Amriel hesitated. Perhaps a walk would clear her head, help her make sense of everything that had happened.
"I'm not sure I should leave," Amriel said, glancing back toward the cottage. "He's still unconscious, but—"
"Oh yes, the dead weight you needed Simon's help with," Niamh mused, "I need to see this man. Simon was oddly cryptic about him."
Before Amriel could protest, Niamh had already pushed open the cottage door and stepped inside. Amriel followed, a faint sense of unease prickling along her spine.
"Well, I can see why you let him in," Niamh said, staring down at the man sleeping in front of the hearth. "At first I didn't understand, but now, now I can see."
The warm, crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the small cottage as Niamh and Amriel stood side by side, mirroring the earlier scene when Simon had been there.
"I—" Amriel began, but Niamh was already brushing past her, drawn by curiosity as inevitable as the tides.
"I can't approve, mind you, but I can definitely understand." Niamh balanced her basket on her hip, eyes sparkling with equal parts concern and mischief. "Simon mentioned you'd taken in a stray, but he failed to mention certain... details."
Amriel shot her friend a sideways look, but Niamh's focus remained fixed on the sleeping figure, taking in his rugged features and tousled dark hair with undisguised interest.
Meeko, having just awoken from his nap in the sunbeam, stretched languidly before padding over to wind his way around the legs of both women. His purr filled the quiet cottage, a soothing counterpoint to the tension Amriel felt building in her chest.
"I didn't exactly have a choice," Amriel said, reaching down to scratch Meeko behind his ears, grateful for the distraction. "He kind of let himself in. Besides, I had too, he was injured—badly."
"Of course you did." Niamh's voice softened with understanding. She knew better than most how seriously Amriel took her healer's oath—to turn away anyone in need was unthinkable, "Though, with a face like that, I imagine there are plenty of women who would have made the same choice," Niamh added with a teasing grin as she leaned down to stroke Meeko's soft fur.
The forest cat settled himself comfortably between them, basking in their attention with regal acceptance of his due.
"Niamh!" Amriel rolled her eyes, though she couldn't keep the smile from her voice. Niamh's good humor was infectious, even in the strangest circumstances. "It wasn't like that."
In truth, Amriel hadn't really paid much attention to the man's physical appearance beyond what was necessary for her healing work. When he had first arrived on her doorstep, he had been someone in need of her help—nothing more, nothing less. But now, seeing him through Niamh's appreciative gaze, she found herself noticing details she'd overlooked: the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, the way his hair curled slightly at the temples.
Not that it matters, she reminded herself. He could be the most handsome man in the world and still be dangerous
The morning sun warmed Amriel's face as she walked beside Niamh along the rutted path toward the market. Despite the pleasant weather, a heaviness had settled between her shoulder blades, a tension that wouldn't release no matter how she rolled her neck.
Niamh's sidelong glance wasn't subtle. The sunlight caught in her red hair, setting it ablaze against her pale skin.
"You're doing it again," Niamh said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since leaving the cottage.
"Doing what?"
Niamh stopped abruptly, planting herself directly in Amriel's path.
"That thing—" Niamh gestured vaguely at Amriel's face. "Where you're thinking so hard I can almost hear your brain grinding."
Amriel sidestepped her friend, continuing down the path. "Nothing. I'm just tired. Spent half the night making sure our unexpected guest didn't bleed to death on my floor."
"Bullshit." Niamh fell into step beside her, matching her stride for stride. The leather of her well-worn boots creaked with each determined step. "You've been off, even before your mysterious, handsome bleeder showed up."
A small group of village children raced past them, squealing and laughing as they chased a spotted dog down the path. Amriel watched them, grateful for the momentary distraction. How simple their world seemed—untouched by prophecies, by languages that shouldn't make sense, by strangers with emerald eyes who appeared during storms.
"I don't want to talk about it," she said finally, kicking at a loose stone. It skittered down the path, bouncing into the tall grass that bordered the trail.
Niamh let the silence stretch between them, the only sounds their footfalls and the distant calls of merchants setting up their stalls. Just when Amriel thought her friend might have relented, Niamh spoke again, her voice softer but no less determined.
"Riel." She touched Amriel's elbow lightly. "It's me. Whatever it is—however strange or impossible—you can tell me.
Something in her tone—the complete absence of judgment—made Amriel's chest tighten. Niamh had been there through everything: her father's death, her mother's abandonment, her struggle to find her place at the Lyceum. If anyone would believe her, it would be Niamh.
"I'm worried," She continued, "You've looked like you've seen a ghost these past few days."
"Does a dead language count?"
Niamh's steps faltered. "I beg your pardon?"
Amriel scanned the empty road ahead and behind. An old cart rumbled in the distance, but they were otherwise alone. Still, she lowered her voice further.
"The Lygeness Tome, in the Illumination Tower," she whispered, voice barely audible above the rustle of wind through the roadside grasses. "I can read it."
"The dusty thing behind the glass?" Niamh's brow furrowed. "With all the weird symbols no one's been able to decipher for...what, five thousand years?"
Amriel nodded.
"Since when?"
"Yesterday morning." Her tongue felt too large for her mouth, clumsy with the confession. "I was just looking at it, like I've done dozens of times before, and suddenly—" She made a small, helpless gesture with her hands. "I could understand it. Every symbol, every line."
Niamh stared at her, searching her face for any sign of jest. Finding none, she exhaled slowly.
"Well, shit," she said finally. "That's either the most incredible thing I've ever heard or..."
"The most terrifying?" Amriel supplied.
"I was going to say 'bizarre,' but terrifying works too." Niamh tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. "So what does it say? Please tell me it's something harmless, like ancient bread recipes or erotic poetry."
A laugh bubbled up in Amriel's throat, too fragile to fully form. "If only. I think... I'm pretty sure it's a prophecy."
"Of course it is," Niamh groaned, running a hand through her hair and dislodging several fiery strands from her crown of braids. "Because nothing written in a dead language is ever just an instruction manual for the castle's lavatory system, is it?"
They crested the hill, the city gates coming into view. The early market was stirring to life; colorful awnings unfurled over stalls while farmers arranged their produce in careful displays.
"So, what kind of prophecy are we talking about?" Niamh continued, adjusting the satchel strap cutting across her shoulder. "The usual 'darkness is coming, prepare for doom' variety? Or something more creative?"
Amriel hesitated, and then, as if the words themselves refused to be hidden away, the prophecy of the tome of Lygeness tumbled forth, flowing from her memory, smooth as water over stone:
When silver fire rains from the heavens and shadows stretch beyond the breaking dawn,
When the hymn of forgotten stars is swallowed by silence. When the last of the Starlight Witches falls—The door to Eternity shall open.
And from its boundless depths, the patient shall emerge— those who have kept endless vigil. Destinies shall unravel as easily as they weave them anew.
Beware, for not all who enter shall return, And those who do may never be the same.
Silence stretched out between them until Niamh spoke, "Well, shit. What in all the gods are Starlight witches? A Door to Eternity? Are you sure this isn't just some ancient fantasy story?"
Amriel shrugged, "I've thought about that. It might be. But, what if it's not?"
Niamh studied her face, the morning light casting half of it in shadow. "Have you told anyone else?"
"Who would I tell?" Amriel scoffed, the sound harsh even to her own ears. "The Archivists who've dedicated their lives to deciphering that tome, only for some nobody herb collector to waltz in and claim she can read it? They'd think I was mad or lying."
"Or both," Niamh agreed. After a moment, she added, "What about Mara?"
Their friend from the Lyceum was studying to become an Archivist, a task well suited to her.
"Not a bad idea." Amriel nodded. "I was also thinking of going to see Kortana."
Niamh stopped abruptly. "Kortana? The witch who smiles like she's deciding which part of you to eat first? Absolutely not."
"She knew my mother—"
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't trust her," Niamh insisted. "Start with Mara. She's read half the library; if anyone's heard of Starlight Witches, it's her."
Amriel nodded slowly. The weight on her chest had lightened, if only slightly, just from sharing the burden. "I'll see her tomorrow after class."
"Be careful, Riel," Niamh said suddenly, her voice low and serious. "I don't know what this means—the tome, the prophecy, the stranger who appeared during the worst storm in years—but none of it feels like coincidence."
"I will," Amriel promised, meaning it.
They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the tension between them easing. Ahead, the city gates stood open, welcoming travelers and merchants. The guards looked bored, barely glancing at those entering, their spears held loosely in sun-browned hands.
As they approached the gates, Niamh finally spoke, "So you're sure it's not a poop shoot manual? Because, really, nothing would make my day like knowing thousands of stuffy Archivist's spent their lives pouring over how to prevent sewage blockages."
The northern open-air market was already alive with movement and color. Merchants bustled about, arranging their wares—bolts of richly dyed fabrics, bundles of dried herbs, polished trinkets that caught the firelight. Voices rose in an overlapping hum, the calls of vendors mingling with the laughter of children weaving between carts.
And the smells—gods, the smells.
Warm bread, sharp spices, the sweet perfume of ripe fruit. Somewhere nearby, someone was roasting chestnuts, the nutty aroma curling through the crisp evening air. Amriel's stomach growled in response, low and insistent, and she shot Niamh a sheepish look.
"Lonny's raisin tarts are calling my name," she said, already angling toward the stall.
"You and your sweet tooth." Niamh shook her head, but followed willingly. "Some things never change, prophecy or no prophecy."
Ahead, Lonny's bakery stall beckoned, golden-crusted pastries arranged in tempting rows. The rich scent of cinnamon and baked apples wafted toward them. Amriel could already taste the sweet, sticky raisins melting on her tongue.
"Good morning, Lonny!" they called in unison as they approached the stall.
Lonny Miller, a stout woman with flour-dusted hands and a perpetually knowing smile, looked up and her weathered face brightened at the sight of them. "Ah, I was wondering when you two would show up." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I've been holding back the best batch just for you two."
"You're a treasure, Lonny," Niamh declared, already fishing a copper coin from her pocket.
"Actually, before you start stuffing your faces," Lonny said, her voice dropping slightly, "Amriel, I've got something I'd like you to take a look at. Bit of a rash that won't quit. Thought you might know what to do for it."
Amriel blinked, momentarily disoriented by the shift in conversation. After prophecies and bleeding strangers, a simple skin complaint seemed almost laughably mundane.
"Hm, sounds like a problem for Riel," Niamh said, already backing away. "I'll go see if Greg has those yellow potatoes the girls keep asking for." She grabbed a tart, winked at Amriel, and disappeared into the crowd.
The small back room smelled of flour and yeast, sunlight filtering through the single grimy window. Amriel knelt beside Lonny's chair, examining the angry red welts spreading across the baker's calf. She kept her face neutral, but her mind was already cataloging possibilities – fungal growth, allergic reaction, parasites.
"When did you first notice this?" Amriel asked.
Lonny winced. "Yesterday. Started as an itch, now feels like my skin's on fire." She scratched absently, then stopped when Amriel frowned. "That bad?"
"Don't scratch. Makes it worse." Amriel looked closer. The pattern was distinctive – clustered, with clear margins. "Did you go anywhere different recently?"
"Just the forest with my grandchildren." Lonny's weathered face softened. "Their mother's expecting again. Thought she deserved some peace."
Amriel waited. There was more to this story.
"We stayed on the paths—" Lonny paused, memory visibly shifting behind her eyes. "No, wait. Gabby chased a rabbit. I had to go after her." She laughed. "Little terror nearly gave me heart failure."
"There it is." Relief replaced concern. "Candara plant. Grows thick beside the main paths. The oil causes exactly this reaction."
"Thank the gods," Lonny exhaled. "Was afraid I'd caught something serious."
"I'll make you a poultice tonight. Should clear it right up," Amriel said, starting to rise. "I'll make some for Gabby too, no doubt she—"
Lonny caught her in a sudden, fierce hug.
Amriel froze. Physical affection remained foreign territory – her mother had dispensed knowledge, not embraces. Her body tensed, unsure how to respond to this unexpected warmth.
After a moment's hesitation, her arms lifted awkwardly, returning the embrace with stiff uncertainty.
"Thank you, dear," Lonny murmured.
Something unfamiliar bloomed in Amriel's chest – a lightness she couldn't name. For once, she wasn't standing apart, analyzing. She was simply... included.
She stepped back, oddly disoriented by the simple human connection.
"Happy to help," she managed, voice steadier than she felt.