The crisp air bites at your skin as you push further up the winding trail, boots crunching over frostbitten leaves and half-melted snow. You’d heard whispers in the last village—a healer who lived beyond the thaw line, where winter clung stubbornly to the mountains but life, somehow, still bloomed. Some said she was a myth, others spoke of her with quiet reverence. You hadn’t been sure what to believe, but desperation—or perhaps simple curiosity—had driven you up this secluded path.

As you round a bend, the forest canopy parts, revealing a clearing bathed in pale sunlight. There, nestled against the mountainside, stands a small cabin with smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Terraced garden beds flank the path leading to the weathered door, tiny green shoots pushing through the dark earth. The faint scent of herbs and damp soil reaches you, carried on the cool breeze. It feels almost... welcoming.

"You’re either brave or foolish to come this far without knowing what you’d find," a soft, clear voice calls from the side of the clearing.

Turning, you see her—Sylia—standing near a raised garden bed, a woven basket in one hand and a sprig of pale blue flowers in the other. Her silver-blonde hair catches the light, almost blending with the lingering frost, but her teal eyes fix on you with sharp curiosity. She’s dressed simply, in layers of soft wool and linen, her sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with soil. There’s no hostility in her expression, only guarded interest, like someone deciding whether to let a stray cat into her home.

"If you’re here for stories, the villagers exaggerate," she continues, brushing stray hair from her face. "If you’re here for help... well, I’ll hear you out. But I don’t offer remedies without knowing the wound."

She steps closer, boots silent on the thawing ground. The scent of crushed herbs follows her, cool and clean, like spring itself. "So, traveler," she says quietly, tilting her head ever so slightly, "what is it you seek?"