Amriel almost cried at the sight of her cottage where it stood in the distance—sturdy and weather-worn, its stone walls offering a promise of shelter against the tempest.
"Almost there," she panted, the words immediately snatched away by the wind.
Thunder cracked overhead as lightning split the sky, transforming the landscape into stark relief before darkness swallowed it again. Amriel didn't falter. Her rain-soaked braid slapped against her back with each stride, water streaming from it in rivulets that joined the torrents already soaking through her clothes.
With a final surge of effort that sent pain lancing through her overtaxed muscles, Amriel reached the heavy oak door. Her fingers, numb with cold, fumbled with the iron latch before finally wrenching it open. She half-fell inside, using her body's momentum to slam the door shut against the howling wind.
For several moments, she simply stood there, lungs heaving as water pooled around her boots on the flagstone floor. The familiar scents of home enveloped her—dried herbs hanging from the rafters, dry wood stacked by a lifeless hearth.
Safe. For now.
Outside, the deluge hammered against the windows and roof with such force that it sounded like a thousand tiny fists demanding entry. She closed her eyes, pressing her palm flat against the door as though physically holding back the storm. The vibrations of the raindrops traveled through the wood into her skin, creating a counterpoint to her gradually slowing heartbeat.
Amriel's laugh came unbidden, shaky at first before it bloomed into something wild and incredulous. She pressed a hand to her chest, waiting for her breath to return as her back sank against the door. The absurdity of the last few days hit her all at once—like some cruel joke the universe had decided to play.
Ancient prophecies. Khasta Vhar. And now, perhaps, the Fallen themselves.
The weight of it all settled on her and Amriel's laughter died in her throat, leaving only the hollow echo of her breath against the cottage walls. She pressed her back against the door, feeling the rough grain of the wood through her soaked tunic. Her legs trembled—and not just from the sprint through the forest.
"What in all the hells is going on?" She muttered, her voice swallowed by the storm outside.
Just then, a large pair of silver discs, gleaming like moonlight, peered back at her from the shadows of the far side of her single room cottage.
Slowly, Meeko lifted his massive head from his place on her bed, his tufted ears swiveling toward her. He regarded her with the detached curiosity only a cat could master, utterly unimpressed by her rain-soaked state or the tempest howling at the windows. His massive paws flexed, kneading the blanket as if to emphasize how comfortable he'd been before her dramatic entrance.
"Must be nice," Amriel muttered, wincing as she peeled the sodden cloak from her shoulders. Her fingers trembled as she worked at the clasp. "Lounging about while I'm out there getting half-drowned."
Meeko stretched, his spine arching in a languid curve. Each movement was deliberate, almost liquid, muscle rippling beneath his dappled coat of silver and midnight black. He wasn't just larger than a housecat; he moved differently—with the contained power of something wild that had chosen domesticity rather than been born to it.
He leapt soundlessly to the floor and padded toward her, each step placed carefully. Up close, the top of his head reached her hip. He bumped his forehead against her thigh with enough force to nearly buckle her exhausted leg.
The rumble that emanated from his chest wasn't just a purr—it was a physical force that seemed to vibrate through her bones, loosening something knotted deep inside her chest. His chirps followed, half-admonishment, half-greeting.
"I know," Amriel said, her voice softening as she crouched down onto her haunches, despite her protesting muscles. "You're right. I should have listened to you. You felt the storm coming, didn't you?" She sank her fingers into his fur, still warm and dry while she dripped everywhere. The simple contact anchored her, tethering her to this moment, this place. His fur felt like silk against her cold fingers—another small, real thing to focus on.
Meeko only purred louder. Amriel's teeth clattered slightly when he gently butted his head against hers.
Amriel pushed herself upright with a groan. Her cottage surrounded her, small but solid. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters in neat rows—Nythia's organization system that Amriel had never been able to abandon, even after her mother left. The familiar sight brought a bittersweet comfort. How many times had her mother drilled into her the importance of preparation? "The forest gives its gifts when it chooses, not when you need them," Nythia would say while teaching her to preserve and store what they gathered.
This place wasn't grand or beautiful. But it was hers. And that was enough.
Meeko chirped insistently, circling her legs twice before settling down near the empty fireplace.
"Sorry buddy," Amriel said, pushing wet strands of hair from her face. "I have work to do first. The miller's boy can't wait."
She removed the leather pouch from her back as she crossed to her workbench beneath the window. Lighting a single lamp, she untied the gathering bag and carefully emptied its contents.
There, nestled among the other plants, was her prize: the clumps of delicate blue-green heart-shaped leaves of the Horissa Vharia. Even bruised from the journey, they retained their waxy, metallic sheen, almost glowing in the dim light. She was lucky to have found this much when she had. Extremely lucky.
The other herbs she had found would have to wait, she needed to get to work on the Gentle Sleep.
As she set aside the Chaliss Moss, with its feathery fronds, she remembered the first time her mother had shown it to her. She'd been eight, scraping her knee badly on a stone outcropping. Instead of coddling, Nythia had crouched beside her, pointing to the moss growing in the shadow of the rock.
"This is Chaliss," Nythia had said, voice crisp and clear. "It prevents rot and sickness in fresh wounds. Remember its texture, its scent. It may save your life when I cannot." No "Are you alright? No I love you." No embrace. Just knowledge, offered like armor for a world Nythia always seemed to be preparing her for.
A violent gust of wind rattled the shutters, sending a chill draft through the cottage. Amriel's skin prickled with gooseflesh, her damp clothing suddenly unbearable.
"No rest for the wicked," Amriel murmured to herself as she settled in at her work bench. She had to work quickly—the miller's boy wouldn't last the night without intervention. His shattered arm had festered, and needed to be removed immediately but worse infection set in.
She washed and dried the Horissa Vharia leaves before placing them in her clean stone mortar. With practiced movements, she ground the fibrous leaves into a thick paste. The Gentle Sleep was potent medicine—in small doses, it dulled pain; in larger amounts, it brought the deep unconsciousness needed for the most desperate surgeries. Tonight, it would be mercy for the boy while Mirna removed the dead limb.
Carefully, she measured and mixed in a small amount of tallow and dried Yrbaine root to speed uptake into the bloodstream. She portioned the Gentle Sleep into several glass jars, some for Mirna and some for herself, and placed the ones for the healer in her pack.
"I'll be back soon," she told Meeko, who watched her preparations with unblinking attention. "This storm is nothing compared to what that boy faces if I don't get this to Mirna."
She donned her father's old rain-proofed cloak, taking a deep breath before stepping back out into the storm. The valley between her cottage and Mirna's healing house stretched before her, transformed into a silver-gray battlefield.
"Worse before it gets better," she muttered, tucking the precious jars of Gentle Sleep deeper into her leather satchel.
The rain struck her face like tiny needles as she set off at a careful jog, following the worn muddy path. Lightning flashed overhead, briefly illuminating the landscape in stark white light.
Mirna's house appeared through the curtain of rain—a sturdy stone structure with warm light glowing from its windows. Amriel sprinted the final stretch, her lungs burning with exertion. She pounded on the thick wooden door, the sound barely audible over the storm's howl.
The door swung open, golden light spilling out into the rain. Mirna stood framed in the doorway, her silver-streaked hair bound in a practical braid, her weathered face tight with worry.
"Thank the old gods," Mirna breathed, pulling her inside. "Did you find it?"
"Enough for what you need." Amriel reached into her satchel and produced the jars, their contents a soothing blue-green in the warm light of the healing house. "How is he?"
Mirna's face darkened. "Worse. But hopefully I can get to it fast enough," She took the jars with careful hands. "I've prepared everything else. With this, we might save him."
"I'll help you," Amriel said, already removing her cloak.
Together the two healers worked quickly to treat the miller's boy, who, thanks to the Gentle Sleep, remained asleep for the entire procedure. He remained asleep when Amriel had finished washing the blood off and donned her cloak.
Mirna had clasped her shoulder. "Stay. Wait out the worst of it."
Amriel glanced toward the door, listening to the storm's rage. For a moment, the thought was tempting—warmth, safety, the comfort of another's company. But something pulled at her, an inexplicable urgency to return to her own cottage.
"Can't," she said, already refastening her cloak. "Things to finish at home."
Mirna's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing something beneath Amriel's words, but she didn't press. Instead, she wrapped a small loaf of fresh bread in cloth and pressed it into Amriel's hands.
"For your trouble, then. Mind the creek—it's rising fast."
Amriel nodded, tucking the bread into her satchel. With a deep breath, she stepped back out into the storm, the door closing behind her. The rain continued its assault, but something had shifted inside her—a sense of purpose that burned brighter than her fatigue.
She turned her face toward home and began to run.
Meeko was ready and waiting for her when she finally returned to the cottage they shared. Once more he pressed against her leg, gaining her attention before he looked toward the cold hearth, then back at her, intent unmistakable.
Amriel chuckled softly and ruffled his ears gently, "Fine. You've been patient."
Hanging up her rain cloak, she moved to the fireplace, kneeling on the worn hearthstone. The chill from the floor seeped through her wet leggings, but she ignored it. Inside the hearth lay this morning's ashes, completely cold.
As she hung up her rain cloak, her fingers lingered on the damp fabric. The image of the miller's boy's fevered face flashed in her mind. The Gentle Sleep had held him under while they'd done what needed to be done.
"At least I could do that much," she whispered to herself.
She moved to the fireplace, kneeling on the worn hearthstone. The chill from the floor seeped through her wet leggings, but she ignored it. Inside the hearth lay this morning's ashes, completely cold.
From the basket beside the hearth, she selected the driest kindling—small twigs and fibrous bark she'd collected during summer and stored for winter nights. She arranged them into a careful nest, building a foundation that would catch easily and burn steadily.
Thunder crashed overhead, so close the cottage seemed to shudder in response. The shelves rattled, glass jars clinking against each other like nervous chimes. A particularly vicious draft cut through the room, dousing the single lantern she'd lit upon entering.
Darkness swallowed the cottage whole.
"Perfect," she muttered, blinking as her eyes adjusted. "Just perfect."
She could hear Meeko moving nearby, his presence a comfort in the sudden gloom. Unlike her, he could see perfectly well in darkness. She fumbled for the flint and steel she kept in a small pouch by the hearth, fingers closing around the familiar shapes.
The flint felt cold and hard against her palm, the steel striker smooth from years of use. Amriel positioned the kindling, then struck the flint. A spark leapt—brief, bright—then died before touching the tinder.
"Come on," she whispered, striking again.
Another spark, brighter this time, landed among the shavings of bark. A tiny curl of smoke rose, hesitant and fragile. Amriel bent close, cupping her hands around the ember, and blew—soft, steady, patient. The spark flared, feeding on the dry fibers, growing from orange pinprick to hungry flame.
"There you are," she murmured, the same way she might speak to a shy animal coaxed from hiding. "That's it."
She added more kindling, gradually increasing the size of the pieces until the fire was strong enough to accept a small log. The flames spread slowly, licking up the sides of the wood, casting dancing shadows across the stone floor. Heat bloomed outward, a living thing unfurling toward her.
Meeko wasted no time. He circled once, twice, three times before settling himself precisely where the warmth was strongest, his silver eyes half-closed in contentment. His massive frame cast elongated shadows, turning him into something almost mythical in the flickering light.
Amriel remained kneeling, letting the fire's warmth seep into her damp skin. The flames spoke in whispers and crackles, telling stories of the wood that fed them.
"I think we've earned some tea," she said softly, more to herself than to Meeko, though his ear flicked in acknowledgment.
He chirped once, a sound of clear agreement.
"You always know what I need, don't you?" She smiled, running her fingers along his spine as she rose.
Meeko's purr intensified, as if he understood every word.
Amriel moved to the iron hook where her battered kettle hung, lifting it down with practiced ease. The familiar weight of it in her hands was another comfort—simple, tangible, real. She filled it from the water barrel, the quiet splash a counterpoint to the storm's rage outside.
She hung the kettle over the growing fire, then turned toward her shelves of herbs and teas. Her fingers hovered over several jars before selecting a blend she'd prepared weeks ago—morrow for calm, mint for clarity, and just a touch of honey-sweet goldthread to chase away the lingering chill.
Outside, the world might be ending. The prophecy might be unfolding even now.
But in this moment, in this place, there was just fire and warmth and the steady presence of her furry friend. Here, she was safe.
Tomorrow would come with its questions and fears, but tonight, she would allow herself this peace, however fleeting. She would gather her strength in silence and stillness, storing it like the kindling beside her hearth, ready for when she would need it most.