Two hours later, the old man finally returned.
Without ceremony—or warning—he wrapped fresh bandages around my arm and leg, tightening them with practiced efficiency. The pain had dulled into a deep, constant throb, but it was bearable now.
Charlie received the same treatment, though the old man spent noticeably less time on him, as if his injuries were beneath concern.
"Skra-done," he muttered, already turning away. "Leave. Rest. Skra-not bleed on my floor again."
"Skra-farewell, Vaela," he said warmly, his gruff voice softening in an almost unsettling way. "Come back any time—if skra-want grape juice again. I make fresh."
Vaela gave an awkward, polite nod. "Skra-thank."
Vaela quickly turned and gestured for us to follow, clearly eager to escape the clinic.
We stepped out of the clinic.
Rokar was nowhere to be seen.
I scanned the area instinctively, half-expecting his towering frame to appear from behind a tree, spear resting on his shoulder. But the space outside the clinic was empty—only the soft murmur of village life and the distant crackle of firewood filled the air.
Vaela didn't explain his absence.
She simply said,
"Follow. Skra—go meet the elder."
Then she turned and walked off.
Charlie and I exchanged a glance. He gave a small nod—calm, reassuring, as always.
So I followed.
My leg protested with every step, the fresh bandage pulling tight as pain flared and faded in waves. I forced myself to keep moving, refusing to slow Vaela down any more than I already had.
Charlie walked just behind me, close enough that I could feel his presence without turning.
The village felt different now.
Earlier, I'd been too exhausted, too injured to notice much. Now, every detail pressed itself into my awareness.
Every barbarian we passed turned to look at us.
Their gazes weren't hostile.
They weren't welcoming either.
They were curious—open, unguarded, and unsettling in their own way.
Not the kind of curiosity that judged… but the kind that studied.
As if we were strange creatures that had wandered into their territory by mistake, something rare and unfamiliar that didn't quite belong—yet hadn't been chased away.
A bulky man carrying a heavy bundle of firewood on his shoulder slowed when he saw Vaela.
"Vaela," he grunted. "Skra-who?"
"Skra-important guests," she replied without breaking stride.
The man's brows shot up, "Important?" he muttered, eyes flicking over me and Charlie. Then he shook his head and continued on his way.
Others asked the same question as we passed.
Men paused in their work, hands still gripping tools or bundles of wood, their eyes following us with open curiosity. Women slowed their steps, whispering behind their hands as they glanced our way, their expressions cautious and intrigued. Even children stopped playing, tugging at each other's sleeves and pointing in our direction when they thought we weren't looking, their voices hushed but excited.
The murmurs spread like ripples through the village.
Who are they?
Why are outsiders here?
How did they pass the forest?
Every few steps, someone asked Vaela directly.
She never slowed. Never explained. Never softened her tone.
Her answers were always the same.
Short.
Firm.
Final.
"Important guests."
Two words—delivered without emotion, without room for argument.
And every time she said it, the questions died where they stood, curiosity retreating into wary silence as we continued deeper into the village, eyes following us long after we passed.
After what felt like half an hour of slow, aching steps, Vaela finally stopped.
I nearly sagged with relief.
The house before us wasn't grand—there were no towering walls or ornate carvings—but it stood apart from everything else we had passed. Where the rest of the village felt lived-in and busy, this place felt… composed.
The wooden structure was clean and well-kept, the beams polished smooth by time rather than neglect. A small garden wrapped around the front, its plants arranged with care rather than abundance—herbs, low shrubs, and a few unfamiliar flowers that gave off a faint, calming scent. The earth there looked tended, not trampled.
And most striking of all—
There were no other houses crowding it.
Space surrounded the home on all sides, like the village itself was giving it room to breathe. No laughter echoed nearby. No footsteps crossed too close.
I felt it then—a subtle pressure against my chest.
Not fear.
Reverence.
My grip tightened unconsciously as my heartbeat slowed, a strange tension settling into my bones.
So this was the elder's home.
Vaela stepped onto the garden, walked to the door and knocked once.
"Elder. Skra-guests come."
As we waited, a thought crept into my mind uninvited.
Who is this elder…?
And why does she think we're important?
The door creaked open.
An old woman stood there.
Not frail—but not young either.
Her hair was streaked with gray, pulled back loosely. Tattoos ran along her arms, intricate and deliberate, and thin line markings rested beneath her eyes like permanent shadows.
Her gaze settled on me. She stared—unblinking, unreadable.
Five seconds passed. Then six.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.
Slowly, the corners of her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She hadn't even spared Charlie a single glance.
"Elder?" Vaela called softly.
The woman blinked, as if returning from somewhere far away.
"Please," she said in calm, steady English. "Come inside."
Murmurs rippled through the village behind us as people slowed to watch from a distance.
We stepped in.
The scent hit me immediately.
Not smoke. Not food.
Something deeper—like polished wood and incense, the kind of smell that made my chest feel oddly light.
The house was dim, lit by candles placed carefully along the walls. There were three rooms—one larger central space and two smaller rooms branching off.
In the center stood a table.
On it lay sheets of leather covered in strange symbols and writing I couldn't recognize.
The elder gestured for us to sit on the stools arranged around the table.
Vaela sat beside me.
I lowered myself carefully, biting back a hiss as my leg protested. Charlie remained standing behind me, as natural as breathing.
The elder's gaze returned to me.
"Are your wounds manageable now?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied quickly. "Thank you."
She nodded, relief flickering briefly across her face.
"Do you need something to eat or drink?"
I hesitated.
Before I could answer, she smiled knowingly.
"I'll bring you something."
She disappeared into one of the rooms.
Silence settled.
Vaela sat quietly, eyes lowered. Charlie scanned the room subtly, his expression unreadable.
The elder returned with a small bowl filled with dark soup.
"Here," she said, handing it to me. "A vegetable brew. Good for recovery."
I took the bowl from her hands with quiet gratitude.
The first sip— Bitter.
So bitter it caught me completely off guard.
My face betrayed me instantly, my expression twisting before I could stop it. The elder noticed at once. A small, amused smile curved her lips, as though she had been expecting that exact reaction.
I swallowed hard anyway. Hunger won over taste. It always did.
I took another sip, slower this time, forcing the thick liquid down despite the sharp, earthy bitterness clinging to my tongue. Warmth spread through my stomach almost immediately, dulling the ache of hunger that had been gnawing at me for far too long. I kept drinking, one careful swallow at a time, until my breathing finally steadied.
Then— Her gaze shifted.
It landed on Charlie.
Sharp. Focused. Measuring.
The warmth in the room seemed to cool just a fraction.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Charlie met her eyes without flinching, his posture straight, his expression calm and unreadable.
"I'm his guardian," he replied evenly.
The elder tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
"You don't look like a guardian to me," she said, her tone neither hostile nor kind—just observant.
Then she turned to Vaela.
"Is he the one you found with him?"
Vaela nodded once in confirmation, her expression neutral.
The elder's gaze returned to me.
"Is he truly your guardian?" she asked.
I paused, the spoon hovering near the bowl.
Something about the way she looked at Charlie felt… heavy. Intent. As if she were weighing more than just his words. As if she could see something I couldn't.
Still—
I answered honestly.
"Yes," I said quietly. "He's more like a family."
Her eyes lingered on Charlie for a long moment after that. Too long to be casual. The room felt tense, the silence stretching thin.
Then, at last, she nodded.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and handed the remaining soup to Charlie. He hesitated, glancing at me as if to refuse, but I nudged the bowl toward him insistently. After a brief pause, he accepted it and took a small sip.
As he drank, I gathered what little courage I had left.
"If you don't mind," I asked softly, my voice careful, "may I ask… why you brought us here?"
The elder's smile returned—gentle, but layered with something deeper.
"That," she said, "is something I will explain."
She straightened slightly, her presence suddenly filling the room in a way it hadn't before.
"But first," she continued, "let me introduce myself."
"My name is Thryssa," she said calmly. "I am one of the elders of this place."