Work waited. It always did. Besides, it would help ease the guilt that lingered for remaining silent.
She drew her wool cloak about her shoulders, then with a quick slip of her hand freed her long, warm brown hair from beneath it. The wavy strands fell to the middle of her back, and she thought to braid it quickly. But the braid would never hold, the strands too stubborn to stay put.
She grabbed a thin strip of cloth and tucked it in the pocket of her skirt in case she needed it, then stepped outside.
The morning air greeted her with a chill that lingered longer than it once had, the early light still soft as it stretched across the village. Smoke rose from chimneys, and for a moment, everything might have seemed as it always was.
Then the voices reached her. They weren’t loud, nor raised in alarm, but gathered.
Bria turned her head slightly, her attention drawn to a small cluster of villagers not far along the path. They stood close together, their conversation low, though not quiet enough to escape her notice as she moved nearer.
“…came in just a short while ago,” one said.
“Aye, I saw him myself,” another answered. “Wounded, though not nearly as bad as the Hunter had been. Still, he looked like a man who had seen more than he wished.”
“From the forest?” a third asked.
“Where else would he come from?” came the reply. “And alone, at that.”
“A seeker or wanderer, no doubt,” another commented.
“Nay, one look was enough to see he’s a warrior,” someone argued.
“Or a mercenary, careless souls that they are,” one said.
A murmur followed, unease passing between them.
“You think he might have crossed its path?” someone asked.
“If it did, he wouldn’t be here to tell about it,” another said and they all nodded, agreeing.
Bria slowed, her gaze shifting briefly toward them before she continued on.
Whatever had brought the man to Willowmere, it would not remain rumor for long. The healer tending him would find out what happened to him.
“Bria!”
The call came sharp enough to turn her at once.
Old Brenn, a bone keeper, made his way toward her, his stride purposeful despite the years that marked him. His weathered face was set, the usual calm he carried replaced with something more urgent.
“You are needed,” he said without preamble. “At the main healing cottage.”
Bria did not question him. She nodded and turned at once, falling into step beside him as he led the way.
It didn’t take long to reach the main healing cottage. Bria followed Brenn inside and paused only a few steps in.
The space stretched wider than any dwelling in Willowmere, two cottages joined as one. Along one side, beds had beenarranged in careful order, each set apart enough to allow for those who required constant tending—those too ill to rise or too wounded to be moved. The scent of herbs lingered in the air, sharp and familiar, mingling with the steady warmth of the hearth.
Hannah, a fever tender, stood near it, her attention fixed on what she was brewing in the small pot suspended over the flames. Across the room, Arella and Leya, both menders, stood together, their backs turned to her as they focused on the man seated at the long wooden table. Then they parted, revealing the wounded man.
Bria had expected to find him in one of the beds.
Instead, he sat upright, as though refusing the need for one.
The moment she saw him, she stilled.
He was stripped to the waist, his broad shoulders bare beneath the flickering light. A deep gash cut across his right shoulder, the blood dark against his skin, though it had slowed enough to show the wound was sustained recently. Muscle shifted beneath his skin as he held himself steady, his strength evident even in stillness.
