Almost like a person, not livestock.
I open the door and step into the beast's house.
Blackwood Fortress is notwhat I expected.
It's built for war—that much is obvious the moment I step into the corridor. Stone walls thick enough to withstand siege. Narrow windows designed for archers, not light. The ceiling is low and vaulted, and everything echoes: footsteps, voices, the distant ring of hammer on anvil.
But it's also... lived in.
I follow the corridor down to a courtyard and stop, blinking in the morning sun.
Soldiers drill in formation, their movements precise and brutal. But in the corner, there's an herb garden—actual herbs, not decorative flowers. Rosemary and thyme and something that might be feverfew. Washing lines are strung between buildings, and I can see tunics and linens flapping in the breeze. The smithy glows red-hot in the far corner, and I can hear the rhythmicclang-clang-clangof metal being shaped.
People live here.
Not court parasites with their perfumes and politics. Not polished predators bidding on human lives.
Just... people. Doing their jobs. Surviving.
A woman crosses the courtyard with a basket of bread. Two soldiers argue good-naturedly over a whetstone. A boy—can't be more than twelve—hurries past with an armload of firewood, nearly trips, catches himself, keeps going.
Normal.
This place isnormal.
I don't know why that surprises me. Maybe because the man who rules it is anything but.
I keep to the edges, trying not to draw attention. A few soldiers glance my way—wary, curious, some outright suspicious—but no one stops me. No one speaks.
I'm a ghost. Fine. I've been a ghost before.
I wander, letting my feet choose direction, and find myself following the scent of herbs and wood-smoke and something medicinal underneath.
The infirmary.
I find it tucked near the kitchens, a low stone building with a red-painted door. The moment I step inside, something in my chestuncoils.
Herbs hanging from the rafters in neat bundles. Shelves lined with jars and bottles, each one labeled in a careful hand. Bandages stacked on a worktable. A mortar and pestle. Surgical tools laid out clean and ready.
This I know.
This I cando.
My hands move before my brain catches up. I'm organizing a shelf of salves—they're out of order, chamomile next to yarrow when it should be alphabetical, who organized this?—when I hear voices outside.
Raised. Urgent.
"—needs stitchingnowor he'll bleed out—"
"Healer's out with the patrol, won't be back 'til—"
"Then find someone who can—"
I'm moving before I think about it, before I remember I'm supposed to keep my head down, before I remember I'm the witch and they don't trust witches.
Two soldiers crash through the door, half-carrying a third between them. The injured one is gray-faced and sweating, clutching his side where blood seeps black between his fingers.
Training kicks in. Instinct takes over.
