Week 3 to Week 4

  Dragging a half-dead magical warg up the stairs of The Disenchanted Cauldron was the sort of logistical nightmare that made Callie nostalgic for the infinitely more sensible bureaucracy of the liminal Library.

  She and Briar managed it mainly by brute force and stubbornness: Callie pushing from behind, Briar coaxing the beast’s head forward with a steady stream of nonsense and the occasional scrap of dried fish. The warg’s body filled the corridor like a spilled bag of coal, all corded muscle, jagged fur, and low, threatening noise. There was a muzzle over its mouth and pieces of leather over its claws but that wouldn’t protect them if it decided to roast them alive.

  They wrestled it into her apartment just after midnight. There was no room to spare.

  The Cinder-Fury Warg sprawled across the narrow room, chained to the base of a support beam. Every time Callie approached, it bared its teeth and made a sound like a forge about to blow.

  Callie sat on the floor, breathing hard. “You realize,” she said to Briar, “this might be the worst idea I’ve had in three lives.”

  Briar wiped her brow, grinning. “He’s a real beauty. And he stinks! Most people would have put him out of his misery.”

  “Most people are smarter than me,” said Callie, though she couldn’t keep the fondness out of her voice. “And that smell: Hydrogen Sulfide, cadaverine, and putrescine—it’s the smell of rotting flesh.”

  “Are those real doctor terms or did you must make them up?”

  The warg’s coat was a wonder in its own right. Up close, the fur wasn’t black, but a deep, mutable gray, threaded through with streaks of ashen white and rust. Where it had been scorched or torn away, raw muscle showed; darker than any dog’s, and hot to the touch. The beast’s eyes tracked her every movement, two embers flickering in the darkness.

  The room filled with the scent of metallic blood, undercut by the astringency of her medical supplies.

  She unpacked her tools: a suture kit she had commissioned, a jar of honey, a roll of clean linen, several vials of herbal distillate. “Let’s get started,” she said, and rolled up her sleeves.

  Briar hovered, ready with a length of rope, and waited for Callie’s signal.

  “Hold him steady,” Callie said. She reached for the hind leg first, the one splinted with a length of driftwood, and wrapped with what looked like the world’s saddest attempt at a bandage. “Sorry, boy,” she murmured, and with a flick of the wrist, she sliced the bandage open.

  The warg twitched weakly, but Briar was quick and strong; she pinned the beast’s neck, careful to keep clear of the makeshift muzzle.

  “Good,” said Callie. She peeled back the sorry excuse for a splint, exposing the wound. The bone hadn’t shattered but the muscle had torn badly, and the gash was full of blackened pus.

  Callie cleaned the wound with warm water, then poured a few drops of disinfectant over it. The warg jerked but did not cry out. Callie could see intelligence in those eyes, a sharpness that seemed to say: I will remember this.

  She set to work, cleaning out the debris, then packing the wound with a poultice of comfrey and dried yarrow. She splinted the leg again, this time with a real brace and proper tension.

  As she worked, a golden notification hovered in her peripheral vision:

  [500,000 XP: Monster Healing! x500 bonus]

  Callie nearly dropped her needle. “Thanks for the encouragement,” she muttered.

  “Who you talking to?” said Briar.

  “Just the system,” said Callie.

  She tied off the bandage, then set about cleaning the burns and lacerations along the warg’s back. Some were old, scarred over and puckered, but a few looked fresh, probably from the chain and the merchant’s rough handling. Callie dabbed each wound with honey, then wrapped the whole torso in linen strips. Every major task completed was greeted with yet another notification.

  [500,000 XP: Monster Healing! x500 bonus]

  The total amount of XP earned topped out at around 1,500,000XP at which point the notifications stopped sounding. Callie wasn’t really counting but in the back of her mind she was wondering if this was the part where she would become the overpowered healer protagonist of the story. Or not.

  By the time Callie reached the warg’s head wound she felt her hands trembling. Not from fear, but from exhaustion.

  “Last one,” she said, more for herself than the warg. She cleaned the wound thoroughly, then, with infinite slowness, stitched the gash with catgut. The animal’s head was heavy and hot, but it let her work, blinking slowly, tongue lolling from fatigue.

  When it was over, Callie sat back, wiped her brow, and regarded the beast. “You’ll live,” she said, half-expecting the warg to lunge at her in gratitude.

  Instead, it laid its head down and closed its eyes. The fur along its ribs rose and fell with even, if shallow, breaths. She could see the faintest trace of a smile on Briar’s face.

  “You’re a wonder,” Briar said. “Never seen anything like it. I mean, I’ve patched up dogs, but…”

  “I won’t let it get to my head,” said Callie, but she felt something warm in her chest.

  They left the warg chained in the next room, which doubled as a small office.

  Briar stretched out on a spare mattress and fell asleep almost instantly. Callie pulled her own blanket over herself and drifted. The night was alive with the warg’s breathing, a low, rumbling purr that vibrated through the floor.

  ***

  She slept deeply, and when she woke, it was to the sound of Briar humming in the kitchen and the scent of boiling water.

  Callie swung her legs off the cot and walked over to check on her patient. The warg was awake, watching her with an unnerving steadiness. Its wounds looked cleaner. When she entered, it bared its teeth, not a threat, but a warning. She approached anyway.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Callie said. She crouched, examining the splint. No swelling. The wound had drained properly overnight. There wasn’t much data on warg physiology but they probably had a form of accelerated healing like many monsters.

  Briar poked her head in, holding a battered tin cup. “He let me touch his head,” she said. “Didn’t even growl.”

  “Keep an eye on him,” Callie said. “If he starts favoring the other leg, let me know.”

  They worked in shifts. Briar took care of feeding and cleaning, keeping the warg comfortable. Callie checked the wounds, changed the dressings, and kept meticulous notes when she wasn’t tending to the clinic and apothecary.

  ***

  After four days, the creature could stand on its own. After a week, it could limp from one end of the kitchen to the other without falling.

  Briar named it Ember, for the glow in its eyes and the way it shed tiny sparks when agitated. Callie pretended not to care, but she caught herself watching the warg at night, admiring the way it moved with dignity despite its injuries.

  On the morning of the tenth day, as she re-checked the sutures, a warm rush of sensation flooded her mind. It was a delayed level up, as if the system had just decided it was alright to give her twenty new levels.

  [LEVEL UP: Healer Level 25!]

  Callie sat down hard on the floor, staring at the gold text. She tried not to smile, but it crept up anyway.

  “What’s got you grinning?” Briar asked, entering with a bowl of breakfast mash.

  “Nothing,” Callie said. “Just thinking.”

  She opened the status window in her mind and skimmed the skill tree. It was, as she suspected, a joke. The progression from Level 1 to 10 was a parade of minor upgrades and dubious passives.

  At Level 10, she got “Bone Setting” [Immobilize and align broken bones. Healing time reduced by 50%] and “Iron Stomach” [Immune to foodborne illness and mild environmental toxins].

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  At Level 15, she had unlocked the ability ”Purify Water”—which would remove biological contaminants from 1 liter of water—and a pathetic passive skill: ”Vitality Sense”—Detect fever, internal bleeding, or magical corruption by touch. Nowhere did the skill tree mention real magic until Level 15 and 20, and even then, it seemed limited to Dungeon Nursing skills; not that she had anything against nurses.

  The first proper skill occurred at Level 25:

  Active: Mend Flesh – Channel faint green mana to seal shallow wounds. Restores 15 HP instantly.

  Passive: Resilient Touch – Your healing actions grant +10% resistance to disease for 1 hour.

  It was obvious to her that a healer in this world would be nearly useless in a dungeon. The class was a support role, and a strictly underpowered one at that. Adventuring as a healer would be as good as saying, “Just kill me now, why don’t you?”

  Callie felt a sudden, overwhelming certainty that her old boss—Belus, the most efficient and least imaginative architect in the Library—had designed this system personally.

  “Of course,” she muttered. “Who else would make an entire skill tree out of common sense and unpaid overtime?”

  She closed the window, stood up, and approached Ember, who regarded her with something like respect.

  “You want to go outside?” she asked. The warg wagged its tail, once, and then went very still.

  “Tomorrow,” said Callie, ruffling the fur behind its ears. “You need one more day.”

  Briar watched from the doorway, a half-smile on her lips. “He likes you.”

  Callie shook her head, but she felt the warmth in her chest return. “Everyone likes their healer,” she said, stroking her chin. “Until they don’t.”

  They shared a look; then Briar said, “You’re going to need more food for him. He’ll eat twice as much once he’s moving.”

  Callie groaned. “Of course he will. I’ll add it to the list.”

  She went to the window, watching the town wake to a new day. The lake glittered in the sun, the wind carried the faint sound of laughter from the dock, and above it all, a plume of smoke curled from a chimney near the market square.

  Callie smiled, just a little. Maybe the system was rigged. Maybe her old boss was laughing at her. But for the first time since arriving in this world, she didn’t mind. After all, she’d just saved a life. And that, whatever the skill tree said, was worth something.

  ***

  That night, Callie put together a dinner worthy of a newly-rehabilitated magical predator: half a loaf of black bread, a wedge of sweet goat cheese, and a big pot of vegetable stew liberally dosed with marrow bone and a hint of lakeweed. The table near the window was just big enough for two, if one of them didn’t mind perching on an overturned crate.

  Briar sat cross-legged and watched Callie ladle the stew. “Smells amazing,” she said, accepting a bowl with both hands. “You sure you don’t mind sharing?”

  “I’m not paying much for your services,” said Callie. “It’s only fair.”

  She set a small pile of silver coins in the middle of the table. Briar looked at them with mock greed, then swept them into her pouch without counting. “Always good to have coin,” she said. “Father says it’s better than luck.”

  Callie smiled. Ember lay in the corner, half-curled, head resting on its front paws. Its breathing had steadied, and every so often, it opened one ember-bright eye to track the movements at the table.

  They ate in silence, pausing only to tear more bread or refill the bowls. Outside, the wind rattled the window panes, and the world shrank to the warmth of the single oil lamp and the orange glow from Ember’s flank.

  After seconds (for both Briar and Ember), the conversation picked up.

  “So,” Briar said, “what’s next for you and your… friend?” She jerked a thumb at the warg. “Planning to open a monster hospital?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Callie said, half serious. “There’s enough work in this town to keep a dozen clinics open. I could do with less adventure and more routine.”

  Briar considered this, head tilted. “You don’t sound like most people who come here from the cities. Most want to make a name, or get rich.”

  “I did that already,” Callie said, thinking about her old life. She wiped her bowl clean with a chunk of bread, then added, “It gets kind of empty after a while.”

  Briar snorted. “Too many rules in the city for the likes of us.”

  “I like rules,” Callie said, surprising herself with the honesty. “But only if they’re good ones.”

  They both laughed at that. Ember, not wanting to be left out, made a small grumble, then fell asleep again.

  As they cleared the bowls and the remains of dinner, Briar’s eyes wandered to the far corner of the room—the one spot not crowded by books or medical supplies. There, against the wall, stood a tiny altar. It was barely more than a shelf, but on it rested a clay idol of a woman’s face, features exaggerated: broad, smiling mouth, eyes half-lidded in contentment, hair billowing like sea foam. Surrounding the idol were a pair of painted shells, an unlit incense stick, and a blue glass bead.

  Briar set her spoon down. “Is that Abyssa? You pray to her?”

  Callie glanced over, caught off guard. “Sometimes,” she said, “if it feels right.”

  Briar’s face darkened. “Most people in Esharra don’t.”

  Callie shrugged, unsure where this was going. “She’s helpful. And friendly.”

  Briar’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “Friendly?” She said the word like it was poison. “They told me people from the west were different, but that’s…” She shook her head. “That’s not how anyone I know would describe her.”

  Callie studied Briar, then the idol. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d stolen the only decent Abyssa statue in the world. Back in the Library, the altars were always immaculate: polished, well-kept, replenished with fresh fruit or wine. Here, the statue looked almost out of place. She’d “borrowed” it from the liminal Library before leaving; together with three official blue ledgers and a spool of gold thread which Abyssa had given to her to practice her embroidery work. She’d grown fond of the little icon and the odd comfort it brought.

  “Why not?” Callie asked.

  Briar’s face pinched. “Abyssa’s the monster that births all monsters. She’s the reason the lake floods, or the crops rot, or children are born with twisted limbs. They say she once wiped out a whole province because a priest misspoke her name.”

  “That’s not—” Callie started, then stopped. The old, rational part of her wanted to argue, to point out the narrative bias, the way stories twisted to justify misfortune. But Briar’s face brooked no argument; this was not a debate for her, but a truth passed down through bitter generations.

  “She doesn’t love or nurture humans,” Briar said, her voice low, urgent. “She only expects worship out of fear. Her followers are either mad, or desperate, or looking to cause trouble. No one worships her because they want to.” She caught Callie’s gaze. “I like you, Doctor. But if the wrong person saw that... ” She jerked her chin at the idol. “ ...they’d burn you as a witch.”

  Callie stared at the idol. In the afterlife, Abyssa had always been the one to bring pastries to tea, to ask about her day, to listen with the patient intensity of someone who valued the answer. She was more alive than the Administrator, less obsessed with rules, and infinitely more fun. Callie remembered their last conversation: Abyssa had asked, with genuine curiosity, what “blue raspberry” tasted like.

  “Maybe we’re talking about different people,” Callie said, finally.

  Briar looked at her for a long time, then shook her head, skeptical. “Maybe you had a different goddess, in your city. Maybe you didn’t see what she did to the people here.”

  Callie wanted to say: That’s not her. You have no idea. But she kept silent.

  Briar softened, just a little. “Just… keep it quiet, if you don’t want trouble.”

  Callie nodded, and the conversation drifted to safer topics: the new crops in the south fields, rumors of a baby born with two hearts, the fact that Ember had apparently eaten an entire loaf of bread in the time it took them to finish talking.

  *

  Later, after Briar left and the apartment fell silent, Callie lit a short incense stick on the altar. The statue smiled in the dim light, features warping in the heat and smoke.

  She shook her head, not sure what to believe anymore. Maybe, she thought, the world is only as strange as the stories we tell about it. Still, discretion was the better part of valor. Once the stick had burnt down, she covered the statue with a cloth and hid it behind a book and a potted plant.

  But as she lay in bed, Ember snoring gently in the corner, she couldn’t help but remember Abyssa’s laugh: warm, infectious, utterly unthreatening. She would just have to ask her about killing men, women, and children the next time they met.

  ***

  Briar continued to visit as long as Ember needed some form of nursing.

  After dinner each evening, they fell into a rhythm of cleaning up. Briar fetching water from the kettle, Callie drying dishes with the faded blue cloth, Ember snoring just loudly enough to reassure them of his continued presence.

  Briar was the first to break the silence. “My mother says I’m stubborn as an ox,” she announced, stacking plates. “Father says I’m just stubborn.” She smiled at her own joke, then added, “I ran away to be a gatherer when I was sixteen. Couldn’t stand the thought of being chained to a plough.”

  Callie rinsed a bowl, weighing her words. “That’s not uncommon, is it?”

  “For girls?” Briar shook her head. “Most go into weaving, or get married off before they’re old enough to have a say. But I always liked the woods better.” She held up her hands, palms thick with callus. “You get good at surviving, out there. Plants don’t lie to you like people do.”

  “I believe that,” Callie said, and she did.

  Briar leaned against the counter, looking at nothing in particular. “My sisters all stayed. Two of them have kids, one runs the bakery now. I see them in town, sometimes. They say I’m crazy for living on my own. They might be right.” She grinned, fierce and unrepentant.

  Callie finished drying the last bowl and set it on the shelf. “Maybe you just wanted to matter.”

  Briar blinked, surprised. “Maybe,” she said, quietly.

  They tidied the table together, Callie collecting the crumbs for Ember, Briar humming a tune so old and wordless it seemed to have no origin. As Briar reached for a plate, Callie’s fingers brushed hers, bare skin on skin.

  The world did not stop, but something in Callie’s brain did. It was the Meta-Awareness again, a subtle jolt that sent the rest of the room into a soft blur. It seemed almost inexplicable why it had decided to emerge now.

  For a moment, she saw Briar as the Engine did: a thin thread with no connections to the larger story. No destiny. No plot relevance. If Briar vanished tomorrow, the world would adjust its narrative and go on exactly as before. There would be a brief sadness, her sisters would mourn, the village might tell a story, but then it would be as if she’d never existed at all.

  Callie stared at Briar, seeing her anew. The easy confidence. The stubborn hope. The certainty that she could make a life for herself, no matter what the system said. And the system, cruel and efficient, had already judged her irrelevant.

  Briar looked up, puzzled by the silence. “You okay?”

  Callie let go of the plate, careful not to drop it. “No. Just thinking,” she said, her voice thinner than she intended. “Sometimes I forget how arbitrary the world can be.”

  Briar smiled. “The world doesn’t care about people like us, Doctor. You learn to make your own meaning.”

  Callie wanted to say: That isn’t good enough. She wanted to rail against the Engine, to scream that Briar deserved more, that everyone did. But she bit her tongue, bottled the outrage.

  Ember, perhaps sensing the mood, lifted his head. His gaze moved from Callie to Briar and back again, the ember eyes glowing with an intelligence that hadn’t been there before.

  Callie forced herself to smile. “You’re right,” she said. “We make our own meaning.”

  They finished the dishes. Briar wrapped herself in a patchwork cloak and gathered her things, pausing at the door.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  Callie nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  Briar left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Callie leaned back against the counter, feeling every inch of the world’s indifference, and the fragile defiance it took to push back. She wondered if Abyssa would have understood. She thought she might have.

  She looked at Ember, who was still watching her, patient and inscrutable.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Callie said. “We’re all just threads here.”

  Ember snorted and put his head back down, satisfied for now.

  Callie doused the lamp and stared into the darkness, refusing to be invisible, even if the world tried its best.