Sulis was already up. Kneeling at the table, she was crushing something dark green in a clay bowl. In an apron with more stains than clean spots, she looked like part of the hut itself. Just as old, just as necessary.

  “Up, girl,” she said without turning. “The day won’t wait for us.”

  Without further comment she handed Dara a basket and a small knife with an antler handle. A neat stack of leaves lay on the table. Some smelled familiar; others were sharp, almost stinging.

  “Sort the mint for me. But with your nose, not your eyes. One is true, and the other only pretends.”

  Dara sat and began slowly. She didn’t quite understand, but she sniffed each pair of leaves. It went poorly at first, but with each set she grew surer. The true mint had slightly rough veins, and its scent left a cool trail in her nose. The other was sweeter, like perfume.

  “And remember,” Sulis muttered, “if something smells like honey, ask first, then put it in your mouth.”

  When they finished, Sulis nodded and, without warning, grabbed a jar from a shelf. Something moved inside.

  “Come. I’ve someone to introduce you to.”

  Behind the hut, under a straw lean-to, lay something wrapped in cloth. When Sulis unfolded it, Dara saw a small hare. Gray-brown, trembling, one hind leg slick with blood.

  “Poor thing had bad luck, but we’ll help him.”

  Dara knelt beside her without asking. She wasn’t afraid. She leaned close, trying not to move too quickly. The hare watched her with big eyes, wary but already tired of fear.

  “It’ll sting a bit, but so it goes. Otherwise the wound will rot. Hold tight,” the old woman said, and poured something that reeked of alcohol over the leg.

  Dara pressed her palm to the animal’s flank. It was warm and shaking. Easier said than done, she thought, when the creature started to thrash—she was afraid she’d hurt it.

  “Now you have to listen—this matters. For every three leaves of true mint, one false,” Sulis said, handing her a poultice of crushed greens, something like a mash. “And watch. The body tells you what’s wrong—you just have to understand it without language. Animals don’t speak, and people rarely know.”

  They smeared the mixture well and bound a makeshift dressing. The hare didn’t try to run, as if it knew it didn’t have to.

  When they finished, Sulis exhaled and studied the girl.

  “Brave little thing. Give him a lettuce leaf and let him sleep.” She pulled a green treat from one of the many pockets in her apron.

  A cat stretched lazily by the fence, shedding flakes of clay from its back. In the sun a ring of flies blossomed over the manure—a dance of life that never apologizes for what it is. Sulis handed Dara a slice of bread with white cheese and yarrow. They ate in silence.

  The night was quiet, but not dead. From beyond the hills came distant birds calling, a few cracks in the forest, the hut’s walls creaking—things Sulis waved away with a hand: Old wood talks when it remembers.

  Dara couldn’t sleep. Not from fear, but from a tautness that wouldn’t quite let go. She lay a long time staring at the dark ceiling, then finally sat up.

  Half-dark filled the room; a single candle flickered, small and lazy. She was about to lie back down when she heard a voice. Low. Quiet. Not a whisper, but not ordinary speech either.

  She rose carefully and went to the rear door. She eased it open, so the hinges wouldn’t squeal. The air was cool, soaked with night and something else—tar and rain, though it hadn’t fallen.

  Behind the hut, by a small fire pit, sat Sulis. She didn’t notice Dara—or pretended not to. Moonlight and a few faint flames lit her face. A bowl of dark liquid rested on her knees. Words flowed from her mouth—melodic, utterly foreign.

  It wasn’t any language Dara knew. It didn’t even resemble anything she might have learned. Sulis spoke in a steady, calm cadence.

  Something moved in the liquid. Or so it seemed. Dara held her breath.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  After a while Sulis fell silent. She dipped her fingers, then spat into the bowl and covered it with an old gray cloth.

  Then she turned slightly toward where Dara stood.

  “Can’t sleep, eh?” she asked in her ordinary tone, as if they were talking about the weather. “Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow. Old bones don’t need much rest, but you should have been abed long ago.”

  Dara stiffened.

  “I needed fresh air,” she lied.

  “True, there’s hardly any around this hut,” the granny burst out laughing. “Sometimes it’s better to say nothing. Off to bed, child. In the morning we’re up before the dew stops being useful.”

  Dara hesitated.

  “That tongue—what is it?”

  The old woman looked at her a moment, closely but without a smile.

  “Old. Before people spoke like people. They never cared to learn our speech.,” she said. “Some things you have to speak to so they can obey. But don’t try to remember it. It’ll do you no good.”

  Dara didn’t answer. She turned back inside. As she slipped under the blanket, her heart beat harder than she wanted.

  In the morning Sulis was—as always—one step ahead. The kitchen smelled of warm milk and dill. On the table steamed a bowl of millet with dried plums. Dara ate without a word, watching the old woman, who was stirring something in a clay pot.

  They didn’t touch the night’s subject. Not what Dara had heard, not what Sulis had said. That didn’t mean she’d forgotten.

  Dara kept quiet most of the day. She did everything she was told—peeling roots, spreading herbs on mesh to dry, sorting seeds by scent and color—but her thoughts were elsewhere. She returned to that voice. To that strange speech that felt more like a dream than a language. And to Sulis’s warning: Don’t try to remember it.

  But she already had. Not the words, but their weight. Their sound. The way they slipped under the skin. A melody unknown and, in its way, beautiful.

  Sulis moved through the kitchen with the grace of someone who knows every corner better than her own hands. Her motions were slow, but never hesitant mid-gesture. Sometimes she muttered when something displeased her. Sometimes she hummed softly, as if singing not to herself but to the herbs. Dara watched with growing fascination. In each simple act there was something more. It wasn’t just cooking or drying leaves. Even cutting a carrot into even pieces felt like part of some larger lesson whose meaning hovered just beyond words.

  With each task, tension grew in her. Anxiety mixed with curiosity. Fear, and some new hunger.

  Sulis was more than a herbalist. And though her laugh still sounded like warm honey and her hands smelled of thyme, something had shifted. Dara now saw the cracks—and wanted to know what showed through them.

  She didn’t trust her. Not entirely. But she wanted to learn from her.

  In the afternoon, after they stacked the sacks of dried goods in the pantry, Dara lifted her head and spoke without much plan.

  “I want to learn something. From you. I know you know a lot—and can do a lot.”

  Sulis first laughed from the belly, then looked at her sidelong.

  “And what, if I may ask?”

  “Well, all this. The herbs. Healing. And maybe later… other things. Don’t deny it—I can see,” the girl said, forcing herself to keep a straight face while the old woman kept laughing.

  “Other things? You see much with your eyes and understand little with your mind. Knowledge, once given, can lodge long in the head—even if we’d rather forget. No need to smudge that pretty soul of yours with all these curses.”

  Dara stammered at first. The disappointment vanished quickly. She pressed her lips thin and narrowed her eyes.

  For a moment it seemed Sulis would refuse—brush her off with a laugh or one of those old sayings she used when she didn’t want to answer. But she didn’t.

  “Child,” she said softly, before Dara could pour out a rush of words, “I can teach you herbs. Healing, too. Even how to tell when someone lies. But the other things that prowled your dreams and your shade—no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t need them. Something else will.”

  Dara knew she’d get no more. She only nodded. But she wasn’t disappointed. Inside, she felt something she’d known since childhood, when she’d slipped into the orchard though her father forbade it. Not victory. Decision. A first step. She would be patient—and she would learn all the old woman’s secrets.

  When Sulis fell silent and the room settled again, Dara felt something shift inside her. An invisible, quiet boundary. As if she’d stopped drifting in someone else’s story and taken a step of her own. Small at first, imperceptible from the outside, but in her it pulsed like an echo. She didn’t yet know where that road led, or whether she truly wanted to walk it, but she could no longer look away. It wasn’t only a wish to learn. It was hunger. The kind that doesn’t begin in the belly, but somewhere between the heart and the tailbone. Hunger for knowing—and, above all, for power over herself.

  That evening Sulis handed her something unexpected. While Dara was washing dishes, the old woman slipped into the closet and returned with a heavy, worn volume in a linen cover.

  “Here. For you. Don’t let the title fool you; these aren’t bedtime tales.” She offered the book without further comment.

  On the cover, in faded ink, were the words: Songs and Legends of Forgotten Places That Should Have Been Remembered.

  Dara opened to the first page. Her mother had taught her to read and knew a few stories, but who came up with a title like that?

  She flipped a few pages, frowning. There were few illustrations, and the text was so small she had to squint. She sighed softly. She’d hoped for something else—something that would let her understand more at once. Instead she’d gotten children’s tales. She slid a finger between the pages and shut the book with a soft tap. Maybe tomorrow she’d find something in it that struck deeper.

  The book had to be a hundred years old, at least. It smelled of dust, black ink, and cut greens.

  “Read slowly,” Sulis said, ignoring her displeasure. “Some words need chewing before you swallow.”

  She was alone again. Only her, the quiet, and the book. She thumbed through it once more—but curse it, there really was nothing here but stories.