The scent of dried sage and crushed lavender clung to the walls of the infirmary, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol and salves. Morning sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting soft golden beams across rows of shelves lined with labeled jars, parchment scrolls, and glass vials.
Arin sat at a wide desk tucked into the back corner, a neat stack of papers on one side and an inkwell on the other. Her fingers moved steadily, copying out inventory logs from Isolde's chaotic scribbles into cleaner, legible records. Though the air was warm and dry, a gentle breeze from the window helped cool her focus-driven tension.
It had been a long time since she had felt this useful. This grounded. And writing, working gave her purpose, kept the nightmares in her head at bay.
