The sun was barely climbing over the horizon when I left home again. My sister's strength was slowly returning — she had even managed to sit up by herself that morning, sipping a thin soup my mother had prepared with relief written all over her face.
As a gesture of thanks, my mother had packed a small bundle of fresh bread to bring to the healers. The bread was still warm in the cloth bundle I carried, the scent rising faintly as I walked.
The snow beneath my boots cracked softly. The cold air bit at my cheeks, but compared to the first harsh days of winter, today felt merciful.
When I reached the healers' home, the one-winged rooster was already circling the herb garden like a dutiful, if somewhat clumsy, guardian.
You're still here, my odd little friend.
I knocked gently on the wooden doorframe.
— Ah, Torren — Ravik's familiar voice called from inside — come in, lad.
Inside, the warm air welcomed me instantly. The brazier in the center hummed softly, filling the room with a dry, comforting heat that blended with the stronger scents of drying herbs and freshly ground powders.
Ravik stood by the central table, sorting dried stalks and roots into careful piles. Nira sat nearby, quill in hand, scribbling on the rough sheets of fiber parchment they used for notes — a material they made themselves, I had learned, far cheaper than true paper.
Marla, by the window, was gently stirring a bowl filled with a thick paste, her hands steady and practiced.
Len, as usual, was reorganizing jars on the high shelves, murmuring quietly to himself.
— My mother sent these — I said, offering the small bundle.
Marla smiled warmly and took it.
— Still warm. Your mother's baking always brightens the room — she said as she opened the cloth and revealed the bread inside. — Thank her for us.
— Of course.
Ravik glanced up from his table, his sharp eyes scanning me briefly before returning to his work.
— Since you're here, Torren, feel free to watch. We're preparing something a bit different today.
Curious as always, I stepped closer.
Laid out across the table were several bundles of dried plants, many I recognized from previous visits, but some were new. The mixture was clearly for someone else this time.
— This one's for Jareck — Ravik explained. — His back's been bothering him again with the cold. These will ease the swelling.
— Is it for pain? — I asked, leaning slightly to get a better look at the roots.
— Partly — Ravik nodded. — But the swelling inside is what makes the pain worse. If we calm the swelling, the pain eases too.
I peered at one of the roots he was slicing into thin pieces.
That shape... similar to what my mother once used for my grandfather's knees. Willow bark? No, not exactly... but close. The scent is sharper here.
— What's that one called? — I asked, pointing.
Ravik handed me a small piece to smell.
— Varkroot — he said. — Strong if brewed wrong, but useful for joints and bones.
The smell was earthy, with a hint of bitterness that reminded me of long-ago winters in my previous life.
— It smells... familiar — I admitted softly.
Marla glanced over from her work.
— You've got a good nose, boy. Not many your age pay attention to scents.
Nira looked up from her notes.
— You seem to recognize some of these already. Do your parents grow herbs too?
I smiled, careful as always.
— They used to give me teas for winter colds. And my grandfather had trouble with his knees in the cold, too.
It was true enough, even if the grandparents I spoke of belonged to a different world.
Ravik placed the slices of Varkroot into a small clay bowl.
— Every plant speaks its own language, Torren — he said, his tone casual, not lecturing. — Some whisper gently. Others shout. And a few lie outright.
Marla chuckled softly.
— That's why we always smell twice before brewing.
Nira grinned.
— And check if Len hasn't swapped the jars again.
From the shelves, Len's voice drifted over, still absorbed in his private litany:
— Three parts root... one part flower... half measure of dried leaf... no, no swapping today... all in their proper place...
His focused chant filled the room like a steady background rhythm.
I watched as Ravik moved on to another bundle. The leaves were broader, with serrated edges and small red spots.
That's nothing I know.
— And this one? — I asked.
— Fireleaf — Ravik answered. — Good for circulation. Warms the blood in winter. But too much makes you sweat like you've walked a mountain.
— Useful for cold nights — Marla added, stirring her paste.
— Or for stubborn old men who don't want to admit their bones are stiff — Nira teased lightly.
— Like your grandfather was — Marla added with a smile.
Ravik only snorted and kept slicing.
I found myself wanting to ask more.
— How do you know how much of each to use? — I ventured.
— Trial, mostly — Ravik shrugged. — And patience. Too little does nothing. Too much does harm. The body tells you when you've listened right.
Nira nodded.
— We write down what works. Over the years, you learn which bodies tolerate more, which need less.
Marla smiled gently.
— And sometimes you guess wrong, and the old men complain for a few days.
Ravik smirked but said nothing. His hands moved steadily, confident in long-earned practice.
The hours passed almost unnoticed as I stayed and watched. They let me ask, let me observe, but never once did they treat me like a student or apprentice.
I was simply there, and they let me be.
By the time the mixture was complete, my head was filled with questions — some answered, others still swirling.
But I knew one thing:
The more I watched, the more I wanted to understand.