The air outside was cool and damp, heavy with mist. Tall grasses brushed our boots as we followed the dirt path winding away from the hut and into the forest's edge. Birds called from unseen branches, their notes sharp and unfamiliar. Somewhere far off, water rushed in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat hidden in the hills.
I adjusted the map in my hand. The inked lines shimmered faintly, almost alive.
"If this is right, Orleaf should be only a few hours' walk from here," I said.
Omina was already crouched at the path's edge, her eyes locked on a patch of pale-green leaves. She plucked one and sniffed it, her lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.
"Healer's mint. Good for fevers. Stems are edible too, if you're desperate."
I chuckled, shifting the borrowed shield on my back. "You never miss a chance, do you?"
"It's better than starving," she said, tucking the leaf into a pouch at her hip. "Besides… the land here feels alive. Different, but not unfriendly."
We pressed on. Silver-barked trees arched overhead, their leaves glimmering faintly as though touched by frost. Strange vines climbed their trunks, dotted with flowers that pulsed with dim light in the mist. Every so often Omina darted off the path, pointing out roots, berries, or fungi—her eyes bright, her movements quick but clumsy enough that I had to catch her once when she nearly tripped on a vine.
"You're mapping this place with your nose and fingertips," I teased.
"Someone has to," she shot back, brushing dirt from her cloak. "If you're going to be the knight, then let me be the one who keeps us fed."
Past the tree line, the land sloped into a valley. Rice terraces shimmered like mirrors, fed by channels that glittered in the rising sun. Beyond them, wooden houses with straw roofs huddled together between patches of farmland. Smoke rose in soft curls from a handful of chimneys.
"There," I said, pointing. "Orleaf."
Omina shaded her eyes. "Looks small."
"Small can mean safe," I murmured. "Or dangerous, if it's the only place to hide."
We fell silent as the path bent toward a narrow bridge of rough-hewn planks spanning a stream. The boards groaned under our steps. On the other side, the mist thinned—revealing Orleaf in full.
---
The village looked as though it had grown out of the earth itself. Dirt paths wound between low houses of pale timber, their straw roofs weathered but sturdy. Herbs hung in bunches beneath the eaves, drying in the morning air. Tiny gardens clung to every fence, sprouting onions, beans, and climbing vines. Irrigation channels cut across the outskirts, feeding fields that stretched into the hills.
The air smelled of fresh soil and wildflowers, with the faint sweetness of drying leaves. Life here moved at a steady rhythm: the creak of baskets filled with vegetables, the murmur of quiet voices, the steady splash of water in the paddies.
Omina's eyes lit up. "It's like the whole village is one big herb garden," she whispered, almost giddy.
I scanned the dirt street with a soldier's caution. There were no walls, no guards, not even a horse-drawn cart. Just farmers, children, and the hum of insects. It felt peaceful—fragile, even—but my instincts told me peace this simple couldn't last.
---
We drifted into the market square, a cluster of stalls shaded by reed awnings. An elderly woman arranged neat piles of herbs and vegetables on a rough board. Omina could resist no longer—she crouched by the stall, her words tumbling out in a rush.
"What's this one? And these stems? Oh—and those berries?"
The vendor blinked, surprised, then chuckled softly. "That's **Kalkalun**—good for fever if you boil it. These pale ones are **Aluyo**, strong for the blood. And the stems—**Angkon**, cheap but filling."
Omina repeated each name carefully, committing them to memory, her hands twitching as if to scribble invisible notes. She looked more alive than I'd ever seen her—this was her element.
I handed over a silver coin from the old man's pouch. The vendor accepted it with a small nod, though her eyes lingered on us longer than felt comfortable.
"You're not from here," she said finally. Her tone wasn't hostile, but curious—and edged with caution. "Where did you come from?"
I lifted a hand vaguely toward the misty forest behind us. "Out there."
For a moment, the old woman was silent. Then she clicked her tongue. "The only one who ever lived out there was an old fool. Always rambling about the end of the world, about some doom waiting to swallow us. No one's seen him in years."
Omina's grip on her herb bag tightened. I felt her glance at me, her eyes filled with unspoken questions.
I met her gaze, but didn't speak.
Because already, I noticed it—other villagers had stopped to look at us. Quiet eyes peering over baskets and fences. Whispers threading through the market air.
And just like that, Orleaf no longer felt so simple.