Fifteen years had passed since the night Elysara's world was shattered. Though the memories of that fateful night lingered at the edges of her mind, her waking hours were filled with the calm routine of life in the secluded cottage she now called home.
Nestled on the edge of the forest, the cottage was surrounded by a garden bursting with life. Rows of herbs, flowers, and roots were meticulously cared for, their scents mingling in the air. It was here that Elysara spent most of her days, working alongside her grandmother, Aureth.
"Pass me the thistlewort," Aureth said, her voice steady and matter-of-fact.
Elysara reached for the bundle of dried plants, handing them to her grandmother. "Do you think this will work for Alden's fever?" she asked, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face.
"If it doesn't, the valerian root tincture should," Aureth replied, grinding the herbs into a fine powder. "But thistlewort is usually strong enough on its own."
Elysara watched as Aureth worked, her hands steady and practiced. Despite her age, her grandmother was as sharp and capable as ever, though the deep lines on her face and her silver hair spoke of years of hardship.
"Ely, pay attention," Aureth said, not looking up.
Elysara blinked, realizing she had been lost in thought. "Sorry," she muttered, picking up her own mortar and pestle to mimic Aureth's movements.
"You've got a sharp mind," Aureth said, her tone softening, "but it'll do you no good if it wanders all the time. These herbs won't mix themselves."
Elysara smiled faintly. "I'm just tired, I suppose."
Her grandmother glanced at her. "You've been tired a lot lately. Something on your mind?"
Elysara shook her head. "No, just the usual."
Aureth studied her for a moment but said nothing more.
The sun climbed higher in the sky as they worked, filling the room with golden light. The rhythmic motion of grinding herbs and brewing tinctures filled the air, a comforting routine that Elysara had come to love.
A knock on the door broke the silence.
"Go see who it is," Aureth said, not looking up.
Elysara wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the door. When she opened it, a middle-aged man stood there, his face lined with worry. He held the hand of a young boy, who looked pale and unsteady.
"Good day," the man said, his voice tinged with desperation. "Is Mistress Aureth here? My son—he's been feverish for days."
"She's here," Elysara said, stepping aside to let them in. "Come in and sit down."
Aureth looked up as they entered, her sharp eyes immediately assessing the boy's condition. She nodded to the man. "Put him on the bench," she said, gesturing to a low seat near the fire.
The man did as he was told, and Aureth crouched in front of the boy, her hands glowing faintly as she murmured an incantation. Elysara watched closely, her heart aching at the sight of the sick child.
"It's a fever, but not a common one," Aureth said after a moment. She turned to Elysara. "Bring me the thistlewort tincture and the moonfern leaves. Quickly."
Elysara moved with practiced speed, retrieving the ingredients from their shelves. She handed them to her grandmother, her movements steady and sure.
"Ely?" Aureth's voice snapped her back to the moment.
"Here," she said, passing the herbs over.
The rest of the treatment passed in a blur. Aureth worked with precision, her spells and herbs weaving together seamlessly. When she finished, the boy's fever had broken, and his breathing had steadied.
The father thanked them profusely, pressing a small pouch of coins into Aureth's hand before leaving.
As the door closed behind them, Elysara sighed. "Will he be all right?"
"With rest and care, yes," Aureth said, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "But this was a reminder, Ely. People are struggling more than ever. The land feels wrong."
Elysara frowned. She had felt it too—a strange heaviness in the air, as though the world itself was holding its breath. "What do you mean?"
Aureth hesitated, her eyes shadowed. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Focus on your work."
Elysara nodded, but deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was stirring—something beyond their quiet lives.