The two of them were invited to dine at the plaza, where the wives and children had stayed behind, busying themselves with cooking while their husbands and fathers fought and bled in the forest.

  Long tables had been arranged beneath hanging lanterns. Steam rose from pots of stew, thick with root vegetables and herbs Lydia recognized. Laughter rippled through the crowd, relief loosening voices that had been tight with fear only hours before.

  The night passed in a blur.

  People came and went, stopping to bow, to thank Maera, to thank Lydia too though she never quite knew how to respond. Each time, she dipped her head and murmured something polite, then retreated back to Maera’s side like a shadow that refused to detach itself.

  She didn’t mind.

  Maera was an anchor in a sea of strangers.

  Children stared at Lydia openly. Some waved. One offered her a small roll of bread, which she accepted with both hands, flustered but grateful.

  The families of the wounded thanked them again and again. Hands clasped Maera’s arms. Voices cracked with emotion. Lydia watched it all quietly, unsure where to put herself in this gratitude that felt far too large for what she thought she had done.

  At the edge of the plaza, the village chief stood.

  He was older, broad-shouldered, his posture rigid despite the celebration. He spoke with others, nodded here and there, but never once approached Maera.

  Lydia noticed.

  She tried not to stare, but the distance felt deliberate.

  What sort of beef does he have with Maera? she wondered.

  Maera didn’t look his way either.

  That, more than anything, unsettled her.

  By the time the lanterns burned low and the conversations thinned into tired murmurs, the two finally made their way home. The walk back was quiet, the sea reduced to a dark, rhythmic presence beside them.

  Hest was waiting at the cabin, perched near the door like a sentry. It chirped softly when it saw them, tail flicking once in what Lydia assumed was satisfaction at a duty well fulfilled.

  “Good job,” Lydia whispered, bending to scratch beneath its chin.

  The house felt small again after the noise of the village. Safe. Enclosed.

  Lydia lay down, staring at the ceiling, expecting sleep to take her the way exhaustion usually did.

  It didn’t.

  Instead, the day replayed itself in fragments.

  Blood on Maera’s hands.

  The groan of the wounded.

  The word critical spoken without hesitation.

  Then the image that hadn’t even been hers to see rose unbidden in her mind.

  A bewitched bear.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Something massive. Twisted. Hungry.

  Her breath hitched.

  What if I had run into it?

  What if Maera hadn’t been there?

  What then?

  The fear came cold and sharp, locking her muscles in place.

  Would her new life be cut short just like that? In a forest she was only just beginning to understand? Would there be warning? Or would it simply end, abruptly, unfairly?

  Her hands curled into the blanket.

  In hindsight, Lydia realized she had been far too calm earlier.

  While helping Maera tend to the wounded, her hands hadn’t shaken. Her thoughts hadn’t scattered. When it came time to act, she simply… did. Measured, focused, efficient in a way that surprised even herself.

  It worked.

  Until it didn’t.

  The calm only lasted as long as she wasn’t given space to think.

  Now, alone in her room, the silence pressed in. Lydia pushed herself upright and turned toward the window, pale moonlight spilling across the floor and up the wall. The sky beyond was clear, the moon hanging low and luminous, almost close enough to touch.

  Am I broken? she wondered.

  Most people, she knew, felt something visceral when faced with injured strangers. Horror. Pity. A pull in the chest that demanded tears or prayer or grief.

  She hadn’t felt that.

  They were hurt, yes. She understood that intellectually. She knew helping them mattered. But sadness? Empathy? The kind that twisted your stomach and made your eyes sting?

  They were people she didn’t know.

  How could she mourn what she had no connection to?

  The thought settled heavy and sour in her chest.

  Lydia had first noticed she was… different back in middle grade. That was around the time her peers began to drift away, conversations thinning, invitations quietly stopping. Whispers followed. Then came the teasing. The kind that smiled while it cut, that laughed when she didn’t respond the right way.

  Eventually, she learned to stay quiet.

  Learned that being distant hurt less than being rejected.

  A faint sound pulled her from her thoughts.

  Clink.

  A kettle being set on the stove.

  Lydia hesitated only a moment before slipping out of her room.

  Maera stood in the dim kitchen, moving slowly, deliberately. The fire beneath the kettle glowed low, casting warm light against her tired features. She didn’t look startled when Lydia entered, as if she had known the girl would come.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Maera asked gently.

  Lydia shook her head.

  Maera nodded and reached for a small pouch, pinching out dried leaves and placing them into a cup. When the water was ready, she poured it carefully, steam curling upward, fragrant and soft.

  “Drink,” she said, setting the cup in front of Lydia. “Moonmint. With a bit of duskflower. It won’t erase your thoughts, but it’ll stop them from biting so hard.”

  Lydia wrapped her hands around the cup. The warmth seeped into her fingers. She took a tentative sip, then another.

  Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t panic today,” Lydia said suddenly. “I thought I would. But I didn’t.”

  Maera leaned against the counter, watching her over the rim of her own cup.

  “That isn’t a flaw,” she said.

  “It feels like one,” Lydia murmured. “I didn’t feel sad for them. I helped, but… I don’t know. Isn’t that wrong?”

  Maera considered her words carefully before speaking.

  “My husband and I couldn’t have children,” she said at last. “So we took in those no one wanted. Orphans. Runaways. Children who showed signs of magic early, before the village decided whether to fear them or use them.”

  Lydia looked up.

  “They weren’t all strong,” Maera continued. “Some were fragile. Some angry. Some frightened beyond reason. One of them had an accident during a lesson.” Her voice didn’t waver, but something in her eyes dimmed. “I was the only one who survived that day.”

  The fire crackled softly.

  “Healing,” Maera said, “doesn’t always mean you feel what others expect you to feel. Sometimes it means you keep going when you shouldn’t be able to. Sometimes the scars never fully fade. But with careful treatment, with patience, you can learn to live alongside them.”

  She met Lydia’s gaze.

  “You are not broken. You are cautious. Guarded. That came from somewhere.”

  Lydia’s throat tightened.

  The tea tasted sweeter now.

  When they finally returned to their rooms, the fear had dulled, if not disappeared. Lydia lay back down, exhaustion settling deep into her bones.

  Only then did Hest hop onto the bed, circling once before curling against her side, warm and solid.

  Its purr filled the quiet space.

  And this time, when Lydia closed her eyes, the darkness felt a little less sharp.

  Hest’s rhythmic purr felt nostalgic, like the echo of a long-lost friend she had somehow found again. The sound wrapped around her thoughts, steady and familiar, grounding her in the dark.

  “Good night, pal,” she murmured, already half-asleep.

  Sleep claimed her before the words fully faded, the purring carrying her safely into it.