tavern, boots scraped against the cobblestone, children played outside their homes, and there was a distant metallic clang as people moved once more.

I did that.

The thought struck unexpectedly, accompanied by a fleeting sense of satisfaction, but there was no time to indulge in it. The illness would return if I didn’t identify the source.

“Hey, little herbalist.”

The voice pulled me from my thoughts, tinged with irritation and a hint of reluctant respect. I halted mid-stride to glance over my shoulder. Valdier stood with his arms crossed, regarding me as if I were a riddle he couldn’t solve. He must have despised the fact that I had succeeded.

“Why don’t you join us in celebrating?” he said, his voice strained as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue. “You did great work.”

“No time,” I blurted, returning to the path ahead.

Wait.

I turned back to grasp his arm. “Where do you find the firewood?”

He stiffened, his eyes widened, and his brows shot up in alarm. “Uh… There’s a location in the woods east of the village, near the ridge.”

Without another word, I turned and sprinted.