He didn't ride far.
The road dipped where the fields gave out, grass thinning into scrub before the trees closed in enough to break the wind. A narrow stream ran there, shallow but steady, cutting through stone and root before slipping back into shadow.
He turned off and led the horse down where the ground still held. He tied it short near the bank. The horse lowered its head and drank, reins drawing taut before settling again.
He left it there and went to the water.
The plates came off first. Then the leather, eased loose a piece at a time. His movements were slower now. Measured. Each shift pulled at him where the chort had driven him into stone. He worked through it without stopping.
The water was cool and clear, moving fast enough not to warm where it pooled.
He stepped in until it climbed past his calves, then knelt and leaned forward, scooping it up and pouring it over his arms, his neck, the front of his chest. Blood thinned and ran dark into the current. Some of it still clung to the leather piled on the bank, dried into seams and stitching.
He scrubbed at it anyway.
His shoulder flared when he bent too far. The ache was deep, settled in the joint and down the arm, not sharp enough to stop him. He stayed there until the water no longer ran red.
When he stood again, the air was still warm, thick with insects and the smell of green things. Sweat rose on his skin almost at once.
He dressed without hurry. The leather went back on damp and stiff. He checked the straps by feel, tightened what had pulled loose, left the rest alone.
The silver sword came free.He checked the edge once and slid it back into the sheath, setting it close.
The fire stayed small, more smoke than flame, tucked low where the ground dipped. He ate standing, chewing slowly, letting the food sit before swallowing. Water followed. Then more water.
Summer dusk lingered longer than it should have. The light faded unevenly between the branches, patches of sky still pale while the ground had already gone dark.
By the time night settled properly, the soreness had worked fully into him.
He sat with his back to a tree and let it be.
Sleep came lightly, as it usually did.
—
Time passed on the road.
The fields opened as the forest thinned, grain lying heavy and pale under the sun. Dust rose under the horse's hooves and settled again, fine enough to cling without ever quite lifting away.
He passed a man walking the edge of a field with a hoe over his shoulder. The man glanced up, eyes catching on the swords, then looked away and kept going.
Farther on, a few children stood by the roadside with a dog, voices rising and falling as they argued over something. The dog barked once when he passed, and the noise drifted back into itself behind him.
A cart creaked toward him, drawn by a single tired horse. The driver nodded once without slowing. Sacks of grain were stacked along the boards.
No one stopped him.
The road ran straight for a while, then dipped and rose again where the ground had settled unevenly. Fence posts leaned. Ruts cut deep where wheels had passed too often in wet weather and never quite healed.
Heat settled in as the hours wore on. Flies hung low near the ditches. The air smelled of dust and cut stalks and old wood left too long in the sun.
He shifted once in the saddle, felt the ache answer him, then dull again.
The road bent ahead, slipping between a stand of trees where the shade gathered thicker and held.
He followed it.
—
The road bent through a thinner stretch of trees, the shade holding where the ground dipped. A track branched off only a few paces in, pressed flat by regular use.
A hut stood there, close enough to the road that smoke drifted across it when the wind shifted.
Broad and low, built from heavy logs sunk deep and left to weather where they stood. The roof sagged under its own weight, thick with old thatch tied down by crossed poles darkened by years of rain and sun.
A narrow strip of ground beside it had been worked and kept. Plants grew there in uneven rows, leaves bent and dulled where hands had passed through them too many times to be careful.
An old man knelt among them, back bowed, movements slow and economical. His hair had gone thin and grey, skin drawn tight over bone. One hand worked a short knife, trimming dead growth away, the other steadying the stems without hurry.
The witcher reined in.
"Herbalist?" he asked.
The man didn't look up right away.
"Yes," he said. "Most days."
That earned him a glance. Pale eyes lifted, took in the swords, the medallion, the stance, then dropped back to the plants.
"What do you need?"
The witcher named two things.
The man shifted closer to the rows, working by feel. He loosened a root, lifted it free, snapped a small piece off and smelled it, then set the rest aside. Another followed.
"These'll do," he said.
The witcher checked them and nodded.
Coin changed hands without counting.
The witcher took the bundle and rode on.
Behind him, the knife went back to cutting.
—
The light thinned as evening set in.
He rode a little farther, then turned off the road and stopped where the ground was dry and leveled enough to matter.
He eased the horse to a standstill and let it settle, a hand resting briefly at its neck. It shifted once, then stood, breathing slow.
The fire came next. Small.
He ate first, tearing strips from the dried meat and washing it down with bread.
When he was done, he opened one of the saddlebags and took the kit out.
It stayed wrapped in cloth and close to the ground. Stone first. Then metal. Then glass, handled last and set where it wouldn't tip.
He ground the dried roots down in the mortar, slow and steady, letting the pestle do the work. The powder darkened as it broke down, the smell turning sharp and bitter as it warmed under his hands. He scraped it free and set it aside, then worked the second ingredient finer than the first.
The alembic went together without looking. Nested pieces fitted and locked by habit, metal dull and scarred from use. He set it over the coals and fed the heat carefully, watching the liquid darken and thicken as it took.
He filtered it through cloth, poured it back, and let it run again. Slower this time. Cleaner.
The ache in his arms made itself known while he worked. He adjusted his grip and kept going.
When it was ready, he poured it off into a vial and sealed it. Another followed, heavier in the hand, oil clinging to the glass before settling.
He cleaned everything while it was still warm. Wiped metal. Rinsed stone. Wrapped glass before it cooled too far. The kit went back into the saddlebag in the same order it had come out.
The fire burned down to coals.
Time passed.
He closed his eyes.