Morning comes slowly in Willowmere.
Not in the way of a castle — where dawn is marked by bells, boots, and orders shouted down echoing corridors — but in the way of a village that wakes when it feels like it.
You hear it before you see it: the faint scrape of a pestle in a mortar, the soft thud of herbs dropping onto a wooden board, the muted clink of glass.
Maika is already at work when you step into the main room, hair tied back in a loose braid, sleeves rolled past her elbows. She stands at the kitchen table grinding leaves into a paste, the smell sharp and green in the cool air. The open window lets in the scent of wet soil and the sound of distant chickens fussing somewhere down the lane.
"Morning, Stormy," she says without looking up. Then, with a flick of her eyes toward the counter: "If you're going to hover, make yourself useful. Dry rack's empty."
You find the bundle she's left for you — comfrey, rosemary, and a stalk of something pale with small purple blossoms. Your hands remember how to thread them onto twine faster than your mind does, the old muscle memory from long hours in the Demon Castle's alchemy hall slipping through without permission.
Maika doesn't comment on your speed, but you catch the way she glances sideways now and then, as if weighing whether to ask. She doesn't.
By midmorning the room smells of crushed leaves, dried roots, and something faintly metallic from the old pot simmering over the hearth. Not food — medicine. A tea for someone with a cough that won't quit. Maika's hands are stained green and brown from grinding, sorting, and measuring. Yours aren't much better.
The two of you set out into the village with a wicker basket balanced between you. It's packed with small jars sealed in wax, bundles of dried plants wrapped in paper, and cloth pouches that rustle when moved.
Her rounds are methodical but never rushed. At each cottage she greets the resident by name, trades the goods for coin, bread, or eggs, and asks after things that have nothing to do with her deliveries — how they've been sleeping, whether their roof still leaks, if the goat's limp has improved.
You say little, letting her do the talking. Most villagers glance at you only once before smiling — curious, yes, but not unkind. A few thank you directly for carrying the basket. You nod, unsure how else to respond.
By the time you return, your arms ache pleasantly. The kind of ache that feels earned.
The afternoon is quieter.
Maika works at the table again, sorting herbs into jars labeled in her looping script, mixing pastes, folding powders into paper packets. You help when she asks, keeping your hands steady and your focus sharp.
She's halfway through preparing a fever remedy when she lets out a soft curse.
"Damn it. Sigil's smudged."
You glance at the slip of paper she holds. It's a simple holding glyph — designed to keep the remedy potent until it's used. You've seen it before, dozens of times in different forms.
"Here," you say before thinking, and take it from her.
You pick up the charcoal stick and redraw the rune. Your hand moves without pause — the lines tighter, the curves sharper, every stroke flowing into the next the way you were taught years ago in the castle. You finish it quickly and slide the paper back across the table.
Maika studies it for a second, head tilted. "Huh. That's… not how my teacher writes it."
"It'll hold," you say, too fast to sound casual.
She shrugs. "If you say so, Stormy."
And just like that, the moment passes.
The next day you help her again. This time it's a set of small wooden charms for a group of travelers heading east. She lays them out in a neat row, each one a pale disc of birch, sanded smooth.
"You draw the binding glyphs," she says, passing you the bundle of charcoal sticks. "You've got a steadier hand than me."
You work in silence, the shapes coming as naturally as breathing — but again, they're not quite the shapes she's used to. They're older. Leaner. Every line purposeful, stripped of the flourishes common to orthodox rune work.
Halfway through, you catch her watching. Not idly. Closely.
She doesn't say anything. You keep working.
By the third day of helping, there's an unspoken weight to her gaze.
The sun has dropped low by the time the last jar is sealed and the herbs hung to dry. The two of you sit in the kitchen with the window open, the cool evening air brushing against your arms.
Maika leans back in her chair, arms crossed, studying you like she's trying to decide how deep she wants to dig.
"So."
You look up from the pile of parchment scraps you've been sorting.
"You gonna tell me why some of your runes look like they were pulled straight out of an old demon grimoire?"
Her tone isn't angry — not yet. But it's sharper than usual, curiosity edged with something harder.
The words hit in a way you don't expect. You freeze without meaning to, the small paper slip held still between your fingers.
Outside, the willow leaves stir, and the lanterns sway on their branches. The soft chime of one bumping against another drifts into the room.
You could lie. Say they're just a different style, something you picked up from a wandering mage. You could laugh it off. Change the subject.
But the shapes of those runes are burned into you — the first language of magic you learned. Not from a book in some sunlit library, but in the shadow of blackstone walls, under the watch of someone who never once had to raise their voice to make the room listen.
Your mouth is dry.
Maika doesn't look away.
"Well?" she prompts.
Her eyes aren't accusing, but they are steady. She's not the type to let a thing go once she's decided to ask it out loud.
You set the parchment down slowly.
The words are there, waiting — but you're not sure which version of them you're willing to give her.
And for the first time since you arrived in Willowmere, you feel the air in the room shift.