Amriel's fingers traced the iron ring that hung around her neck—her father's last gift before he'd disappeared into the war and returned a different man. The metal hummed faintly beneath her touch, warmer than it should be.
"Simon," she whispered. "I need Simon."
She cast one last glance at the stranger before reaching for her wool coat. In sleep, his face had softened, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw less severe.
The sight of his unnaturally rapid healing unsettled her more than the enchanted arrowheads she'd removed from his flesh. Whatever he was, he wasn't entirely human.
Amriel shrugged on her coat and cinched her belt tightly around her waist. The worn leather creaked as she slid her bone knife back into its sheath with a quiet rasp. The blade—a gift from Simon—had saved her life more than once. Its familiar weight against her hip offered a small comfort.
As she stepped into the dawn, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click, the world outside appeared washed clean by the night's storm. Mist shrouded the landscape, the sunrise a watercolor impression of gold and pink bleeding through the gray veil. Dew clung to every blade of grass, making the world seem newly formed.
Meeko slipped past her legs and slunk ahead, his dark form melting into the mist-draped grass like a shadow given life.
The path to Simon's house was well-worn, one she had taken more times than she could count. Even in the dim morning light, her feet knew every dip, every rise in the earth. The cold air bit at her skin as she moved, wind threading its fingers through her unbound hair, whipping strands against her cheeks.
What am I going to tell Simon? she wondered, pushing a tangled lock of hair from her face. That I've got a possibly non-human creature sleeping on my floor? That I pulled enchanted arrows out of him and now he's healing faster than any mortal should?
The home Simon and Niamh shared came into view through the thinning mist, modest and sturdy, nestled against the field's edge in a small cluster of similarly sized buildings that housed the village's craftspeople. The scent of hearthfire drifted through the air.
Simon straightened in the doorway, his dark eyes sweeping over Amriel with practiced ease. "You look like hell," he said by way of greeting, a smile belying the blunt words.
"Good morning to you too," she replied, pushing a tangle of wind-whipped hair from her face. "Are you going to invite me in, or do I need to look more pathetic?"
He chuckled, stepping aside. "Come in before you scare the children."
Inside, the Leodris home radiated the comfortable chaos of family life. Mismatched furniture crafted with care rather than sophistication filled the main room, all arranged to face the central hearth where a fire already crackled.
Three-year-old twins, Ava and Chloe, sat at the ash-wood table that Simon had crafted himself, dressed and ready for the day, their small faces alight with curiosity and their dark curls bouncing as they chattered over steaming porridge.
At the hearth, Niamh turned, her face breaking into a warm, easy smile that crinkled the corners of her sea-green eyes, "Perfect timing! Please join us for breakfast! I've just made enough for an army, and Simon only eats like half of one!"
The glow of the fire made her dark red hair shimmer like burnished copper, and even from the doorway, Amriel could smell whatever she was stirring in the pot. The rich, comforting aroma of oats simmered with cinnamon and honey made Amriel's stomach growl, a sudden reminder that she'd eaten nothing since the previous day's lunch.
"I heard that," Simon muttered.
"You were meant to," Niamh replied sweetly, already ladling a generous portion into a fresh bowl.
The simple domesticity of the scene—the fire, the food, the casual banter between husband and wife—felt surreal against the strangeness Amriel had left behind in her cottage. For a moment, she considered saying nothing, simply sinking into the offered chair and pretending everything was normal.
She wanted to say yes. To sink into one of the worn wooden chairs, to accept a steaming bowl, to let the familiar cadence of the twins' chatter wash over her. To pretend, just for a moment, that her world hadn't just recently tilted on its axis.
Instead, responsibility gnawed at her.
"I'd love to stay, Niamh, but I have a bit of a situation back at the cottage." Amriel kept her voice light, but the words tasted uneasy in her mouth. "I need Simon's help for a moment. Can I borrow him?"
"Of course," Niamh said, already moving toward the hearth. Her skirts swished around her ankles as she reached for a cloth to protect her hands from the heat. "I'll pack his breakfast to go. Can't have him working on an empty stomach, whatever it is you need doing."
The easy acceptance warmed Amriel. No invasive questions, no demands for explanations she wasn't ready to give. Just trust, built over years of friendship—the kind that had seen her through her father's death, her mother's abandonment, and the sometimes seemingly impossible task of finding her place in the world.
"I'm right here, you know," Simon drawled, pausing mid-boot tie. His dark eyes glinted with humor, but a flicker of concern crossed his face when Niamh's expression shifted.
"Are you alright, Riel?" Niamh asked, brow knitting together as she studied Amriel more closely in the warm light of the kitchen. "You look a bit pale. Does this have to do with whatever was bothering you yesterday?"
Amriel hesitated, weighing how much to reveal.
Technically, yes. The tome, the prophecy, the Khasta Vhar—it all tangled together in the mess she hadn't yet sorted in her own mind. And now the man in her cottage, the way none of it made sense…
She wasn't ready to unravel that knot. Not until she had more answers.
"Yeah," she admitted, exhaling slowly. "A little."
Simon straightened, his boots forgotten. The playfulness evaporated from his expression, replaced by the quiet intensity that had made him the steady center of their trio since childhood. "What happened yesterday?"
There it was—the concern in his voice, the same steady presence that had stood beside her through every difficulty. He would listen if she told him. He always had.
But the words felt too heavy to say aloud.
Niamh's hand settled briefly on Simon's arm, a silent communication born of years together. She nodded once to Amriel, reading the tension in her face the way only someone who had known her for years could.
"In that case, let me pack some food for you, too," she said simply.
"Thank you." The gratitude was genuine, even if the forced smile wasn't. "I'd really appreciate it. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
Simon scoffed, slipping his boots on properly this time. "And you wonder why you look pale."
Amriel ignored the jab. "I won't keep him long. Just need some brute force."
Simon let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm right here," he reminded them, though his smirk softened the complaint. "And I have ears. Functioning ones."
Niamh shot him a grin over her shoulder as she ladled steaming oats into wooden travel bowls. "Ah, well, brute force he has plenty of. Just don't ask him to roast a chicken. That's where things fall apart."
Simon pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know, that damned chicken refused to cook properly. I was as much a victim as you."
The memory pulled a quiet laugh from Amriel—Simon standing bewildered in the kitchen, smoke billowing around him, holding a chicken that was somehow simultaneously burned on the outside and raw within. It had been midsummer, too hot for a proper fire, and he'd insisted on trying a new roasting method he'd heard about from a traveling merchant. The result had been spectacularly inedible.
For a moment, the cloud of worry that had followed her since yesterday lifted. This was what she needed—the easy banter of friends who knew each other's flaws and loved each other anyway. If only life could remain this uncomplicated.
Niamh laughed, shaking her head as she reached for the wooden bowls stacked neatly on the shelf. "Just promise me you'll get him to work on time." She handed Amriel one of the filled bowls, the aroma of honey and cinnamon rising with the steam. "I know how it can get when you two get into one of your projects."
The rich scent of clotted cream filled the kitchen, and Amriel's stomach betrayed her with an audible growl. She hadn't even realized how empty she felt until now. Her thoughts had been too full.
"I promise," Amriel said, taking the food. The warmth seeped through the cloth wrapped around the bowl, a small comfort against the chill morning. "Shouldn't take long."
"Still here, ladies. Still here," Simon chuckled and shrugged on his coat, the worn leather creaking slightly as he moved. The garment had been a wedding gift from Niamh's father, and though it had seen better days, Simon wore it with the same pride as when it was new.
He pressed a quick, loving kiss to the middle of Niamh's upturned brow before ruffling his daughters' hair. They squealed in protest, swatting at his hands, but their laughter followed him as he moved toward the door.
Amriel followed him, food in hand, feeling suddenly like an intruder on this family tableau. She'd always been welcome in their home, but moments like these reminded her of what she did not have—the foundation of a family, the certainty of belonging.
When Simon pulled the door open, a gust of fresh morning air rushed in, dispelling the warm cocoon of the kitchen. Reality waited beyond the threshold—cold and uncertain, filled with questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
Simon stepped aside, sweeping an arm toward the door with an exaggerated flourish. "After you, trouble."
She hesitated for half a second, her gaze lingering on the warmth and safety of the kitchen. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped out into the cold.