At the gate the road turned to rutted track. The trees received them with cool shade and the resin-clean scent of pine. Behind, the trading post’s noise dulled to a murmur; ahead, the hush of the wood rose like breath.
They left the road and took a hunter’s path into the trees. The trading post dwindled to a memory between trunks, until only the living world closed about them—birdcall, the patter of something small in the underbrush, and a breeze that lifted Suraia’s curls and set Vasha’s tail swaying.
Thorn tugged at the edge of the black cloak, loosening it from his shoulders. In the town it had served its purpose, but here it was only needless weight. With careful hands he rolled it tightly, as if it were no mere garment but something that might serve again. He strapped it beneath his fur pelt, sparing it the forest floor.
The path narrowed. Sunlight broke in pale shafts through the branches, painting the moss in silver and gold. Then Thorn lifted a hand and stilled them with one sharp gesture.
A pair of deer stood ahead, delicate heads raised, eyes wide. Normally they would have fled at the first sound, but these lingered, swaying faintly on their legs as though drowsy. Thorn stepped forward and uttered a soft string of syllables, words meant for beasts rather than men. The deer twitched their ears but gave no sign of comprehension.
“They should have bolted by now,” Vasha whispered. “What’s wrong with them?”
Even Suraia, who could not speak with animals, felt unease in the air. The deer’s eyes looked glassy, their movements wrong—as though they had forgotten how to be afraid. When Thorn took a step closer, they startled belatedly and bounded away, crashing through the ferns with graceless haste.
He scowled after them but said nothing.
They spent the rest of the afternoon ranging wider into the forest, Thorn leading them along deer-tracks and through thickets that snagged at their clothes. Suraia’s keen eyes sought out plants as they walked—marigold nestled between stones, a clutch of mint by a hollow, and stalks of wild garlic pressing through last year’s leaves. She stooped often, gathering carefully, tucking the herbs into her pouch with a sense of growing relief. Every leaf and root was a step towards rebuilding her kit.
The day wore on, and the forest thickened. By the time they reached a stream, swollen with recent rain, the light was already beginning to mellow towards evening. Its water ran swift and cold over smooth stones, chattering against the banks.
Thorn crossed first, leaping from rock to rock with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. Vasha followed lightly, tail flicking for balance. Suraia hesitated at the bank, peering at her reflection wavering in the current.
“Come on,” Thorn called, impatience in his voice.
She gathered her skirts, bunched her courage, and stepped carefully onto the first stone. For a moment she teetered, arms outstretched, breath held tight in her chest. A misstep sent her foot sliding, but Thorn’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. His grip was strong, warm even through the cold.
“Careful,” he said, voice low, almost gentle.
She managed a nod, cheeks flushing, and made her way to the far side, her shoes squelching as she climbed up the muddy bank.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Thorn only grunted in reply, already moving on.
But Suraia lingered, noticing a cluster of feverfew nestled in the damp soil. She crouched quickly, fingers working to pluck the useful leaves before the others moved too far ahead. When she caught up again, Vasha was already scooping water to her lips with cupped hands. Thorn did the same, sparing only a glance for the current.
Suraia bent, tried to mimic them, and ended up spilling more over herself than she managed to drink. Cold water splashed down the front of her new dress. She flinched, cheeks hot with embarrassment, and quickly straightened without a word. Neither Vasha nor Thorn commented, though she felt the weight of the Ee’dornil’s glance before he turned away.
They pressed on until the shadows lengthened, then Thorn halted at a small clearing circled by beeches. “Here,” he simply said.
Vasha tested her bow before the light failed. She chose a dead tree at the edge of the clearing, drew to half, and loosed a single arrow. The shaft thudded into bark with satisfying accuracy. She loosed another, this one higher, striking a knot in the trunk. A grin spread across her face.
Thorn said nothing, but his eyes lingered a fraction longer than usual, the barest flicker of approval.
“I will see if I can bring us something fresh,” Vasha announced. With her bow strung and quiver full, she slipped into the undergrowth.
Thorn set about raising their shelter, fingers pressing to the soil. Roots coiled and branches bent, weaving into a half-dome that breathed the smell of green life. Suraia busied herself with the herbs she had gathered, sorting them into piles—those for healing, those for flavouring. She smoothed a square of cloth on the moss and began spreading the fresh leaves and stalks across it, arranging them with careful hands. It was clumsy work without proper boxes or pouches; she kept glancing at the battered vials in her bag but shook her head. Those she would save for potions once she had the right mixtures. For now, her gathered plants would have to dry in bundles of fabric, tied with a scrap of thread or lace.
Still, even this small act gave her comfort. The cloth looked neat, ordered, alive with green. For the first time since leaving the apothecary, she felt like a healer again.
Vasha returned not long after with a fat thrush in hand, looking rather pleased with herself. While the ebony-skinned young woman and the Ee’dornil prepared it, plucking and cleaning, Suraia knelt by a fire ring, laying tinder and coaxing sparks from the flint until flame took hold. Soon the bird went onto a spit, Vasha turning it carefully over the flame while Suraia crushed garlic and mint into a paste with the back of a spoon. The smell lifted quickly, bright and sharp, making her smile softly despite the long day.
“Just slowly keep turning it,” she explained, watching how the juices began to drip and hiss in the flames.
“Okay, I’ll try.” Vasha’s grin widened as she kept the spit steady. Her pale eyes flicked to Suraia. “Smells wonderful already. You know how to cook then?”
“I… I do… I like to,” Suraia admitted shyly. “It helps. And... herbs are good for more than potions.”
When the bird was nearly done, its skin golden and crisp, she brushed it with her garlic-mint mixture, careful not to waste even a drop. Vasha’s stomach growled audibly and she laughed, flicking her ears back.
Suraia set the bread on a flat stone and began slicing carefully with Thorn’s knife. Her hands shook a little with the effort, but the rhythm steadied her. She laid the slices neatly on a cloth, proud of the small order she had brought to the camp.
Thorn had been watching in silence. Then, without comment, he rose and slipped into the trees. Suraia glanced up, startled, but he gave no explanation.
When he returned, he carried three broad leaves folded and shaped into rough cups, still dripping from the stream. He set them down beside the bread as though it were nothing at all, but when he offered one to Suraia, her eyes widened.
She accepted it with both hands, shy gratitude burning in her chest. The water was cool, fresh, and easier to drink than before. He had noticed her clumsiness without a word spoken.
“Looks good,” Vasha said cheerfully, still turning the spit. Then, more gently: “It’s good you’re eating meat tonight, Suraia. It will help you get your strength back. You look like you’ve been running on scraps for weeks.”
Colour rose in Suraia’s cheeks, but she nodded, tucking a strand of red curl behind her ear. “I… I will try.”
Across the fire, Thorn had been silent, his eyes fixed on the turning bird. He said nothing, but the faint crease of his brow smoothed, and for once there was no trace of impatience in his gaze.
When the bird was carved, the slices of meat were shared between them. They ate with bread warm in their hands, the paste of herbs giving the thrush a brightness that lingered on the tongue. The forest’s sounds wove around them—soft chirps, rustling leaves—and the fire’s glow made their little clearing feel like a hearth.
The meal finished slowly, the fire snapping and crackling in the clearing’s hush. When the last scraps of bread were gone, Thorn rose again. He pressed his hands to the earth and murmured something under his breath. From the roots of the beeches nearby, two thick strands unfurled, twisting and weaving until they formed cradles that stretched between trunks—hammocks of living fibre, swaying gently above the moss.
Vasha laughed softly, tail flicking in delight. “Now that is clever. I’ve slept on worse floors than I care to remember.” She hopped lightly into hers, testing the give, ears perked with amusement.
Suraia, however, stood uncertain, fingers knotted together. The woven cradle looked delicate, as though it might drop her at the slightest shift. Thorn noticed her hesitation and with a quiet exhale stepped forward, steadying the living ropes with one large hand.
“It will hold,” he said simply. His glowing eyes caught hers for a heartbeat before he crouched and unstrapped the rolled black cloak from beneath his pelt. Without another word, he shook it loose and draped it about her shoulders, layering it over her grey cloak.
“The night will be cold,” he said. It was not an offer, nor an order—merely fact.
Her cheeks warmed, though she murmured only, “Thank you.” She gathered the cloak close, its familiar weight and faint smoke-scent wrapping her in comfort.
Thorn then climbed into the other cradle, the living fibres stretching easily beneath his mass. With one broad hand he gestured to Vasha. “You take the first watch. Wake me when the stars turn. I will rest for a time.”
Vasha saluted with mock solemnity, her grin flashing in the firelight. “Yes, Master Thornwing. I’ll guard your dreams.”
Thorn closed his eyes, dismissing the words with a low grunt.
Suraia nestled awkwardly into the cradle beside the Ee’dornil. At first, she lay stiff, afraid she might tumble straight out, but the living strands adjusted beneath her like a second skin, holding her gently in place. The black cloak was warm about her, and soon, despite herself, she leaned closer to Thorn’s solid warmth.
The fire burned low, throwing soft light against the leaves above. Crickets thrummed in the grass; an owl called somewhere deeper in the woods. Vasha sat cross-legged by the fire, bow across her lap, humming a quiet tune to keep herself company.
Suraia’s eyelids grew heavy, her breath evening. Just before sleep claimed her, she felt the faintest brush of Thorn’s arm shifting, steadying the cradle so it rocked less in the night breeze.
The forest breathed around them—watchful, strange, but for this moment, theirs alone.