For the next few hours, the cabin smelled like crushed leaves, hot water, and something sharp that stung the back of Lydia’s nose.

  Maera moved with purpose, setting jars aside, lighting burners, measuring without needing to count. Lydia followed where she could, chopping roots, grinding dried petals, stirring thickening concoctions that looked suspiciously like potions despite Maera’s insistence that such a word was “dramatic nonsense.”

  Lydia wasn’t sure why they were making so much medicine all at once.

  From what she’d gathered over the past few days, Maera typically brewed remedies as needed. Herbs were kept raw for as long as possible; without preservatives, processed medicine didn’t last. It was more efficient to wait until someone actually fell ill or got hurt.

  So why now?

  She wanted to ask. The question hovered on the tip of her tongue every time she handed Maera another vial or strained a steaming liquid through cloth. But Maera didn’t pause, didn’t linger, didn’t invite conversation. Her expression was focused, eyes sharp, hands steady.

  So Lydia stayed quiet.

  She wrote labels carefully, double-checking spellings from the herbalogy book. Her handwriting was slower than usual, deliberate. Something about the atmosphere pressed down on her chest, an unspoken urgency she couldn’t quite name.

  The cabin door finally opened with a knock sharp enough to make Lydia flinch.

  A man stepped inside, breathless, boots muddy. He didn’t waste time on greetings.

  “Twenty wounded,” he said. “Five critical.”

  Maera didn’t even blink.

  “Alright,” she replied, already reaching for the basket of remedies they’d prepared. Her voice was calm, grounded. Commanding in a way Lydia hadn’t heard before.

  She slung the strap over her shoulder and moved toward the door.

  Lydia stood there for half a second, heart pounding, before instinct kicked in. She grabbed her shawl from the hook and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” Maera asked, pausing just long enough to glance back.

  Lydia froze.

  “Oh—um—” She fumbled for words, cheeks heating. “It’s just… a bit chilly?”

  Maera’s gaze lingered. Sharp. Assessing.

  Lydia realized too late that the question hadn’t really been about the shawl.

  She’s asking why I’m coming, Lydia thought, dread pooling in her stomach.

  Her fingers tightened in the fabric. “Am I… is an apprentice not expected to follow their master?” she muttered. “Or—um—are customs different here?”

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  For a moment, Maera said nothing.

  Then she turned away. “Do as you see fit.”

  And walked out.

  Lydia stood there, heart hammering, then hurried after her before the space between them could widen.

  The path sloped downward, the sound of waves growing louder with each step. Lydia’s stomach twisted as the rooftops of the seaside village came into view—weathered wood, stone foundations, nets hanging to dry in the breeze.

  This is really happening, she thought.

  This would be her first time actually stepping into the village. Until now, it had existed as a distant presence—voices carried by wind, figures glimpsed from afar.

  Now it was close. Too close.

  Her palms dampened beneath her shawl. Her thoughts began their familiar spiral.

  What if they stare?

  What if they ask where I’m from?

  What if they can tell I don’t belong?

  She swallowed hard, focusing on Maera’s back. On the steady pace of her steps.

  The village came alive around them.

  Voices rose. Doors opened. People moved with urgency Lydia hadn’t expected—men carrying stretchers, women calling names, children ushered aside.

  The smell hit her first.

  Blood. Salt. Iron.

  Her breath caught.

  Maera didn’t slow.

  They were led into a long, low building near the water. It smelled of smoke and antiseptic herbs, sharp and overwhelming. Beds lined the walls. Some occupied. Some not.

  Twenty wounded.

  Lydia counted without meaning to.

  People groaned. Someone cried softly. Another stared blankly at the ceiling, face pale and slick with sweat.

  Her legs felt unsteady.

  Maera took control instantly.

  “Bring me the fever draughts first,” she ordered. “The pale ones. Now.”

  People moved.

  Lydia stood frozen at the threshold, overwhelmed by sound and motion and the sheer presence of other people.

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.

  She pressed herself against the wall, trying to become small.

  Maera glanced back once, catching Lydia’s eye.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said, not unkindly. “Observe. You’ll learn more here than in any book.”

  Lydia nodded, heart racing, and edged closer.

  She watched Maera work.

  Watched her kneel beside a man clutching his side, hands already stained red. Watched her assess, decide, act—all without hesitation.

  “This will hurt,” Maera said plainly, uncorking a vial. “Drink.”

  The man did, grimacing.

  Lydia flinched as Maera pressed her hands over the wound. She could feel something then—a subtle pressure in the air, a hum beneath her skin.

  Mana.

  Guided. Focused.

  The bleeding slowed.

  Lydia’s breath caught in awe.

  She hadn’t thought healing would look like this. It wasn’t glowing light or dramatic chants. It was quiet, deliberate, exhausting work.

  Time blurred.

  Lydia fetched water when asked. Held bandages. Handed over jars. Her movements were clumsy at first, but no one yelled at her. No one questioned her presence.

  She focused on tasks. On Maera’s instructions. On not thinking about the eyes around her.

  At one point, she noticed a young girl watching her from a bed, curiosity outweighing pain.

  Lydia smiled weakly.

  The girl smiled back.

  Something inside Lydia loosened.

  Hours later, the worst had passed.

  The critically wounded were stable. The others rested. The air felt lighter, though exhaustion weighed heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

  Maera washed her hands slowly, expression unreadable.

  “You did fine,” she said, quietly enough that only Lydia heard.

  Lydia blinked. “I—I mostly just stood there.”

  “And you didn’t faint,” Maera replied. “That’s a start.”

  Lydia huffed a shaky laugh.

  As they stepped back into the afternoon light, Lydia realized her hands were trembling—not from fear, but from everything she’d held back.

  Healing wasn’t heroic.

  It wasn’t glamorous.

  It was heavy.

  And it mattered.

  She followed Maera home in silence, the sound of waves steady beside them.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, Lydia understood something important.

  This wasn’t just a place she was surviving in.

  It was a place where she could help.

  And somehow, that scared her more than monsters ever could.