We drifted deeper into Orleaf after our small purchase, following a winding path between low wooden houses. Herbs swayed in the breeze, drying bundles clicking softly against the walls. Children darted between vegetable plots, their laughter cutting through the hum of insects. Beyond the houses, fields shimmered with rice and medicinal herbs, a living patchwork quilt tended with patient hands.
Omina's eyes gleamed as she whispered plant names under her breath. "Wild thistle... nightmint... frostroot..." She looked like a child returning home, excitement bubbling with every step. Villagers paused in their work to stare at us-two strangers with unfamiliar weapons. In a place like this, outsiders didn't go unnoticed.
At the far end of the lane, a stooped old man leaned on a gnarled staff, his hair tied back with a strip of cloth. A necklace of carved seeds rested against his plain tunic. He watched us in silence, then smiled faintly when our eyes met.
"Young lady," he said in the same oddly familiar tongue we'd heard at the market, "you speak to the herbs as if you've known them all your life."
Omina dipped her head. "I grew up among fields. Plants... they make me feel grounded."
His gaze flicked from her herb pouch to the sword at my hip, then the wand strapped to hers. "Farmers don't carry steel and staves. That's unusual."
"We're only travelers," I answered, tightening the strap on my shield.
"Travelers?" He chuckled softly. "Few find their way to Orleaf. Come. My hall is close-you can't stand in the lane forever."
---
The headman's hall smelled of tea and dried leaves. Baskets of roots lined the walls. A few villagers glanced at us before returning to their sorting. We sat cross-legged on woven mats while the old man poured tea into clay cups.
"I am Mako, healer and headman of Orleaf," he said. "This village feeds much of Ostoria but has little else-no soldiers, no walls. When the kingdoms clash, we pray the fighting stays far away."
Omina sipped, her gaze soft. "It feels alive here... but fragile."
Mako's eyes fell again on my shield. "That crest-it belonged to the hermit in the woods, didn't it?"
My throat tightened. "You knew him?"
"Everyone knew him. A strange man with stranger warnings. But he treated the sick when none else would. It has been months since he vanished."
Silence hung heavy between us. Steam curled from our cups.
Then the door slammed open. A boy stumbled in, breathless, mud spattering the floor. "Headman! Down by the river-something's attacking!"
Mako rose stiffly, leaning on his staff. He looked at us, unease in his eyes. "Perhaps you should come as well."
---
We ran. The quiet village was suddenly full of shouts-villagers crying out, feet slapping against dirt. My heart hammered in my chest. At the riverbank, the coppery scent of blood hit first.
A man lay crumpled on the grass, clutching a deep gash across his ribs. Beside him, another villager fumbled with a broken spear, barely holding off a squat, green-skinned goblin. The creature hissed, jagged teeth flashing, claws dripping red.
Mako paled. "Gods..."
I raised my shield. "I'll handle the goblin-Omina, heal the wounded!"
But she didn't move to the injured man. Instead, she darted straight for the monster. Her wand cracked against its skull with a sharp *thwack*. The goblin reeled back, snarling. She dropped the wand and snatched the villager's fallen sword. In a single, desperate arc, she drove the blade through the goblin's chest.
The creature shrieked, then collapsed.
Silence. The river murmured quietly behind us, as though mocking the stillness. Birds had fled the trees.
Omina froze, staring at the bloody sword in her hands. Her chest heaved, eyes flicking to me-shock warring with a grim fire that hadn't been there before.
I lowered my shield slowly. "...Omina?"
The wounded man groaned, breaking the spell. I dropped to my knees beside him. The cut was deep, blood soaking his tunic, his breaths shallow. My hands pressed instinctively on the wound, trying to stem the flow. "He's fading. Omina-help me!"
She blinked, snapping back to herself, and hurried over. From her pouch she pulled a twist of dried leaves, crushing them quickly into a paste. The scent hit sharp and bitter, like raw mint mixed with earth.
"Chew this," she ordered, pressing the wad to the man's lips. "It won't work on the skin-swallow it, hurry."
He obeyed with a cough. I kept pressure on the wound while Omina guided him. Soon the bleeding slowed, his breathing steadied, the death-rattle edge softening. Relief loosened my chest.
Behind us, villagers whispered. "She killed it." "They saved him." A child tugged on Mako's sleeve. "Are they... heroes?"
The headman's staff shook slightly as he leaned on it. "Perhaps stronger help than we deserve..."
I glanced at Omina. She was still kneeling, hands stained green from the crushed herbs, the bloodied sword lying at her side. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed thin.
That was when it struck me-when danger came, she hadn't thought of herbs or healing. She'd reached for steel.
And me? My hands were steady on the wound, my focus locked on the injured man, not the fight.
In that moment, it felt as if the world had already chosen for us.