The dim flicker of campfire light cast long shadows on the tents and wagons around us as Ragna led me toward the healer’s tent. The closer we came, the stronger the smells became—sharp and metallic from blood, earthy from crushed herbs, and faintly sour from alcohol. A low murmur of voices filled the air, blending with the steady crackle of the fire and the occasional laughter from those still gathered around the tale-spinner.

Inside the tent, a woman waited. She was sturdy and weathered, her hands steady as they prepared linen strips and ground herbs on a flat stone. The air inside was thick with smell of herbs and burnt wood clinging to me as I stepped in.

“Sit,” Ragna ordered, her voice soft but firm as she guided me onto a stool. I obeyed, dropping onto a small wooden stool with a faint groan. My body felt like it was stitched together with fire and stone, every movement jarring the half-healed wounds on my arms and side.

The woman approached with her gaze flicking to my bandaged arms. “You’ve made quite a mess of yourself,” she muttered. Her tone carried no sympathy, only sharp observation. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

She began unwrapping the bandages, each tug pulling at dried blood and flesh. My jaw clenched against the pain, and I could feel sweat slicking my back as the air grew stifling in the enclosed space. Ragna handed me a strip of leather.

“You’ll want this,” she said with a faint smirk, though her eyes betrayed worry. “She’ll be forcing the filth out of your wounds.”

I took it without argument, biting down hard as the healer began unwinding the old bandages. The fabric clung to my skin, pulling at the burns, and every tug felt like knives slicing through already raw flesh. I didn’t scream, but my body betrayed me—a sharp intake of breath, muscles stiffening, the sweat that formed instantly on my brow.

The healer worked without pause, peeling back the cloth until my arms were bare. The sight was worse than the pain. Burn marks traced black veins along my forearms, like trails of coal streaked across flesh. The edges of the wounds were angry and red, some crusted with dried blood. The healer clicked her tongue as she studied them.

“Miracle he can move his arms at all,” she muttered, poking at one of the veins with the tip of a needle. I flinched despite myself. “What caused this? Fire? Magic? A curse?”

Ragna glanced at me, her expression filled with questions. “Just burns,” she said flatly. “Nothing to worry about.”

The healer snorted. “Burns, you say. These veins look like they’ve been scorched from the inside out. If it’s ‘nothing,’ then I’m the chieftain of this tribe.” She let out a dry chuckle and reached for a jar of salve.

The smell of burnt flesh lingered even as she cleaned the wounds with hot water and a cloth soaked in some pungent tincture. Each touch sent a fresh wave of pain through me, but the leather strip muffled my groans. My muscles tensed with every dab, and I could feel Ragna’s eyes on me, though she said nothing.

The healer nodded to herself as she worked, her fingers prodding along the blackened veins. “The muscles are intact, oddly enough. These veins… they’re dead, but somehow functional. Never seen anything like it. Pain’ll last a week or more, but the arms should work fine.”

Ragna leaned closer, her voice sharper now. “Wrap up the bandages. And a potion for the pain.”

The healer paused, her gaze flicking to Ragna. “Potions aren’t free, girl. We’re merchants, not saints. And you know how rare—”

“Leitha,” Ragna cut in, her voice icy. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The tent grew colder with the silence that followed. The healer’s eyes narrowed, locking with Ragna’s in a silent battle of wills. I broke the tension by spitting out the leather strip, my jaw aching from the pressure.

“Coins aren’t an issue,” I said, my voice rough. I reached toward my waist bag, my movements slower than I liked. “Just finish the damn treatment. Or do you want me passing out in your tent?”

Leitha gave a dry chuckle, grabbing a fresh cloth. “If you don’t want more wounds, boy, I wouldn’t suggest sleeping here. My husband will be back soon, and he’s not as gentle as me.”

Ragna rolled her eyes. “Enough. Just finish.”

The healer dipped a cloth into a flask of red liquid and pressed it to my arm. The pain eased almost instantly, the cooling sensation washing over the wounds like a ice numbing the flesh.

By the time she was done, the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache. “That’s... better,” I admitted grudgingly.

“Not for long,” Leitha said, her tone matter-of-fact. “The potion helps with the pain, but the wound remains. You’ll still feel it in the morning and the next.”

She begin wrapping the bandage made up of clean linen cloth, her hands moved with surprising gentleness, rubbing in a salve mixed with ground herbs before securing each strip.

Ragna leaned closer, her voice low. “How’s it feel?”

“Should have done this before,” I replied, earning a faint smile from her.

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“Five coppers,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth and cleaning up the mess.

I handed her the coins without hesitation, standing slowly to test my arms. They moved more easily now, though the effort still sent twinges of pain shooting through me. “Thank you,” I muttered, surprised at my sincerity.

Her smile turned wry as she tucked the coins into her belt. “I would advice you to keep yourself away from that ‘nothing’ that caused the wounds. At least for some time.”

————————————

Ragna guided me to the center, where the campfire crackled, sending embers spiraling into the cold night air as we approached. The chieftain sat near its heart, wrapped in a black wolf fur cloak gleaming in the flickering light. His wife rested in his arms, their closeness stark against the imposing figure he cut—broad shoulders, a long black-streaked beard, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut through the dark. Those eyes locked onto mine as we drew near.

Every instinct screamed at me to look away, to lower my gaze. But I couldn’t; for some reason, my instinct was telling me to face him. My chest tightened as I forced myself to hold his stare. His expression remained unreadable until, after a long pause, the corner of his mouth curled into the faintest smirk. He gave a slow nod and gestured to an empty seat across from him.

I moved to it, unsheathing my sword from my side and placing it carefully next to me. His eyes followed the movement, settling on the blade.

“Nice sword you’ve got there,” he said, his voice low and commanding, with the kind of weight that made others stop what they were doing.

“Thanks,” I replied, tracing the hilt with my fingers. “Still getting used to it.”

His gaze lingered on the dragon-headed pommel. “But it’s not yours. That head tells a story, and it’s not one you’ve lived.”

I stiffened but kept my voice steady. “It was reforged from my father’s blade. The head’s from his old sword.”

The chieftain leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “The Knights of Emberfell carried swords with that dragon-headed pommel. It’s the sigil of House Leonhart. A name that carries weight, even now. Who ever reforged it may have been talented as Dwaves that forged it.”

His words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. My grip tightened on the hilt, the metal cold beneath my fingers. Loth’s warning echoed in my mind: Think about what each step costs before you walk it.

Before I could respond, a soft voice broke the tension. “Leave the boy be. It doesn’t matter if the blade’s his or borrowed. You’re just punishing him for holding your gaze.”

It was the chieftain’s wife. She would look like Ragna if her hair were braided with leather thongs and copper rings. But she bore the same delicate strength, her voice carrying an undeniable warmth that reminded me of Mother. Her presence softened the edge in Sigerd’s demeanour, though his gaze remained sharp.

The chieftain smirked faintly, his gaze shifting back to me. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Einar,” I said quietly. “Son of Aeron Lambert.”

“Aeron… Aeron…” Sigerd muttered, his head tilting in thought. After a moment, he shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell. No matter.” He leaned back, his arms wrapping around his wife again. “I am Sigerd Ravnvald, chieftain of this tribe. This woman is Agretha, my wife. You’ve already met our daughter.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, my voice steady. “Thank you for taking me in.”

“I’m no ‘sir.’ Just call me chief,” he replied, his tone firm. “There's nothing free in the world, you’ll earn your place here. Food isn’t free. You’ll gather supplies or treat to the horses, walk when needed, help when asked, and guard when called. Understand?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Ragna cut in, her voice sharp. “Father, he’s injured.”

Sigerd scoffed, a rough chuckle rumbling from his chest. “So what? He’s a grown man. And you’re married woman. What does your husband think of you speaking up for another man?”

Ragna grunted, but she didn’t back down. “Stigr knows. Einar saved us, and he was wounded for it. And he’s younger than me, for god's sake. He’s like a little brother to me.”

We both knew it was a lie, but I didn’t correct her. It was a half-truth; I somehow saved them but wounded myself, and they did the saying for the rest of the time. The truth would have raised more questions about my injuries than I was ready to answer.

Sigerd studied her for a long moment, then sighed, shaking his head. “Agh, you’re as stubborn as your mother.” He looked at me, “You’ll still gather supplies tomorrow morning, boy. No excuses. Or you can leave the camp tonight.”

“Yes, Chief,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.

“Go on, then,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Ragna, show him where to sleep. We’ll leave first thing in the morning after a warm meal.”

I nodded and used my sword to push myself upright, every movement a reminder of my wounds. As we walked away, their voices faded behind us, but not before I caught a fragment of Agretha’s soft murmur: “He’s their son. Last time we…” The rest was lost to the night, swallowed by the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the trees.

————————————

The caravan where my belongings were stored had been covered for the night, heavy cloth draped to shield against the wind. It was quiet now, the hum of distant conversations fading as exhaustion settled over the camp. Ragna stopped near the entrance, her expression unreadable.

“Good night, Einar,” she said, her voice softer than usual. Before I could respond, she turned and disappeared into a nearby tent.

Inside the caravan, the air was cold and still. The goods piled around me gave a sense of insulation but little comfort. I wrapped the cloak tighter around myself, the dragon crest pressing against my chest. My sword rested beside me, the only weight that felt solid in the emptiness.

The day’s events played in my mind, each memory sharp and raw. My mother’s warm smile is gone forever. Eliza’s voice was silenced before I could tell her the truth.

“Alira,” I said softly, “Be strong.”

I laid back, pulling the hood over my face as the cold seeped into my bones. I clung to my sword, the dragon-headed hilt a cold comfort against my chest.

“Valeria,” I whispered into the dark, the name carrying more weight than I understood. “Where are you? You’re the only one who can show me the way.”

The night stretched on, the whispers of the forest carrying distant voices, the occasional cry of a nightbird breaking the stillness. I closed my eyes, exhaustion dragging me into restless dreams, my thoughts heavy with loss and the shadows of what lay ahead.

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