The streets of Siburg were already swollen with movement, the kind that usually belonged to a later hour. The sun had been climbing for barely half an hour, yet the market had surged into full voice as though it had skipped the quiet of morning entirely. Stalls groaned under fresh goods, voices collided in layered haggles, and the rhythm of hooves striking cobblestone threaded through it all.
Faces smeared together as he ran, their features lost in the blur of motion and urgency. Bodies became obstacles and voices became interference. The only thing that held definition was the weight across his back; Lamberra, unmoving, her arm slack against Willow's shoulder. Her presence at once was both too heavy but yet not heavy enough.
"Move!" he bellowed, the word ripping out of him raw and sharp. Slicing through the market's layered hum.
The command struck many ears unevenly. A butcher paused mid-cut, a pair of traders broke off their argument with identical looks of irritation, a baker, arms full of fresh loaves faltered at the sight of blood and dropped his tray entirely with the bread scattering across the stones in a burst of steam and flour. Somewhere behind Willow, a curse followed him: "fucking elf."
None of it slowed him.
The world narrowed further with every step. His lungs dragged for air as each breath became rougher than the last. Willow's ribs protested the pace he forced them to keep. His legs burned with a deep relentless ache that crept upward with every stride, but he didn't dare listen to it. Not when the warmth spreading across his back told him more than sight ever could.
Lamberra was still bleeding.
He could feel the heat of the blood through his uniform as it soaked through the cloth and skin alike. It clung to him; it was sticky and insistent. The metallic scent rose with every jolt of movement until it coated the back of his throat. Life was leaving her by the second.
He adjusted her weight without breaking stride as he gripped tighter. Lamberra's body shifted with the motion but there was no resistance. Just slackness.
"Where's a doctor!?" he snapped, the words aimed at the first person who didn't move fast enough to avoid him. It was a woman standing near the edge of the road. Her arms were full of bundled herbs.
She froze, her mind lagging behind what her eyes had already taken in. The blood. The uniform. The girl. Her mouth parted, but no sound came at first.
"Where?!" Willow's voice sharpened.
"Th-the apothecary," she stammered, one hand jerking upward to point along the road. "Just ahead…Mistress Isabella-"
He was already moving before she finished as her words broke apart behind him as he surged forward again. The crowd resisted for a moment, a living barrier that parted too slowly for his liking, but he forced his way through.
Ahead, the apothecary came into view. It was a modest stone building. Unassuming. Almost too ordinary.
Inside, Isabella was already awake to the day. Her morning had not yet been interrupted. The shop held its quiet order, the air steeped in the mingled scents of dried lavender and crushed mint. There was something faintly bitter beneath it all. Shelves lined the walls with careful precision, jars labeled in her own hand, each one placed exactly where it belonged. Her fingers worked at the cuffs of her sleeves, rolling them neatly as her mind sifted through the tasks ahead: inventory check, tinctures to refresh, the steady rhythm of a healer's routine.
The crash of the door shattered it.
The sound struck first. It was sharp and violent, the wood protested under the force. Then came Willow.
"She's dying!"
Isabella turned, her focus snapping into place with a speed that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with experience. Her gaze took in the scene in pieces that assembled instantly into understanding. The random man, breathless and blood-streaked; the girl, limp and pale. Then the spreading blood stain.
There was no hesitation.
"Lay her down. Now. This table."
Her voice cut cleanly through the chaos, steady as it could be.
The table was cluttered. Tools, vials, half-prepared remedies but they ceased to exist as obstacles. Her arm swept across the surface in a single, decisive motion. Glass shattered against the floor in sharp ringing bursts. The scents of spilled tinctures blooming harsh and immediate into the air. Lavender turned acrid. Mint sharpened. Something resinous burned at the edges.
"Lay her down. Now. This table."
Her voice cut cleanly through the chaos, steady as it could be.
Willow moved without question. Crossing the space in two long strides. His hands, steady only by force of will, guided Lamberra down onto a wooden table by the furnace.
"Tell me what happened," she demanded, reaching for a blade.
From her vantage, the wound was still hidden, the soaked fabric concealing more than it revealed. The knife slid through cloth with practiced ease, splitting Lamberra's tunic open in clean efficient lines.
Willow stood at the edge of the table, his chest still heaving, his hands hovering uselessly now that there was nothing left for them to carry. The question reached him a beat later than it should have. Muffled beneath the pounding in his ears.
What happened?
His throat tightened with words catching before they could form. Images pressed forward instead. Steel flashing in the dark, the suddenness of the attack, the robed figure, the impossible way Lamberra had…
Willow's eyes began to fill with tears.
His jaw clenched. His breath hitching as he searched for anything that could be said fast enough to actually matter.
The silence stretched just long enough to become its own answer. Isabella's eyes flicked toward him, they were sharp and measuring.
"You don't have time for secrets, boy," she snapped, the edge in her voice cutting cleaner than any blade in the room. "If I don't know what I'm dealing with, she'll die."
Willow's jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like he might still refuse. But then his gaze dropped unwillingly to Lamberra's unmoving form. The slow rise and fall of her chest that seemed thinner with every breath.
"…We were attacked by four men on the road," he said at last, the words dragged out of him, rough and reluctant. "One of them stabbed her." His voice faltered but forced itself forward, "they dragged their blade almost clean through her shoulder."
Isabella's hands didn't hesitate. The fabric peeled back beneath her fingers, soaked through and clinging stubbornly to torn flesh. She worked it loose with careful precision, revealing the wound in increments rather than all at once. However Isabella's face shifted, just slightly.
"Four men," she repeated, quieter now, though no less intent. "White robes?"
Across the table, Willow stiffened as his reaction was immediate and unguarded.
"You know them?"
She didn't answer him.
Instead, her focus returned fully to the injury. Her fingers pressed gently but firmly along the edges of the wound. Testing depth, structure, damage hidden beneath what the eye could see. The moment her touch reached too far, Lamberra's body jolted.
A faint sound slipped free. It was a whimper. Thin and fragile, barely more than a breath. Her brow tightened, her body twitching weakly beneath the contact, but her eyes remained closed. She didn't wake.
From where she stood, Isabella watched it closely; not the pain itself, but the response. The fact that it was there at all.
"Her body's fighting," she murmured, almost to herself, her fingers easing back slightly. "But she's lost too much blood."
She paused, just long enough for the weight of that to settle.
Then quieter, "She's…an…emerald child?"
The words landed differently.
Willow's reaction was instant, instinct overriding reason before it could catch up. His hand moved without thought, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword in a motion so practiced it barely registered as a decision. His other hand grabbed Isabella's throat as he backed her into a wall.
"What do you know!?"
Isabella began to choke as water began filling her eyes. She raised one hand slowly, pointing at the wound on Lamberra. Willow's grip didn't loosen as his head turned and he saw it. A green, jade color glow radiating off of the cut.
Instantly he dropped Isabella and collapsed onto the floor into full hysterics. He had failed in every way imaginable. She could die due to his failure in battle and with it, revealing the existence of an emerald child which could put Belli in danger.
Isabella coughed and walked right by Willow and began working on Lamberra once again. She reached for one of the shelves behind her. Her hand moved with familiarity, selecting a vial without hesitation. The glass caught the light as she brought it forward, the liquid inside shimmering faintly. It was a deep, unnatural blue that seemed to shift as it moved.
The scent that followed was sharper than the others, something clean and biting that cut through the heavier smells in the room. She tilted the vial letting the liquid spill directly over the wound.
It spread slowly at first, then sank in, seeping into torn flesh as though drawn there. The shimmer dulled as it absorbed, the bleeding easing. The steady flow of blood reduced to nearly nothing.
Then, Isabella kneeled beside Willow. Slowly moving one arm as his hands cover his eyes. Nearly wallowing around like a child.
"Calm," Isabella whispered. "I've been in this apothecary my entire life," Isabella continued, her tone flat and unimpressed. "My parents, my grandparents, cousins, all of them. This…" she looked up at the wound once more. "would have killed anyone hours ago."
His gaze flicked upward then, not to meet Isabella's eyes, but to show he was listening.
"The only reason she's still breathing," she said, "is because she's doing it herself."
The truth of it settled heavily into the space between them. A breath finally left him. It was more controlled.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words stripped of their earlier sharpness. "I'm just trying to protect her."
Isabella's expression didn't change.
"I know," she said. Cool and even, already turning back to her work. The room seemed to settle into a different rhythm after that. Faster, sharper, and more deliberate.
The scent of lavender and mint still lingered, but it no longer dominated. Blood had taken precedence, its metallic edge threading through every breath made it impossible to ignore. The blue liquid continued to sink into Lamberra's wound, its faint glow dimming as it worked, slowing what it could but failing to repair what lay deeper.
Willow hovered close, too close to be useful but not close enough to do anything. His hands twitched at his sides. He was restless, searching for a purpose that wasn't there.
Across from him, Isabella moved with steady efficiency. Her fingers traced the injury again, more carefully now, mapping the damage beneath the surface. Torn muscles, depth of the cut, the angle of the blade that had caused it. Her expression tightened in calculation.
Then, without lifting her gaze, she spoke.
"She's going to die."
The statement hung in the air for half a second before Willow answered, the frustration already rising.
The statement hung in the air for half a second before Willow answered, the frustration already rising.
"Fix her. She's an emerald child. That blue stuff. Do it."
Isabella's head snapped up. Her glare was immediate and cutting.
"No," she said, the correction landing hard. "I'm a doctor."
She turned back to the table, but the tension in her movements had sharpened.
"I can clean wounds, stitch them shut, and keep infections at bay," she continued, reaching for another vial. This one a deep, opaque green. "But I can't knit together shredded muscle. I can't fuse broken bones," she added, uncorking it with a sharper motion than before, "and I sure as hell can't stop whatever damage is happening inside her."
The green liquid waited in the glass, thicker, heavier.
"If she's an emerald child…then, are there more?"
Willow already knew that.
For a moment, he said nothing. The admission sat there, heavy and unavoidable, pressing against everything he'd been trying not to think about since the moment she fell.
Finally, he spoke.
"Belli Mira," he said, the name rough in his throat. "My sister."
Isabella then looked in amazement.
"W-wait you're the son of…Rowena?" She gasped.
"She's the only other emerald child that we know of," he continued, forcing steadiness into his voice. "If anyone can fix this, it's her."
"How fast can she get here?" She reached for a roll of clean linen. Pulling it free with practiced ease, her mind already moving ahead to what came next. Not just tonight but weeks from now.
"If we send for her now…tonight," Willow said, the words coming faster now as urgency shaped them into something almost brittle. "If she has a horse." His hands curled tighter at his sides, fingers digging into his palms as though he could force time to move with sheer tension. "We need a messenger."
Isabella didn't wait for agreement. The decision was already made by the time the words left her mouth. She turned sharply, striding toward the back of the shop with purpose that cut cleanly through the lingering chaos. The door there resisted for half a second before she shoved it open with a solid crack.
"Lorne!" Her voice carried, sharp and practiced, the kind that expected to be obeyed.
For a brief moment, there was only the muted clatter of something being set down beyond the doorway. Then movement. Quick and unpolished.
A man appeared, tall and loosely put together, as though he'd been assembled without much concern for symmetry. He wiped his hands on his trousers as he stepped in, streaks of dirt smearing across already worn fabric. His brown curls sat in disarray, pushed in too many directions to have been intentional, and the faint smell of smoke clung to him.
"What?" he muttered, not yet fully present with his attention still half-rooted in whatever task he'd abandoned.
"Drop everything," Isabella said immediately, leaving no room for hesitation. "Ride to Ashvale. Now. Take my fastest horse."
"What the hell…happened here?" He spoke in amusement looking around.
"Why are you asking questions, Lorne? I gave you a command." Isabella snapped.
Lorne's posture shifted. It wasn't dramatic, but enough. The tone had reached him.
"Find Belli Mira and tell her to get here immediately," Isabella continued, already stepping back toward the table even as she issued the orders. "Tell her there's a girl dying with her brother, and it can't wait."
That was when Lorne's gaze followed the direction of her movement. It landed on Willow first. Blood-streaked and rigid. Then it moved, drawn inevitably to the table. To the girl. His mouth parted slightly, the beginnings of a question forming, but it didn't make it out. Whatever he saw answered it before it could exist.
He nodded once. No flourish. No wasted motion.
"On it."
He turned immediately, pivoting on his heel with none of the earlier sluggishness, and disappeared through the doorway at a near run. A moment later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed faintly beyond, already carrying him away from the room.
Isabella exhaled. Slow and controlled, her fingers rising to press briefly against her temples as if to anchor her thoughts before they scattered too far ahead. Then she lowered her hands and turned back to the table.
This time, she truly looked. Not as a patient. Not as a problem to solve. As a person.
Isabella's shift was immediate and jarring. A sharp intake of breath broke from her before she could stop it.
Without thinking, she reached forward. Her fingers gentler but also frantic now as they moved through Lamberra's hair. It was stiff in places, tangled and darkened where blood had dried into it.
"Lamberra…" The name slipped out, barely more than breath. It was threaded with something that hadn't been there before.
After finally recognizing her, panic followed closely behind it.
Her hands moved faster now. Urgency no longer clinical but personal as she began stripping away what remained of Lamberra's ruined clothing. Fabric tore where it resisted, fell away where it didn't, exposing more of the damage piece by piece.
"What happened to you, sweet girl?" she whispered, the words unsteady despite herself.
Her head snapped up suddenly. The softness vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Her mint eyes locked onto Willow with renewed intensity, sharper now, searching for something more than surface answers.
"What are you to her?"
Willow because the truth felt insufficient in the face of everything else in the room.
"I'm probably one of her closest friends," he said finally; the words coming slower now.. "We grew up in the slums together."
It felt small said like that. Incomplete.
Isabella studied him for a beat longer, something unreadable tightening in her expression. Then she jerked her chin back toward Lamberra.
"Turn around," she said. "You're not going to see her naked. I'm fully undressing her."
There was no argument with him. Willow turned immediately, presenting his back to the table.
"Can you tell me what you see?" he asked, the question slipped out. "How bad is she?"
"Fine," Isabella said sharply though the word carried no reassurance at all.
She worked methodically now, cutting away the last of Lamberra's clothing to fully expose the damage.
The wound at her shoulder demanded attention first.
It was deep. Worse than thought. Jagged along its edges, the path of the blade uneven, as though it had been driven through with force and dragged without precision. The flesh around it had already begun to darken, an early sign of trauma and infection setting in beneath the surface. Muscles lay torn and separated, the structure compromised in a way that simple stitching would never fix.
Even the crude cauterization by Willow hadn't been enough. The bleeding hadn't stopped, only slowed, thick and sluggish now as it continued to seep.
Isabella's mouth tightened.
Her attention shifted, mapping the rest of the damage with trained efficiency.
Bruises bloomed across Lamberra's ribs, darkening into deep purples that spoke of force rather than accident. One, two…she pressed lightly along the worst of them, counting the subtle, involuntary reactions.
A faint flinch.
"At least two," she murmured under her breath. "Maybe three broken ribs including the shoulder wound."
Her fingers moved higher.
The burn along Lamberra's face stood out in contrast to everything else. It was red and raw along one side, the pattern too deliberate to be incidental. It traced across her skin in a way that spoke of directed heat not a wild flame.
It was magic.
"Are you a fire user?" Isabella asked, her tone shifting slightly as she worked backward through the evidence. "Like your father?"
Behind her, Willow's shoulders tensed.
"I am," he admitted, the words low.
"So you burned her too?"
The question didn't need confirmation.
Her hands continued downward, tracing along arms and legs marked with scrapes and cuts. They were deep and uneven. Rocks. Roots. A body thrown or falling hard, over and over.
For a moment, there was no sound at all from her side of the room.
Another injury revealed itself not in blood, but in color. A dark and spreading purple low along Lamberra's abdomen, just above the hip. The shape and depth of it…
Isabella's breath hitched, quiet but sharp.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath.
Across the room, Willow felt the shift immediately.
"What?" he asked, turning slightly before catching himself and stopping short of fully looking back.
Isabella didn't answer right away. Instead she pressed two fingers gently but firmly into the bruising. Testing. Watching. Feeling for what couldn't be seen.
Then she pulled her hand back.
"There's a wound," she said finally, her voice lower now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "She's bleeding deep inside."
A beat.
"There's nothing I can do with that."
Willow's throat tightened as the pieces aligned with a clarity he didn't want.
"That's why she was coughing up blood," he said, more to himself than to her.
"She's holding on," Isabella continued, straightening slightly as she rolled her shoulders back, forcing steadiness into her posture. "For now. But if your sister isn't here by tonight, she won't see another sunrise."
She crossed the room quickly, retrieving a thick blanket from the adjoining space, and returned just as fast. The fabric settled over Lamberra's body, covering what it could, offering warmth where it mattered least but still mattered.
"But, Willow…" Isabella's voice finally gave him comfort. "even your miracle sister might not save her."
The honesty was deliberate.
"I will do anything I can," she said, quieter now. "Okay?"
Willow didn't answer.
He stood where he was, back still turned, his hands hanging at his sides. His fingers flexed, then clenched, then flexed again.
Isabella noticed. Not just the motion but the tremor beneath it.
Her gaze shifted, taking him in more fully now that the immediate triage had been done. His uniform was stiff in places and darkened where blood had dried into the fabric. Most of it belonged to Lamberra but not all of it.
"You're bleeding too," she noted. The realization formed without needing to be spoken aloud. Then, more audibly, "your turn," she sighed, the edge returning just enough to carry the words forward.
"I'm fine," Willow grunted, His body angled away from her.
"Oh, shut up and sit down."
Isabella didn't give him the chance.
Her hand shot out, fingers locking around his arm with surprising force, and she yanked him forward before he could resist properly. Her movement was sharp and decisive.
He tensed on instinct but it didn't last.
She caught the edge of his shirt and jerked it upward, expecting the usual resistance. Pride and stubbornness but there was none.
Willow exhaled instead, the sound low and tired as he let it happen.
The fabric lifted and Isabella saw it.
The wound sat just beneath his ribs, ugly and open, the edges uneven where the blade had gone in and come back out. Blood had dried in dark, stiff patches around it, but not all of it. Some of it was fresh, seeping in slow stubborn lines.
For a split second, hot white rage surged through her.
"This happened when?" she demanded, her voice snapping tighter than before.
"During the fight." Willow's answer came without inflection. Detached.
Isabella's glare cut upward, sharp and incredulous. "And you didn't think to mention it?"
"It didn't seem important with Lamberra dying."
The scoff that came from Isabella was faint and humorless.
Instead of pushing for yet another fight with him, she reached for a bottle. Uncorking it with a sharper motion than necessary. The smell hit immediately; harsh, biting, strong enough to cut through everything else in the room.
"Hold still."
She didn't wait for confirmation.
The liquid poured over the wound in a steady stream.
Willow flinched.
It was a small jerk of muscle, a tightening but it was the first real reaction he'd given to his own injuries.
"Good," Isabella muttered, watching it. "I hope that hurts."
He let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if it had carried any humor. "It does."
Her attention shifted, moving across him with the same efficiency she'd used on Lamberra. His right shoulder drew her focus next. A clean slice running from the collarbone toward the back. Deep enough to matter.
She pressed at it testing his reaction but all she got was a tighter jaw.
His own magic burns came next. They traced along his forearm and up toward his upper arm, irregular in shape but consistent in origin.
"Idiot," she muttered, reaching for a salve without looking away from the damage.
"You're not the first to say that," as a light chuckle escapes him.
"Oh, trust me," Isabella replied dryly, already working the salve into the burns with careful pressure, "you won't survive the week without someone else repeating it."
Back to the shoulder wound, she began to stitch it together. Thread through flesh. Pull. Tie.
The stab wound closed under her hands, the edges drawn together with deliberate care. She wrapped his shoulder next, binding it tight enough to support without restricting movement entirely.
He didn't resist. Didn't question. Didn't speak, except for the occasional low grunt when her hands pressed too firmly into something.
Time passed without either of them marking it.
Isabella leaned back slightly, wiping her hands on a cloth as she studied him once she was done.
Willow wasn't looking at her. He hadn't been for a while.
His attention had drifted back to the table, to the quiet, fragile movement of Lamberra's chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. It was subtle. Easy to miss if you weren't watching for it.
Every rise. Every fall.
Isabella let the silence stretch for a few breaths before pushing herself upright.
"You should rest," she said, her tone more measured now. "Both of you are in bad shape, and there's nothing else to do until your sister gets here."
Willow didn't move. Didn't even look at her.
Isabella exhaled, the sound sharper this time but something in her expression shifted. A smile. "You really care about her, huh?"
"I couldn't live with myself if something happened to her," he muttered. "It was my fault. I should have burned the forest to the ground instead of trying to benefit the public. The same public that hates us."
Isabella wasn't sure how to answer that. Not a clue what he was alluding to.
His eyes never left her.
Behind him, Isabella watched in silence for a moment longer, arms crossing loosely over her chest. "Go upstairs."
No response.
"Willow." Her voice sharpened again, firmer now. "She's stable. She won't get better if you sit here staring at her, brooding. Upstairs. Now."
Still nothing.
"She's not going to die while you sleep," Isabella said, quieter this time, the words chosen more carefully as she kneeled next to him. "But if you don't rest, how will you be there for her when she wakes up?"
That landed.
Willow shifted slowly as if his body had to be convinced one piece at a time. When he finally stood his motion motion wasn't steady. His balance wavered and the accumulated strain caught up all at once.
Isabella stepped in without comment, guiding him with a hand at his arm toward the narrow staircase tucked along the wall.
"There's a cot near the bed," she told him as they moved. "It's not much, but it's better than standing here."
He climbed the stairs one step at a time, each one heavier than the last, until he reached the small loft above. The space was simple: low ceiling, rough brick walls, the faint lingering warmth of the shop below rising into it.
He stopped in front of the cot. Exhausted. That much was undeniable. It pressed into him from every direction, settling deep into bone and muscle alike.
Isabella waited for Willow to lay, but he didn't. Unable. He tried to turn back around but then there was pressure.
Sharp. Precise. Just beneath his ear. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. A sudden electric sensation shooting through him. It wasn't pain exactly but something close enough to steal control. His vision blurred instantly, edges dissolving as strength drained from his limbs without warning.
Then his knees buckled.
"What the…" he started, the words breaking apart as they left him.
Isabella was already there.
Her grip caught his arm. It was firm and unyielding as she redirected his fall with practiced ease, guiding him toward the cot instead of the floor.
"Pressure point," she said, her tone calm. "I told you, you need sleep."
"You…bit…" The protest came out slow and thick. His body was already betraying him as his eyelids dragged downward despite his effort to keep them open.
"I know a stubborn man when I see one," Isabella muttered, easing him down onto the cot. "So I gave you no choice."
Then, Willow's body went slack as he began sleeping.
Isabella let out the largest sigh of relief as she sat on her bed looking at him. Scanning his body and spotted his elfen ears. On the left ear, a clean clear cut halfway through. She marked it as interesting and thought it had happened during a mock battle, but she couldn't help but notice how clean the healing was. Almost as if you couldn't tell it happened if there wasn't another ear to compare it to.
"Must be nice," Isabella muttered as she descended the narrow staircase. Her voice was low enough that it barely carried beyond herself.
Not the blood, or the wars, or the kind of life that left a man stitched together and barely standing. There was nothing that she envied. It was how he looked at her. How he protected her. That single, unbroken focus: desperate, unwavering, as if the entire world had narrowed to one fragile, bleeding girl and the impossible demand that she keep breathing. The way he had torn through the marketplace without hesitation. Knocking over stalls, shouting down strangers, forcing the world to move aside because her life required it.
Isabella had never had that. Never had someone who would choose her like that. Loud, reckless, without hesitation.
There was Lorne, of course. Her brother. But the comparison barely held.
Lorne, who could forget what he was doing mid-task. Lorne, whose thoughts drifted like smoke from the stove he tended. He could be present one moment and gone the next. Reliable in his own special way.
She scoffed under her breath. There was no time for this. Not tonight.
Her hands moved automatically as she reached the bottom of the stairs, pulling her dark green sleeves higher along her forearms. A loose strand of pink hair had fallen free; she tucked it back behind her ear with practiced ease.
Her clothing bore the marks of her trade. The wool tunic hung simply over her frame, earth-toned and unremarkable. The leather apron tied at her waist was thick, worn soft in places and stiff in others as it has been shaped by years of use. Her fingerless gloves clung to her hands, the material darkened and hardened where herbs, oils, and blood had left their mark over time.
Unlike Mister Finch back in Ashvale; who spent his days measuring powders and selling remedies to worried mothers. Isabella's work did not stay behind a counter.
She was one of the best doctors in all of Ravenwood. Known. Talented. Across the lordship, from one settlement to another, carrying knowledge, supplies, and skill where it was needed.
Lorne stayed behind for the quieter tasks. Selling to passing merchants. Handling local deliveries.
However, sometimes in passing, Isabella would still see Lamberra on her delivery runs. Hardly memorable interactions but knew how sweet and lovely of a girl she was.
Downstairs, the apothecary had settled into a heavy stillness. The earlier chaos had faded, leaving behind only the layered scents of crushed herbs and the steady warmth of the low-burning stoves. Wood crackled softly in the corner, a dull, rhythmic sound that filled the gaps between breaths.
Isabella's gaze moved immediately to the table.
Lamberra lay where she had been left, her body still, her presence quieter now that the urgency of immediate action had passed. Her chest rose and fell. Isabella stepped closer, her fingers finding Lamberra's wrist with practiced precision. She pressed lightly, feeling for the pulse beneath the skin. It was stronger than the last time she checked.
A small breath escaped Isabella's lips. Something close to relief.
Her attention shifted, already moving ahead to what came next. The table wasn't where Lamberra would stay.
She walked towards the back room where the surgical bed sat where it always had, heavy and worn, its wood darkened with age and memory. Once, this had been the center of the apothecary's work.
Isabella moved toward it without hesitation, stripping away the old sheets in one swift motion. The fabric came free easily as well. Then replaced just as quickly with fresh linen. Her hands smoothed it down, pressing out every crease with quiet precision.
She layered blankets next. Thick enough to hold warmth, light enough not to weigh down an already struggling body. Each one adjusted, repositioned, until it felt right.
Then restocking the shelves. Her eyes moved across them, checking, adjusting, preparing. Clean bandages within reach. Salves ready. A mortar and pestle placed where it could be grabbed without thought.
Everything Belli might need. It was everything Isabella could provide.
Once it was complete, Isabella returned back to the main room, dodging the broken glass on the floor, reaching Lamberra's nude body. A light emerald glow still on her wound on the collarbone.
Isabella slid her arms beneath her carefully, lifting her from the table with controlled ease. The weight surprised her. Not heavy. Too light.
She carried her into the back room without pause, lowering her gently onto the prepared bed. The blankets came up next, tucked carefully around her, adjusted until nothing pulled or pressed where it shouldn't.
Her hair dried and sticky with blood. Burn scars across her face. Black and blue all over. A true miracle the chest kept rising.
"There," Isabella murmured, stepping back slightly, her arms crossing over her chest.
Isabella returned to the main room, the remnants of earlier urgency still scattered across the floor. Broken glass caught the low light, reflecting it in small, fractured glints. She grabbed a broom and began sweeping, the motion steady and deliberate. The bristles scraped softly against the wooden floor, gathering shards into a single pile.
The room answered quietly.
Only the occasional pop from the stove broke it, herbs burning slowly in the heat, their scent blending into lavender and sage that lingered in the air.
When the last of the glass was cleared, Isabella finally allowed herself to sit. The chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back slightly, exhaustion settling in now that there was nothing immediate to fight against.
Sleep came in fragments. Short, uneven dips where her body gave in before her mind followed. Each time she jerked awake again she'd check on Lamberra.
She'd stand there for five minutes each time. Counting how many breaths took and pulse upon her wrist.
As she began to fall asleep again, the sound came furiously. Boots against gravel. Sharp, fast, purposeful.
Isabella was on her feet before she fully registered it, every muscle tightening as her attention snapped toward the door.
It slammed open.
The force of it echoed through the shop, rattling wood and glass alike.
Belli entered like a storm and as the door closed behind her, Isabella saw it was still daylight outside.
Her presence filled the room instantly, overwhelming in a way that had nothing to do with size. Strands of long red hair had escaped whatever braid had once held them, falling loose in wild, uneven waves over her shoulders. Her travel cloak was gone, lost somewhere along the way, and her violet eyes…burned.
"Where is she?" Each word landed hard.
"I assume you're Belli?" Isabella replied, arching a brow even as she rose fully from her chair. "Where's Lorne? The man sent to get you."
The question barely existed to Belli. Her gaze swept the room, fast and searching. Skipping over everything that didn't matter.
"I left him," she snapped, not even slowing. "I probably killed my horse to get here."
Her eyes snapped back to Isabella, intensity sharpening further.
"Again-where is she!?" The demand rose; pressing into the space between them.
A creak broke through from the top of the stairs. Both women turned.
Willow stood at the top of the stairs, one hand braced lightly against the wall as he stepped down. His movements were stiff, controlled in a way that suggested pain held just beneath the surface. Blood still marked his uniform, dried and fresh in uneven patches, but he forced himself upright anyway.
"Belli…?" he muttered, the word heavy with exhaustion.
Her gaze snapped to him. For a fraction of a second her expression became filled with ease and delight seeing her brother okay.
But as quickly as it came, it vanished.
Her attention cut back to Isabella as she stepped forward. Her presence closed the distance in a way that made the air feel thinner.
"I am not going to ask again," Belli said, her voice becoming dangerous. "Where is Lamberra?" Then her eyes flicked once more to Willow, her jaw tightening. "You idiot."
Willow sighed under his breath. The sound was quiet and resigned.
"S-she's in the back," Isabella said quickly. "This way."
She turned immediately, leading them into the smaller room. The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Lamberra lay where Isabella had placed her, blankets pulled neatly around her form. Her breathing remained. Soft, uneven, fragile. The dim candlelight deepened everything, casting shadows that stretched across her injuries. Making each one appear harsher and more severe.
Isabella stepped forward slightly, clearing her throat as she began.
"She has burn marks across her body, cracked ribs, a deep stab wound across her shoulder, and-"
"Let me see."
Belli's voice cut through hers quietly but absolute.
In two quick steps, she reached the bed and pulled the blanket back in one sharp motion.
Her breath caught hard. The sound broke free before she could contain it.
The wound at Lamberra's shoulder stood out first. Angry and deep. It cut across her body with brutal clarity, the damage beneath it impossible to miss. Bruises spread across her ribs. The color deepened towards black in places. The burn along her face remained raw. Then the bruise at her hip.
Belli's hands hovered in the air above her trembling.
Slowly she did. Her fingers brushed lightly against Lamberra's cheek, barely there, tracing the edge of the burn with a care that stood in stark contrast to everything else about her arrival. Her other hand came up, cupping Lamberra's face gently, her thumb moving in a slow, grounding motion along her temple.
Belli's throat tightened. She swallowed hard, forcing it down. Her hands curled suddenly into fists against the sheets.
"I should have been here sooner."
"You got here as fast as you could," Willow said. The softness in his voice didn't belong to him. Not the version of him that had stormed through the market or stood bleeding without complaint. It slipped out quieter. Worn thin by everything that had come before it.
Belli didn't accept it.
Her head shook once. Sharp and immediate as red strands shifting with the motion. The anger in her violet eyes flared before she forced it down.
"You," she said, her gaze cutting to Isabella. "Apothecary girl. Bring me everything you have."
The command landed bluntly.
Isabella's shoulders stiffened slightly at the tone. "Everything's already in the cabinets above the bed," she replied, her voice even, controlled.
Belli's eyes flicked toward the shelves. It was good enough.
"Everyone leave," Belli said, not looking up. "I need time."
Willow didn't move immediately. "How much time?" he asked the question carefully.
Belli had already stepped closer to the bed. Positioning herself over Lamberra's body. Her hands hovered just above her, fingers spread slightly. A shimmer moved between her hands, subtle waves of green mana pulsing outward.
"Time," she repeated. Then, softer, "she'll be fine, Willow."
The words hung there as Willow hesitated. His hands twitched at his sides with the urge to stay.
"Come on," Isabella said quietly, already guiding him back toward the door. The door closed behind them with a muted finality sealing Belli inside.
The apothecary settled into silence once again. Willow sat stiffly in one of the chairs, his posture rigid despite the exhaustion weighing him down. His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, an uneven rhythm that never quite settled. Across the room, Isabella moved with deliberate calm, her hands busy with tasks that didn't need doing. Fresh bandages were folded, stacked, adjusted over and over again as neither of them spoke.
Minutes blurred into hours until Lorne bursted through the door.
He stepped inside with his usual looseness replaced by something heavier. His expression had tightened, his mint eyes like his sister's sharper than before as they flicked between Isabella and Willow before settling.
"I informed the knights of Siburg about the attack," he said. "They're investigating it now."
Willow shifted uncomfortably. The movement was small but telling. A muscle ticked in his jaw as the words settled into place. He knew what that meant. Questions. Authority. Inevitable consequences.
"I assume the knights are going to inform the town mayor," he said with his tone flat, "who will then inform Lord Everknight?"
Lorne shrugged. He was already moving past them toward the stairs with no more urgency.
"I got no idea how that works," he muttered. "But they know everything I know." And just like that he was gone again.
Willow exhaled sharply as he drug a hand through his tangled red hair. His fingers catch briefly before pushing through. What an embarrassment. The son of the great Rowena Mira reduced to this.
"Are you going to be in trouble?" Isabella asked. Her voice had changed. The edge was gone. It was sweet for once.
Willow let out a short humorless chuckle.
"Oh, for sure," he said. "I probably destroyed miles of forest and nearly let a civilian bleed out." His gaze drifted. "There's no way I'm walking away from this clean."
"Like… executed in trouble?" Isabella pressed with her brow furrowing. "You did everything right."
"No," Willow shook his head. "They'll need me. Humans don't fight their wars, remember? Just people like me," he finished pointing at his ears. "But a demotion?" he continued. "Public disgrace?" His fingers curled slowly into fists. "That's more than likely. It doesn't matter if I did everything right," he said. "It's about perception." His gaze flicked briefly toward the door, toward the world outside. "All they'll see is a reckless elf who nearly got a human girl killed and burned down a forest."
A small beat passed.
"That's enough." Isabella watched him for a moment longer. Something thoughtful settled behind her expression. Then she stood. Her steps were slower this time as she crossed the space between them.
"Well," she said, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of her lips, "whenever you can retire…" She stopped just in front of him. "Why don't you come work for me?"
The shift in tone was subtle.
"I need a protector like you on my travels."
Willow blinked and caught off guard. "Uh…" he started, shifting slightly in his seat. "Sure." He lifted his hand to rub his neck. "I'll keep that in mind."
The chuckle that followed was awkward until the both began to laugh in a small quiet manner before making eye contact matching their soft smiles.
Silence returned once more until the back door creaked open.
Both of them were on their feet instantly as Belli stood in the doorway. Her brother had never seen her this frazzled.
Her body trembled visibly. Every muscle strained past its limit. The sharp intensity in her eyes had dulled and was unfocused now. Her hair hung loose and disordered, strands clinging to her face and neck, damp with sweat. Her clothing followed suit: wrinkled, clinging, wet and heavy.
She took a few more steps and then lurched over. She vomited onto the floor with the force of it leaving her gasping.
"Belli! What's wrong?" Isabella dropped immediately with one knee hitting the floor as her hand came to Belli's back, steadying her.
"She's nearly out of mana," Willow said from behind her. "She hasn't pushed herself this far since her training," he continued. "She even tapped into her reserves."
A flicker of awe came from Isabella as her hand began rubbing her back in circles.
Belli dragged in a breath. Sharp and uneven as she forced herself upright despite the way her body resisted, swaying just slightly.
"The good news is…" she managed but her voice was thin. "Lamberra is going to be fine."
The room exhaled. Something that had been coiled tight since the beginning finally loosened.
"She won't have burn scars," she continued but the words are coming slower now. Coming between breaths. "But she's going to be in a lot of pain when she wakes up."
"When?" Both Willow and Isabella asked.
A small pause.
"I don't know when that'll be. Tonight… or two weeks from now."
Isabella's hand tightened slightly on her arm as she guided her toward a chair and eased her down into it.
"I stopped the internal bleeding…for now," she said. "But any movement could reopen it until I finish." Her gaze drifted, unfocused for a moment but sharpened again. "Her ribs are no longer broken," she added. "Still badly bruised."
Another breath.
"The shoulder…" Her jaw tightened. "The muscle damage is severe. The scar will be ugly…there's a chance she may never be able to use that arm again. She will need years of rehab."
The room fell silent again until Belli decided to argue against herself. "No. I am going to fix everything. I will make her whole."
"She's alive," Isabella said at last. Her voice was soft. "That's all that matters. Thank you," Isabella. The sharpness from earlier was gone entirely now. "Go upstairs and rest." She gestured lightly toward the staircase. "Willow and I will get a room across the street because if Lamberra wakes, she'll need you. Not a useless doctor."
Belli's gaze lifted slowly, finally meeting Isabella's. They both nodded in agreement with understanding and trust.
Nobody said anything else other than Willow walking towards Belli and kneeled. Wrapped his older sister in an embrace and kissed her head, a small whisper in her ear.
Finally, both Willow and Isabella walked outside as the cool night breeze struck both of them but for Willow it hit harder. Everything rushed back at once. The forest. The fire. The blood. The weight of Lamberra in his arms.
He shook it off, remaining headstrong, glancing down at Isabella who barely came to his chest in height.
She looked back at him with a smirk already forming. "So we got good news," she said lightly, "do I need to hit your pressure point again, or are you going to sleep with me?" Her grin widened. "Actually…no. You need to buy me dinner first if you want my pain medication for free." She winked.
The shift was so abrupt it almost didn't make sense. Willow blinked but then laughed as he rubbed the back of his neck again.
"I could also use a drink," he admitted.
"Oh, absolutely," Isabella said immediately. They already turned toward the inn across the street. "Since you're a big-shot lieutenant…you're paying."
"I just survived a fight to the death," he scoffed. "Carried a dying girl for miles. I will never be a lieutenant again." Isabella skipped in front of him, ignoring his mumbles.
"And I have no clean clothes."
Isabella responded in silence.
"I have to buy dinner and a room?" He asked, finally succumbing to her antics, liking this side of her.
"Yep." She didn't even look back. "Welcome to real hardship!"
For the first time since Ashvale, Willow let his guard down and felt relief wash over him as the near full moon was raised high upon the sky.