The whole affair had shaken up the logging crew a bit. Concerned about how this would affect morale, Jorgen wanted to close the matter quickly. Moira praised this course of action, and with her subtle support, they decided to burn the bodies of the bandits without unnecessary complications. The foreman involved only two workers, so few witnessed the scene after the power struggle within the gang of ruffians. At least, that was the official version of events. No one suspected the herbalist, why would they? But Jorgen and a few witnesses had a vague sense that dark forces might have been at work, as the foreman remarked to Moira one evening in a private conversation. Rather than denying it, Moira agreed, saying that in these forests, rich in bloody history, strange and unexplained things certainly happened from time to time. Many stories circulated among the locals about the northern woods, which grew over countless old battlefields. Jorgen seemed satisfied with these tales and didn’t revisit the subject.
The modest valuables collected from the bandits' remains were set aside to cover Leif's medical expenses, with the rest kept in reserve—just in case someone else faced a serious accident at work.
Two days after the incident, the first transport was ready, and Moira joined it back to town. She looked after Leif along the way; he was slowly recovering and was released from his contract given the circumstances. The young man decided to find work at the local sawmill, dealing with wood processing. Apparently, he’d had enough of the northern forest for now. Everyone agreed that this would be best for him, including Leif himself.
On the first night of the journey, Moira reflected on the events and reluctantly admitted to herself that she’d gotten a bit carried away. Still, she had plenty of excuses for why things had played out as they did. First and foremost, the region lacked workers. Banditry during famine, war, or after natural disasters was understandable— condoned, yes, but still, there was some rational explanation. But crime in a region where work was plentiful was a conscious choice. These were strong, healthy men who could have easily made a living through honest labor, yet they chose to kill and terrorize innocent loggers instead. In Moira's view, society couldn't afford mercy for such scoundrels. Though she hadn’t asked society's permission, she had acted in its name to deliver justice. That was the rational reason she held on to. There was another, less pleasant reason lurked at the edge of her consciousness, a truth she pushed away. In her righteous anger, she had relished weaving those spells. She sighed with slight shame, remembering her laughter that had slipped out, drunk on the power over life and death as she manipulated the bandits into a fratricidal fight with her grotesque puppets. She reluctantly acknowledged this darker corner of her soul. People react to stress in various ways, she thought, justifying herself again. Some even laugh.
For the rest of the journey, she gladly engaged in conversation with her traveling companions, diligently changed Leif’s dressings, and generally kept herself busy. “It’s over now,” she repeated to herself, finding comfort in thinking that the camp was safe and everyone could now work in peace. She concluded these thoughts as she climbed down from the cart in Forest Row. Before returning to her room at the inn, she ensured that the young man was settled in a decent worker’s barrack, leaving him with a few free remedies and instructions on how to use them.
"Thank you, Miss Moira, it really means a lot to me. Thanks for everything," he said, bidding her goodbye at the entrance. "If I can ever help you, you know where to find me!" he added to her back, waving warmly. She turned and replied with a playful "I’ll hold you to that!" before waving back and heading to the inn.
After a quick check of her protective spells on the room—everything was in order—she boldly turned the key and stepped inside. There were various institutions and individuals practicing magic, some of whom might wish her harm, so caution was never misplaced. Satisfied that everything was secure, she dropped her travel gear and belongings, packed some fresh underwear and a simple dress into her empty bag, then went to arrange a bath.
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As she entered the inn, she was hit by the hum of conversation. It was bustling, but the innkeeper’s wife noticed her right away, smiled apologetically, grabbed a servant girl by the arm, whispered a few words to her, and sent her over to Moira, returning to her work, evidently too busy to inquire about Moira's trip. The servant approached quickly and gracefully, weaving through tables and guests.
"Madam Rose apologizes, but we’re swamped today. May I help with anything?" she asked politely, curtseying to Moira, who tried to remember her name.
"Altea, right?" she responded, adjusting her grip on her bag. The girl nodded, beaming a bit. "Please prepare me a bath, with oils, combing, styling, scrubbing—and while you’re at it, have someone else take care of the laundry; I’m nearly out of clothes after the journey. You’ll need a second pair of hands for that," she listed off her wishes, pressing a few extra coins into the girl's hand with a knowing wink.
"Of course, Miss Moira," she replied with a broad smile, grateful for the generous tip. The girl didn’t often receive such kindness from the usual male patrons, who preferred to favor the more full-figured barmaids. Were it not for her pretty, girlish face and long hair, she could almost have been mistaken for a young lad. Altea led her to the bath, where Moira settled into a chair with a glass of light white wine, waiting for the tub to be prepared. Though the girls didn’t choose the oils as expertly as Madam Rose, it didn’t matter now. By the time she finished her drink, the bath was ready; Altea had nimble hands, and her helper scrubbed just right. While not as experienced as the capital’s bathhouses, these small-town inn girls were impressive. Moira felt the weariness from the whole ordeal melt away. When it came time for combing and styling, she returned to the chair. Altea gently sang a pleasant tune with her soft voice as she worked through Moira's hair. Her helper had already left with the laundry from Moira's room.
"I could listen to you for hours," Moira complimented the girl’s singing.
"Half the inn would go hungry, then," Altea replied playfully. "We’re short-handed enough without me disappearing for hours." She laughed softly, lowering her gaze, cheeks flushing slightly at the praise.
"Well, I’ll have to settle for just one song," Moira agreed with a contented sigh, fully relaxed. "Thank you, Altea, I really needed this." The girl curtsied and finished tending to her red hair.
Afterward, Moira gave each of the girls an extra silver coin, much to their delight, and returned to her room. She napped until late evening, then woke up hungry. The inn had quieted down a bit, so she could enjoy her dinner in peace. At the end of the meal, Rose joined her to discuss the delivery to the Alchemist, which had been completed the previous evening. Even after all deductions, Moira was pleased with the profits. She enjoyed that others could benefit from her work by making all these arrangements; it gave her more time and freedom.
"Were there any letters for me?" she asked as Rose was about to leave the table.
"Ah, yes, I almost forgot!" Rose laughed. "Just a moment," she said, disappearing briefly into the back.
Moira's heart quickened. Could it be that Ashan had decided to write despite everything? She thought, feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension, hoping he had found his way and settled into his new life. Her musings were interrupted as Rose returned.
"Here you go, just one letter," she said, handing Moira a simple, slightly worn envelope.
"Thank you, Rose. I’ll check what it says back in my room," Moira replied, holding up the letter and waving it lightly. She got up, smoothed her skirt, nodded to the innkeeper’s wife, they wished each other a good night, and she left. She could feel Rose’s amused gaze as she noticed Moira blushing slightly at the thought of a letter. It’s not like that; what does she know? Moira thought, rolling her eyes. But she did quicken her pace a bit to escape the innkeeper’s curious look.