The man writhed in agony, his breath ragged and uneven.

In the dim corner of a modest farmhouse on the outskirts of Tydra, capital of Kymar, farmer Yorik Erykson lay on a makeshift cot. His leg—shattered and grotesquely bent—was propped on a pile of fraying blankets. Splinters of bone jutted from the torn flesh, the wound seeping blood through the tattered remains of his trousers. The air was thick with the coppery scent of injury and the muffled sobs of his wife, Kenna.

“What happened?” Amriel, the healer, asked softly, kneeling beside the injured man. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as she began peeling back the blood-soaked fabric for a closer look.

Yorik’s jaw clenched as he stifled a groan, biting down hard against the pain. Kenna, crouched at his side, clutching his hand in hers, answered in his stead.

“His leg… it got trapped in the wagon wheel,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her worry. “It snapped—like a twig. I heard it. The sound…” She shuddered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It was awful.”

Amriel nodded silently, her focus entirely on the ruin of Yorik’s leg. The jagged break twisted the limb at an unnatural angle, the bone gleaming stark white against the dark crimson of torn flesh. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Kenna sniffled, her grip tightening on Yorik’s hand. “I told him! I told him that colt was wild, but he wouldn’t listen! He never listens!” Her voice rose in desperation. “Amriel, can it be saved? Please, tell me you can save his leg.”

Amriel hesitated, her brow furrowing. Peering down at the shattered limb, her years as a healer told her what she didn’t want to admit: This can’t be saved—not without the aid of a Witch or Mageborn and their magic. And magic, with its high cost, was a luxury far beyond the reach of a simple farming family.

She drew in a steadying breath and met Kenna’s tear-filled gaze. “I’m sorry, Yorik,” she said gently, shaking her head. The words landed like a blow, and Kenna wailed, her anguish spilling into the room. Yorik remained silent, his face pale and grim, his hand limp in his wife’s grasp.

Amriel’s chest tightened. She had known Yorik and his family her entire life, growing up just a few fields away in a small cottage bordering the ancient Vhengal Forest. Yorik had been a friend of her late father—a good man, stubborn but kind. Now, all she could offer him was mercy.

“I’ll need to remove it,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. “If we leave it like this, it will turn gangrenous, and the infection will spread. The best I can do is give you some Gentle Sleep to make it painless. Afterward, I’ll help you manage the pain and prevent infection as it heals.”

Kenna’s sobs grew quieter, her head bowing as her shoulders shook. Yorik finally spoke, his voice hoarse but resolute. “Do it, Amriel. Whatever needs to be done.”

Amriel placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm and reassuring. “You’ll get through this, Yorik,” she said. But even as she prepared the Gentle Sleep draught from her pouch, her mind raced. The healing arts could mend many wounds, but what could she offer in the face of such devastating injury beyond her skills and compassion?

“Kenna, could you please light some candles and stoke the fire?” Amriel asked as she rose to fetch her healing bag.

The farmer’s wife almost looked relieved to be given a task to help her husband. Without hesitation, Kenna worldlessly set about the requests that had been given to her.

And as the shadows lengthened in the quiet farmhouse, Amriel couldn’t shake the unease settling in her chest—like the faint echo of something just out of reach. Something far greater than her role as a healer in a simple farming village.

The soft clink of glass vials broke the silence as Amriel rummaged through her leather satchel. The farmhouse grew dimmer, the failing light from the single oil lamp casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. Kenna’s quiet sobs were the only sound, muffled as she pressed her face into Yorik’s shoulder.

Amriel retrieved a small clay pot of Gentle Sleep from her healers bag. She always carried some of with her. Prying open the lid, she peered inside. As she did so, her mother’s voice echoed inside her head;

“Amriel, can you tell me the name of this plant?” her mother asked.

“Horissa Vharia,” the voice of a much younger Amriel replied eagerly, pride swelling in her chest. How she had longed to impress her mother.

“Good. But also known as what?” Nythia had pressed, her tone almost a challenge.

“Also known as the gentle sleep.” Amriel now muttered aloud to herself.

“And what purpose does it serve us as healers?” Nythia would have asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, as she assessed her daughter’s knowledge.

“When prepared properly and given in lower doses, this plant can help ease pain. In higher doses, it can induce deep sedation. The management of pain is vital for effective treatment—especially when setting broken bones, stitching gaping wounds shut or assisting in childbirth.” continued her younger voice.

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“Or, in this case, the removal of a limb.” Amriel thought.

By the flicker of the candle light, Amriel could spy the contents at its very bottom. Quietly, she sucked in air between her teeth when she saw just how very little remained. The contents of the jar would be enough to render Yorik unconscious for the procedure, but that would be the last of it.

This past winter there had been an unusually high number of injuries and illnesses. All of which had taken its toll on her healing supplies. And with the snows only just recently melted, she’d yet to have much of a chance to replenish.

With the jar of Gentle Sleep in her hands, Amriel returned to Yorik’s bedside. Using a wooden scoop, she removed what remained of the thick, bitter green paste from the jar and placed it in Yorik’s up turned palm.

“Place that under your tongue and let it sit there for a moment before swallowing it,” Amriel instructed.

Internally, Amriel began to don her mental armour, steeling herself against what she was about to do. There was a great deal of joy and pleasure to be found in her chosen work. But this was not one of those times.

He nodded once, his expression stoic, though his grip tightened on Kenna’s trembling hand. Yorik did as he was told. Extremely potent, the plant began to effect, showing in the slowing of his breathing and the glazed, far off look in his eyes as he slowly fell asleep. Amriel moved to his side, offering a brief, reassuring touch on his arm as he slid under. Before long he would reach full sedation and then, she could perform the amputation.

Turning to Kenna, Amriel looked the farmer’s wife levelly in the eyes. “Can you please fetch Simon? He should be home by this hour. Tell him that I require his aid.”

Amriel had known Simon from the moment they could walk and talk. He’d attended more than one of her mother’s healings as they grew up and was used to this kind of work. A blacksmith by trade, Simon was exceptionally strong. She knew she would at some point require his strength. This kind of work was never easy.

Kenna watched in silence, her face pale and tear-streaked, as Yorik’s breathing slowed and his tense features relaxed. “Will… he wake up again?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Amriel assured her. “This is only to ensure he feels no pain during the procedure. He’ll wake up once the hardest part is over.”

Kenna nodded, though her worry didn’t lessen. Amriel met her gaze, her own heart heavy with the knowledge that this was only the beginning of Yorik’s struggles. The removal would save his life, but his recovery would be long and arduous. Night still came early this time of year, so Kenna picked up a lit lantern to guide her through the rising darkness and slipped out into the evening air. Amriel could hear the gravel crunching beneath Kenna’s feet as she took off at a run towards the house Simon shared with his wife and twin daughters.

Rising, Amriel washed her hands in a basin of cold water and prepared the tools for the amputation: a scalpel, saw, and sutures sterilized over the flames of a small stove. She set the instruments neatly on a cloth beside the cot, her movements deliberate, her thoughts already deep in focus.

The shadows outside shifted as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon. The ancient Vhengal Forest loomed in the distance. For a fleeting moment, Amriel’s thoughts strayed to the strange, haunting dreams she had been having of late—visions of a white feather, shimmering gates, and whispers that seemed to call her by name. In some of those dreams she found herself looking out from another’s eyes.

Kenna quickly returned with Simon, and shaking off the distraction, Amriel took a steadying breath and returned her focus to the task at hand. “Kenna, I’ll need you to step back,” she said gently. “You don’t have to see this.”

Kenna hesitated, her hand lingering on Yorik’s before she released him and moved to the other side of the room, clutching the edge of the table for support. Her eyes never left her husband’s face.

With a wordless glance, Simon, her child hood friend, moved to her side. Rolling up the sleeves of his tan work tunic, the man made large by birth and even larger by trade, took up his place at the bedside. His dark features were grim and his eyes said everything that need be said as they peered into Amriel’s hazel ones.

Amriel positioned herself at the cot, taking up the scalpel with a firm grip. The room was quiet save for the rhythmic crackle of the stove fire and the soft rasp of Yorik’s breathing. Then, with careful precision, she began.

The procedure was grueling. Blood stained her hands and the cloths beneath the cot as she worked, severing the ruined flesh and shattered bone. Each step required precision, yet speed that was necessary to save his life. Amriel’s focus was unyielding, her years of training guiding her through the harrowing task.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she tied off the last suture and stepped back, exhaling deeply. The ruined limb was gone, replaced by a cleanly bandaged stump. Amriel wiped her bloodied hands on a cloth and turned to Kenna, her eyes weary but resolute.

Similarly, Simon stood back, wiping his bloody hands off on a cloth. “You did a good job, Amriel,” He murmured softly. Simon knew how much she disliked this part of the job. How much things like this effected her, unlike her mother, Nythia, who managed to always remain cold and practical.

“It’s done,” Amriel said softly. “He’ll wake soon. The hardest part is over.”

Kenna rushed to Yorik’s side, her tears flowing freely now, though a flicker of hope lit her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you, Amriel.”

Amriel nodded but didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped outside, the crisp night air a welcome relief from the suffocating weight of the room. She leaned against the wooden frame of the house, gazing out at the vast expanse of fields under the moonlit sky.

After a moment, Simon followed. Quietly, the blacksmith wrapped his arms around her and held Amriel until she stopped shaking. Only then did he step back, and peer down at her.

“Let me walk you home,” he said softly, and before she could refuse, “Just say yes, Riel. You know just as much as I do that Niamh will have my hide if I don’t. So, please, just say yes.”

As they walked in silence to her cottage, Amriel could make out the outline of the Vhengal Forest that loomed like a dark sentinel in the distance, its towering trees swaying in the wind. Something about it felt different tonight. The unease she’d felt earlier returned, stronger now—a faint hum beneath her skin.

For years, Amriel had lived a quiet life as a healer, tending to the sick and injured in her small corner of Kymar. But in the stillness of the night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her life was about to change. That the whispers of the forest, and the strange dreams that plagued her, were only the beginning.