Elspeth had fussed me up the narrow stairs and into the little room like a mother hen escorting a cannon, then left with a promise of stew and water “once you’ve stopped swaying.”

  I didn’t stop swaying. I just lay down in full plate and let the mattress catch me.

  The Stonewall Regalia groaned against the frame. Leather straps bit into my shoulders. My ribs complained under every overlapping plate, each breath a dull knife under the sternum. I stared up at the low, smoke-stained ceiling and watched my HUD hover there, that stubborn red bar resting at a sliver above empty.

  “Okay,” I muttered to no one. “We nap in the shell. We die later.”

  The pillow smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. The armor’s weight pinned me in place, heavy and reassuring in a way that made zero sense. I closed my eyes for “just a minute” and the world blinked off.

  When I woke, the window had gone grey-blue with evening. The hearth downstairs rumbled through the floorboards. My mouth tasted like old pennies and rabbit fat.

  The HP bar floated where I’d left it. Not full. Not great. But no longer flirting with single digits. Maybe a third of the way up, a thicker strip of red instead of a hairline.

  “Look at you,” I rasped. “Overachiever.”

  Everything ached. Sweat glued the gambeson to my skin. The breastplate trapped heat like an oven door. My lungs felt tight, but the sharp edge had dulled, pain settling into something more sullen and deep.

  If I kept the armor on forever, I’d die of a skin infection. Time for a test case. Single-piece removal, observe for crash.

  My fingers fumbled at the buckles under my arms. The leather had swollen with sweat, stubborn and slick. Every twist dragged the metal across my ribs. White pain flared under my breastbone and crawled up my throat.

  “Perfect,” I grunted. “Ten out of ten.”

  The right buckle finally slipped free. The left one fought harder. I ground my teeth, worked it loose, then braced and lifted.

  The breastplate came away with a low scrape, its weight suddenly in my hands instead of on my chest. The HUD twitched. The red bar dipped, a sick little lurch, then steadied higher than I deserved.

  Pain slammed in behind it, no longer muffled by the rigid shell. My ribs throbbed with each inhale, a deep, crushing ache that made my eyes water.

  “Okay,” I gasped. “Okay. That’s… fine. That’s data.”

  I let the breastplate tip off the bed and thud onto the floorboards. The sound shook through the room. Dust motes leapt.

  The door swung open before the echoes died.

  A compact woman filled the doorway, apron already stained, grey hair coiled and pinned with a stick that didn’t look like it had ever met a jeweler. Her gaze took in the armor, the discarded chestpiece, the sweat-slick shift beneath, and settled on me with the flat, measuring look of someone who’d seen worse and didn’t have time for dramatics.

  “You slept in all that.”

  Not really a question.

  “Seemed a shame to waste the look,” I managed. “Also the not-dying.”

  She stepped inside, closed the door with her heel, and dropped a heavy leather satchel on the little table by the bed. Glass clinked. The room filled with the sharp, green bite of crushed leaves and something darker underneath, like old smoke.

  “You’ve ribs gone,” she said, crossing to the bedside. “At least two. Likely more.”

  “Three, maybe four,” I answered. “Left side. Lateral. Breath’s better now than earlier, though, so I’m hoping no flail segment. Yet.”

  One of her brows inched up.

  “You count your own bones. That’s helpful.”

  She reached for the remaining armor pieces.

  “Off with the rest. I need to see what I’m working with.”

  My hand shot out before I could think. I caught her wrist, gentle but firm.

  “Slow down. It’s… this set’s enchanted.” I nodded toward the breastplate on the floor. “Gives me extra stamina. Toughness. Take all of it off at once, my body’s going to notice the downgrade more than I’d like.”

  Her gaze flicked to the fallen plate, tracing the faint stonework engraving as if it might mutter back. No sparkles, no glowing runes. Just good metal and subtle work.

  “Enchanted,” she repeated.

  “Defensive binding. It’s part of why I didn’t die out there.” I swallowed around the sand in my throat. “We peel it in layers, I live. Strip all at once, I crash. I can handle the pain. I just don’t want to… slip the other way.”

  She studied me for a heartbeat. “You know your own measure.”

  She eased her wrist out of my grip without fuss.

  “Fine. We work with what we have. Armor stays where it must until you’re steadier.”

  Her fingers went to the laces at the collar of my gambeson instead, loosening them enough to bare the top of my chest and the bruising already blooming up my neck. She pressed along my ribs with short, practiced touches, watched my breath hitch and forced it to keep moving with a little nod whenever it tried to stall.

  “Tell me when it’s worst.”

  “Already did,” I exhaled. “Middle left. About two fingers below the nipple line.”

  Her mouth twitched.

  “Cheerful way to mark yourself.”

  “Occupational habit.”

  She listened, ear against my chest, her hair brushing my chin. Her hands were warm, steady, smelling of mint and old leather.

  “Breath sounds clear enough,” she murmured. “Pain’s doing half my work. It’ll keep you from being a fool and filling your lungs too fast.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I’m very committed to being a fool,” I pointed out. “Ask anyone downstairs.”

  “I will.”

  She straightened, reached into her satchel, and pulled out a small clay vial stoppered with wax and fiber. The liquid inside glowed only in the way strong tea glowed—rich, opaque, faintly menacing.

  “This will take the worst of it,” she told me. “Not all. Enough that you can sleep without grinding your teeth to dust, and wake without screaming yourself hoarse.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Things that grow where the soil remembers storms.” She tapped the side of the vial with her nail. “And a touch of foxglove’s cousin, but tamer. You won’t float away. You might dream in odd colors.”

  “That’s an upgrade over my usual.”

  I took the vial. My hand shook more than I liked. She watched the tremor, not unkind, and didn’t comment.

  “Drink it slow,” she warned. “If you gulp, it will come back up on Elspeth floor, and then you’ll drink something worse.”

  “That’s bedside manner they don’t teach in the cities.”

  “They don’t teach much of use in the cities.”

  Her gaze softened then, just a fraction.

  “You saved my neighbors,” she went on. “And I heard you saved little Finn. You'll never want for food or a roof over your head while Elspeth lives. That little boy is her life."

  I lifted the vial in a small, clumsy toast.

  “Wasn’t doing much else with my afternoon.”

  “It was enough.”

  Her hand came to rest, brief and solid, on my forearm.

  “For that, you have my thanks. And my work.”

  Heat crawled up my neck at her hand on my arm. Praise always did that, like someone had flicked a light on in a room I preferred to keep dark.

  “Don’t—” I started, then winced as my ribs pinched. “I mean. You’re patching me up. That’s kind of a bigger deal than me using my oversized chicken as a battering ram.”

  Her mouth twitched again, that almost-smile.

  “Both kinds of work have their place.”

  I focused on the vial so I didn’t have to look at her. The liquid clung thick to the sides. I took a cautious sip.

  The taste hit like someone had boiled a meadow, then strained it through old boots. Bitter, green, with a smoky backbite that sat right on the gag reflex.

  “Oh, that’s… wow.” I stared at the vial. “That’s illegal in three provinces.”

  “If you bring it back up I’ll make you chew the raw root.”

  “I’m in your hands.”

  “You are in your own bones,” she corrected. “I’m only persuading them not to give up.”

  Footsteps creaked on the stair outside, quicker and lighter than hers. Mara turned toward the door a heartbeat before it opened.

  Elspeth edged in sideways with a tray balanced on one hip. Steam curled from a deep bowl, carrying meat and onions and something sharp and comforting that cut straight through the potion’s ghost on my tongue. A hunk of bread sat beside it, crust blistered gold, a pat of butter already softening into shining puddles.

  “You’re awake.” Her smile flared, tired but genuine. “Good. I was starting to think I’d be pouring this down your throat while you snored.”

  “I only snore if someone else starts it.”

  She nudged the door shut with her foot and crossed to the bed. The tray clinked when she set it on the little table, next to Mara’s satchel.

  “We carved up that brute you brought in,” she went on, adjusting the bowl closer to me. “The boar. Kael’s got the hide spread out behind his forge. I hope you and your… mount… don’t mind.”

  I blinked at the stew. Chunks of boar floated with carrot coins and barley, the surface slicked with a thin layer of fat that caught the lamplight. My stomach cramped in a way that made my vision stutter.

  “Mind?” My laugh came out rough. “You’re kidding. That thing charged your front door. Use all of it. Throw a festival. Knit sweaters.”

  “Good.” Her shoulders dropped a notch. “The men were a bit wary to touch it at first. All that racket, and then that great bird of yours bursting out of nowhere… I’ve never seen grown folk move so quick.”

  “Yeah.” I winced at the memory. “About that. I’m really sorry about the… chaos. He gets excited. Also he thinks doors are a suggestion.”

  Elspeth’s mouth pulled wry.

  “I swept up the mess. The little ones will be telling the tale for months. ‘The Queen of Birds and Her Shining Knight.’ Finn already has you riding through the sky breathing fire.”

  “Count Chocobo will be insufferable if he hears that.”

  “Count…?”

  “Never mind.” I inched up on the pillows; pain spiked, then dulled under the potion’s spreading haze. “Seriously, if there’s damage, I’ll fix it. Once I can walk without wheezing.”

  She waved that off.

  “Some broken rails, a smashed trough. The men already mended most of it. They’re in far better spirits with full bellies and work to do than they were with beasts at the fence.”

  Her gaze flicked to Mara.

  “And the fat,” she added. “We’ve jars of it rendering by the hearth.”

  Mara’s head snapped round, eyes sharpening like someone had just dangled a rare herb.

  “Rendered clean?” She stepped toward Elspeth. “How much?”

  “A good pot already, more to come. Why?”

  “Soap,” Mara answered, quick. “Proper hard cakes, not slop in a bucket. With that boar’s layer, I can boil enough for half the village before the thaw. No more scraping lye-burn off chapped hands.”

  Elspeth’s brows climbed.

  “I thought you always used tallow from—”

  “Stringy old ewes and whatever the hunters remember to bring,” Mara cut in. “Greasy, rancid before it cures, stinks worse than the privy. This will take scent well. I’ve got lavender left from summer, and mint enough to make even Kael smell fit for a table.”

  “That man and a bar of scented soap,” Elspeth breathed. “Mara, I’ll fetch you as many jars as you can lift.”

  “Tell Kael I want the last scrap he scrapes off that hide,” Mara went on, already halfway to the door in her mind. “And the marrow from the long bones if they roast them. Waste makes enemies.”

  Elspeth laughed under her breath.

  “He’ll grumble, but he’ll hand it over. After what you did patching his arm last winter, he’d let you shave his beard in his sleep.”

  “Not worth the effort.”

  Mara turned back to me, all that sharp focus swinging around again.

  “You hear that?” She nodded to the bowl. “You eat every bite. That beast won’t go to waste in your ribs. And when you can stand without tipping over, you and I will talk about what else you’ve brought into my village.”

  “That sounds… ominous.”

  “Necessary.”

  She started packing her things, vials and folded cloth vanishing back into the satchel like a magician’s trick. Her hands never paused, but her gaze caught mine once more.

  “You keep the breastplate off for now,” she told me. “Greaves and fauld can stay. If you feel your breath catch or your thoughts wander too far from where your feet are, you shout. I’ll hear.”

  “I don’t shout,” I muttered. “I project.”

  Elspeth’s smile cracked a little wider.

  “She’ll hear,” she confirmed. “Mara hears everything, even when we wish she wouldn’t.”

  “That’s why you all still have fingers,” Mara snapped the satchel closed. “No one listens when you whisper sense.”

  Elspeth brushed crumb dust from her apron, then touched the edge of the tray, almost fussing, almost not.

  “Eat while it’s hot,” she urged me. “There’s more downstairs for when you finish, if you’re able. The boy keeps peeking at the stairs in case your bird appears again, so I’m keeping him busy with chopping.”

  “I’ll keep Beakly outside,” I promised. “He’s probably terrorizing your compost heap already.”

  “He’s in my back paddock,” Elspeth answered. “Neck deep in the offal bucket, from the look of it. The butcher tried to chase him off once. Once.”

  “God.” I dropped my face into my hand. “I am so sorry.”

  “The butcher isn’t.” Her tone warmed around the words. “He’d never shift that much waste on his own. Your bird did in an hour what would take him two days. He muttered about it, but only until he started counting all the extra cuts he could hang. We’ll see bacon through spring now, if we’re careful.”

  Mara’s eyes glinted.

  “And soap,” she reminded her.

  “And soap,” Elspeth echoed.

  They moved together toward the door, the easy choreography of two people who’d shared too many late nights in the same crisis. Elspeth scooped up the empty potion cup; Mara flicked a stray feather off Elspeth shoulder as if it offended her.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Hey.”

  They both paused.

  “Thank you,” I managed. “For… letting us stay. For not running when a walking armor set and a huge carrion bird crash your boar problem. For trusting me enough to feed me rather than just… I don’t know. Locking me in the shed.”

  Elspeth leaned on the latch, fingers pale from a long day, eyes still bright.

  “You stepped in when no one else could,” she answered. “This is a small thing next to that. Rest, Emily. Heal. Oakhaven doesn’t throw away what’s dropped at its door.”

  Mara snorted.

  “We’d be fools to send away free muscle and a monstrous stomach on legs. This place always needs both.”

  They slipped out into the hall, voices trailing ahead of them as their footsteps creaked away.

  “I’ll be by for that fat as soon as I hang this lot,” Mara’s tone floated back. “Don’t you dare let your boy poke fingers in it.”

  “I’ll tie him to a chair if I must,” Elspeth shot back. “You’ll have your jars. And Mara—tell Old Thom there’ll be extra stew tomorrow if he sharpens his knives. Those bones won’t cut themselves.”

  The door clicked shut on the rest, leaving me with the stew’s steam in my face, the potion’s slow heat in my veins, and the faint, distant sound of women planning how to stretch one dead boar into a winter’s worth of small salvations.