Laxyie returned at dusk, boots coated in dust and leaf-mold, the valley already sinking into long blue shadows. Smoke rose from the farmhouse chimney in a thin, patient line, and for the first time since he had left that morning, his shoulders eased.
Tyke was the first to see him.
He had been sitting on the low fence near the barn, legs swinging restlessly, eyes fixed on the path that cut through the fields. When Laxyie appeared between the trees, Tyke shot to his feet.
"You're back," he said, relief spilling out of him before he could stop it.
Laxyie lifted the bundle of broad, Khōrbah leaves bound with twine. "Got it."
Tyke let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and ran ahead toward the house, shouting for the old couple before Laxyie even reached the yard.
Inside, the farmhouse smelled of dried herbs, boiled roots, and old wood warmed by fire. The retired herbalists—bent with age but sharp-eyed— took the Khōrbah from him,unwrapping it carefully as if it were something precious.
"You cut it clean," the old man said, nodding. "Good. The bitterness hasn't fled."
They moved with practiced ease, hands steady despite the years. The leaves were crushed, steeped, mixed with oils and powders pulled from jars whose labels had long since faded. Laxyie watched from the doorway, arms folded, listening to the rhythmic scrape of mortar against pestle, the low murmured exchanges between husband and wife.
An hour passed.
When the potion was finished, it rested in a simple clay cup—dark, thick, steaming faintly.
The old woman handed it to Laxyie. "Give it to her slowly. Don't rush her."
He nodded and took it carefully, as though it might shatter.
Lyla lay on the narrow bed near the window, hair loose against the pillow, skin pale but no longer burning. Her breathing had steadied, though each breath still seemed to cost her effort.
Laxyie sat beside her and lifted her head gently, supporting her shoulders as he brought the cup to her lips.
"It's going to be all right," he said quietly.
She managed a small sound of acknowledgment and drank, wincing at the bitterness but swallowing every drop. When it was done, he eased her back onto the pillow and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of his cloak.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Lyla stirred and gestured weakly. "Come closer."
He leaned in, uncertain, one hand braced on the edge of the bed.
"I… wanted to say something," she murmured, voice low and rough.
Before he could respond, she reached up, fingers brushing his collar, and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss against his cheek.
"Thank you," she said.
That was all.
Laxyie froze.
For a heartbeat, the world simply… stopped.
He sat there, stunned, warmth spreading across his face before he could control it. His thoughts scattered, useless and unfamiliar. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had kissed him like that—no, he could remember. He wished he couldn't.
His mother's smile surfaced unbidden, distant and sharp as a blade.
He swallowed and leaned back, clearing his throat.
"You should rest," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "The potion will work better if you sleep."
Lyla smiled faintly and closed her eyes, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
Laxyie rose quietly and stepped outside.
The night had settled fully now. Crickets sang from the fields, and the moon hung low and pale above the valley. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the cool air, willing his face to cool.
Behind him, the old couple waited.
He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. For everything."
They waved it off with practiced gentleness.
"Rest," the old man said. "All of you."
And so they did.
Morning came softly.
Laxyie woke to the smell of bread and herbs, sunlight creeping across the wooden floor. He sat up, already alert, and listened.
No coughing.
No labored breathing.
Only quiet voices and the crackle of the hearth.
He stepped outside and found Lyla standing near the well, stretching her arms above her head like nothing had happened at all. Her color was back, eyes bright, posture strong.
Tyke circled her like an anxious sparrow. "You sure you're fine?"
She laughed. "I told you, didn't I? Just a cold."
Laxyie raised an eyebrow. "You were barely conscious."
"And now I'm not." She grinned. "See?"
The old couple called them in for breakfast—simple fare: bread, cheese, warm milk, and fruit from the orchard. They ate together at the worn wooden table, the kind that bore marks from decades of shared meals.
Halfway through, Lyla cleared her throat.
"About last night," she said, eyes suddenly fixed on her bowl.
Laxyie stiffened.
She glanced up, cheeks faintly colored. "I… I've never done that before. I just thought—well—that's how a woman should thank someone who risks himself for her."
Laxyie choked.
Tyke was on him instantly, shoving a cup of water into his hands. "Drink. You're dying."
Laxyie coughed, drank, and shot Lyla a glare that only made the girl grin wider.
"That's what a friend does," Laxyie said at last, voice controlled but firm. "You don't owe me anything."
Lyla studied him for a long moment, then smiled—not teasing, not embarrassed. Just warm.
"Then… thank you, friend."
Something settled between them then. Not tension. Not expectation. Just understanding.
When breakfast was finished, Laxyie reached for his pouch.
"We should pay you," he said to the old couple. "For the potion. For the night."
They shook their heads.
"No," the old woman said gently. "We've had enough coin for a lifetime."
The old man smiled. "It's good to see young people still walking the road together. Reminds us of who we were."
They packed their things, shouldered their packs, and bowed and said goodbye properly before leaving. Tyke lingered, waving enthusiastically until the farmhouse was far behind them.
The road to Cohen stretched ahead—long, uncertain, and full of things none of them could yet name.
But for now, they walked together.
And for the first time in days, the road felt light beneath their feet.