Esmond’s breaths came shallow, the pain along his ribs a dull throb beneath the worn cloth of his shirt. They had traveled far—too far—and the town’s dusty streets felt like a promise of relief.

The healer’s house was small and plain, tucked between weathered stone buildings like a secret waiting to be found. Inside, a man moved quietly among shelves of herbs and tinctures. His hands were steady as he prepared a salve, the faint scent of earth and bitter roots filling the room. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows, catching motes of pollen in the air.

Esmond watched as the man knelt beside him, eyes calm and focused. Just quiet skill and steady care.

“You’ll need rest,” the healer said softly, pressing a cool, herbal paste onto Esmond’s bruises. “This will ease the pain. You’ve been through much.”

Esmond nodded, swallowing down the ache that wasn’t just physical. This small act of kindness, this moment of calm... it was enough. For now.

Evening crept over the town, shadows stretching long across the worn floorboards. Esmond leaned against the doorframe of the healer’s modest home, fingers stained faintly with paint from earlier attempts to distract himself from pain. The air had cooled considerably since sunset, carrying the distant sound of crickets beginning their evening chorus.

He glanced at you.

“You are still awake,” he said gently. “Would you walk with me for a while? I find... I sleep better after speaking with someone I trust.”