Vierna tried to get some sleep. Both her body and her mind felt weighed down by everything around her, yet sleep still eluded her. Her thoughts turned to the most immediate problem before her: if someone saw the black veins creeping across her skin, people would start asking questions.

  The same went for Fenric. While his lie wasn’t a serious one, it was still a lie, and he told it under the effects of Hairon root tea. The only reason Loran’del was still tolerating Vierna’s presence in the village was because he had used the same method on her that he had used on Fenric, and Vierna had withstood it. That made it clear Loran’del believed the tea had at least been mostly accurate. Yet even that didn’t stop him from looking at her with suspicion.

  She thought that if Fenric could withstand it, that would destroy whatever credibility that was given by the tea to Vierna. And if it happened, it would give him a justification if he ever wanted to isolate or even kick both Vierna, Lina out of the village. He could even go as far as to kick Fenric out of there.

  There was also Lina’s wound. Sure she could claim she’d been injured while gathering herbs, but even that would invite questions—and questions were always dangerous. The fewer people asked, the better it would be for Vierna.

  But the main problem right now was her obvious mark and the only solution to it was the tea that Lina brew.

  She observed Lina. Her blonde hair, lit by the dim glow of the hearth’s fire, cast a soft golden hue across the room. Lina’s eyes were fixed on the mortar and the open book beside her. She dropped in one herb, ground it carefully, then paused to read the next line.

  Lina sat in a gentle side-sit, knees together with both legs folded to one side, her calves tucked close against the floor. It looked elegant at a glance, but Vierna noticed the small wince Lina tried to hide whenever she shifted—her injured leg still troubled her, even if she pretended otherwise.

  “Lin… shouldn’t you treat your leg first?”

  “I should, but right now my mana was low as ever, I can’t use my healing magic.” She said without breaking concentration.

  She continued preparing the ingredients with quiet determination. She added shavings of dried bark, crushed a brittle sprig into powder, and tapped the mortar gently to loosen the bits stuck to its rim. Every few moments she checked Aila’s notes again, tracing the cramped handwriting with her fingertip before choosing the next herb. Even in her exhaustion, her movements were steady—careful, almost ritualistic—as if willing the mixture to come out right.

  “Done. Now I need to boil it.” Lina said. “Could you help me to the kitchen?”

  “It was only boiling right? I could do it.”

  “I don’t want to risk it Vierna.. I mean I don’t even know if this gonna work. Like I said this medicine only cure a bit of your symptoms.”

  “But… your leg.”

  “It’s okay, please believe in me. Now help me get up.”

  Vierna didn’t ask anything more. She picked Lina up carefully and carried her toward the kitchen.

  Fenric was already there. The room was small and worn, its walls darkened by years of smoke and age. Against the far wall stood a clay stove-firebox built about waist height—rough brick and packed clay forming a simple fire chamber with a flat cooking surface above it. Firewood crackled inside the open mouth below, sending out a steady warmth that softened the chill seeping in from the storm.

  The rest of the kitchen was just as modest. A wooden dining table stood near the center of the room, sturdy but battered from years of use. Four stools surrounded it, though one was noticeably more worn than the others—its legs scuffed, its seat smoothed by constant use. It didn’t take much to guess it was the one Fenric used every day, the only seat in a house meant for more people than currently lived in it.

  A few uneven shelves clung to the walls, holding jars of dried herbs, roots, and vegetables. Clay bowls and wooden spoons were stacked neatly in the corner.

  Fenric stood over the stove, stirring the iron pot that simmered on top. The vegetable soup inside bubbled softly. Though it held no meat—only roots, wild greens, and a scattering of dried herbs—the smell filled the kitchen richly. The sweetness of simmering vegetables mixed with the sharper scent of crushed herbs, rising in warm, earthy waves. Simple as it was, the aroma was comforting, the kind that made an empty stomach tighten in anticipation.

  He glanced over his shoulder when he heard them enter, the firelight catching the tired lines beneath his eyes.

  “Hey… it’s almost ready. Just a bit more,” he said gently.

  “Good. I need to boil these herbs,” Lina replied, setting her mortar down.

  “What’s that for?” Fenric asked.

  “It’s supposed to be a cure for Vierna’s condition, but I’m hoping it might help with the black veins too.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “Really? Is it really that good?”

  “I don’t know… According to Aila’s journal, it’s supposed to cure some of her symptoms. Maybe it could heal the black veins too? I’m just guessing here.”

  Fenric scratched the side of his head. “Okay then. Give me a moment.”

  Vierna set Lina on the most unworn of the stools and pulled up another beside her. They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching Fenric finish the soup. When he finally turned with the pot in hand, he froze.

  He didn’t move. His eyes rested on the two of them sitting at his table—glassy, distant, as if the rain outside had found its way into them. His arm trembled faintly, the pot wobbling just slightly.

  “You alright, Fenric?” Vierna asked.

  “Ah… nothing,” he murmured. He blinked hard, clearing the sheen from his eyes. For a moment, she understood: the sight of someone—anyone—filling those empty stools stirred something old and lonely inside him.

  He set the pot on the table, then placed bowls before the girls and one for himself. He poured the soup with quiet care.

  “The stove’s yours, Aline… or should I say Lina now?” Fenric asked.

  “Aline. Can’t risk blowing my cover, can I?” Lina replied. “Vierna, help me—ah, wait… damn it.”

  “What is it?” Vierna asked.

  “The last step for the cure is distillation. How the hell did I forget that?”

  “Distilling? Then we need an alembic, right?” Vierna said.

  “Yeah. Antlers, do you have one?”

  “My mum had one… but I think it’s broken.”

  “You didn’t take care of it?”

  “I tried cleaning it… and something sounds funny, I don’t know what. Sorry.”

  “That’s just great,” Lina muttered, exasperated. “Now we’ll have to ‘borrow’ Aila’s somehow.”

  At that, the three of them fell quiet, and the room grew still.

  The firebox crackled softly, but its warmth felt thin against the weight settling around them. Fenric’s shoulders drooped, his fingers tapping weakly on the tabletop. Lina let out a long breath, her gaze sinking to her hands as she rubbed her thumbs together in small, anxious circles. Vierna stared into her bowl without really seeing it, her jaw tight, the faint tremor in her exhale betraying her sinking hope.

  Finally, Lina’s voice cut through the muted room. “Oh well! Looking gloomy and fidgeting our fingers won’t do us any good. Lets eat Fenric’s soup. I hope that it was fur free deer boy.”

  Vierna looked at Lina. For a moment, she was unsure what to say. For her, the situation was still not ideal for a joke. She glanced at Fenric, bracing herself for what might come next.

  However, Fenric’s expression softened. He gave a small, lopsided grin—clearly trying to nudge the mood back up.

  “Come now, don’t underestimate me. I don’t eat my own fur after six months of cooking.”

  The reply surprised Vierna, but she decided to embrace this small chance at normalcy.

  “Wait—so back then you did eat your own fur?” Vierna asked, narrowing her eyes.

  Fenric huffed. “Times were hard in Rolbart. Don’t judge me, city girl.”

  The trio laughed a little, forgetting their troubles for a moment as they began to eat.

  “So… how did you two end up dating?” Fenric asked, glancing between them. “Ah—sorry, didn’t mean to pry. Just making conversation, is all.”

  “Haha… I don’t mind telling you,” Vierna said with a smile, Lina shyly mirroring her.

  “Well, I never thought I’d fall for a girl,” Vierna continued, “but Lina was… really romantic back then. I mean, I didn’t know what to say when she told me she loved me.”

  “Vierna…” Lina whispered, her face reddening fast.

  “What? Come on,” Vierna laughed. “You told me you wouldn’t enter heaven unless I was there. You even said you wouldn’t care if I turned out to be evil—because you’d love me anyway. How was I supposed to respond to that?”

  Fenric snorted. “I didn’t take you for a hopeless romantic, Lina. Reckoned you were more of a brute, if I’m honest.”

  “I am not a brute, antlers…” Lina protested, cheeks burning red as she tried to hide her embarrassment. “She… she saved me back then. I was suicidal, and if Vierna hadn’t been there, I probably would’ve ended it. Good thing she reached me first.”

  Fenric’s ears shot upright at the word. “Suicidal?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. His expression darkened as he looked at them, a soft, pained sort of worry settling behind his eyes. He exhaled slowly, as if remembering—truly remembering—what the girls in front of him were.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “Don’t be,” Vierna said. “Maybe you pity us, but you don’t have to. We’ve already made peace with it.”

  “How could you make peace with something like that?” Fenric asked, disbelief tightening his voice. “It must be hard… being you two.”

  “That depends on how you see it,” Vierna replied. Her tone was light, almost cheerful, but the emptiness beneath it made Fenric’s stomach twist. “But right now? We’re stronger than before because of what they did. And honestly, it’s all we ever wanted.

  So really… they’re curing us,” Vierna said while grinning.

  Fenric’s breath caught.

  Their smiles were bright—open, genuine even. But her eyes…

  Its playful, teasing spark was gone, and now they seemed dulled, almost lusterless, even as her grin widened with unbothered warmth. She looked like people who had forgotten what sorrow felt like, or worse, people who had learned to lock it away so deep it no longer reached their faces.

  Lina, however, just sat there, watching Vierna as she spoke. The usual loud, mocking energy was gone. She looked more like a girl who’d simply given up and accepted that this was just how Vierna was. She smiled whenever Vierna addressed her, but she barely replied at all.

  Vierna couldn’t quite read Fenric just then. His face had gone still—too still—and the silence around him felt heavier than the storm outside. He looked at her and Lina as if something inside him had snapped quiet, as if her words had hit him somewhere she hadn’t intended.

  Why was he looking at us like that?

  His gaze lingered on her smile, then on Lina’s, and something in his expression shifted. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t fear. There was something else behind his eyes, something harder to name. The more lightly she spoke, the deeper that look seemed to cut into him.

  His lips parted once, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound followed. He shut them again, jaw tightening, his breath caught somewhere between frustration and grief.

  What does he want to tell me?

  He looked like someone who wanted to grab her shoulders, to demand she stop acting as if her suffering were something simple, something ordinary. Like he wished she would flinch or protest or show anything other than that calm, practiced acceptance she wore so easily.

  But he didn’t say a word.

  He only watched her with that strange, wounded expression—as if he genuinely believed she deserved more than the life she was grateful for, and she didn’t even realise it.

  Finally, he broke his silence.

  “Vierna…” he said quietly, almost afraid of his own voice. “I think you’re wrong.”