Page 8 of Tethered In Blood

I pivoted and stalked toward the infirmary doors. “Stay here,” I snapped over my shoulder before pushing the door open. It creaked under my touch, and the aroma of dried herbs and burning oil wafted into the chilled corridor. “Calder!” My voice pierced the silence.

Even with my back to her, she remained bright as ever.

Damn her.

Footsteps shuffled inside, followed by the slow scrape of a chair against the stone. A tired voice drifted out before its owner appeared. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Calder’s tone conveyed the weariness of someone who hadn’t slept in days. “If it’s another one of those so-called ‘herbalists,’ you can spare me the trouble and send them right back out the—”

The faint glow from within the infirmary backlit her figure, highlighting the distinct features of her face. Calder was tall and built from efficiency and endurance. She had pulled her chestnut-brown hair into a tight, practical bun, but stray wisps escaped, curling around her temples and defying her usual precision. A streak of dark herbs, ink, or dried blood smeared her cheek, a testament to the long hours she spent tending to the sick and preparing remedies.

Her sharp hazel eyes flicked toward me, ready to argue and protest, before settling on the young woman behind me. She stilled. There was a brief pause—a flicker of calculation. I didn’t understand what Calder saw in her, but something changed, and I didn’t like what that meant. Stepping aside, I crossed my arms while Calder studied her.

The corners of my mouth pulled into a faint scowl behind my helmet. “She claims she’s here for the position.”

Calder offered a dry, humorless laugh and shook her head. “They’ve been emerging from the woodwork—desperate, clueless, and barely skilled enough to bandage a finger. I—”She paused, her gaze sharpening as she reassessed the woman.

The woman shifted on her feet, her earlier ease faltering under Calder’s scrutiny. Her smile held a newfound tension. Her fingers tightened around that damned journal of hers, and she dipped her head, avoiding Calder’s gaze. Whether it was a sign of submission or strategy, I couldn’t tell. I should have been pleased, but that moment of uncertainty—the brief fissure in her carefully crafted mask—unsettled me.

“I must take my leave,” I announced with a stiff bow. “The castle doesn’t inspect itself.”

Calder scoffed.

I straightened, flicking a final side glance at the woman. “Good luck.”

4

Eden

THEINFIRMARYWASinviting,quite unlike the cold, harsh stone corridors I had traversed to reach it. The room was warm and soothing, filled with the calming scents of lavender and chamomile. Their soft floral aromas blended with the faint tang of medicinal herbs. A golden glow spilled from a modest chandelier. Its flickering light danced across the pale plastered walls and exposed wooden beams, casting a gentle haze of comfort over the space. I hadn’t expected the sense of safety it presented.

The front room appeared quaint yet organized. It served as a place where order met care, where everything had a purpose beyond mere functionality. A large wooden desk stood at its center, worn smooth by time yet polished to a warm sheen. Neat stacks of parchment, ink bottles, and quills covered its surface. Their careful arrangement suggested routine—someone who knew where everything belonged. A vase of dried flowers rested to one side, with their muted hues adding a personal, homely touch, a softness that felt out of place within the castle walls.

Beside the desk, a chair upholstered in faded fabric sat waiting, inviting despite its age, as if it had witnessed countless hours of quiet contemplation, with careful hands tending to more than just wounds. My gaze drifted toward a corner shelf filled with jars and vials. Their contents comprised a collection of dried leaves, ground powders, and tinctures suspended in glass. Each jar was labeled in careful, slanted handwriting, though the ink had faded with time.

I stepped closer. My fingers itched to reach out, trace the delicate loops of the script, open a jar, and breathe in the knowledge contained within it. Whoever worked here took pride in this place. Every carefully arranged item and every softened edge made the room resemble a sanctuary more than an infirmary. Even the stone beneath my feet had been softened by a rug with a faded floral pattern, warming the space in a way I hadn’t thought possible. This served as a restorative space, not just for bodies.

As I peered around the desk, I was left speechless. The second room opened into a larger, more enchanting space, which was an unexpected contrast to the quaint front room. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, journals, and scrolls—a scholar’s trove and a healer’s sanctuary. The faint scent of aged parchment and dried ink mingled with the ever-present fragrance of herbs, filling me with a sense of dedication and wonder. My fingers brushed the cracked spine of a worn leather-bound tome as I approached.

At the room’s core stood a long wooden table cluttered with the unmistakable tools of the trade—mortar and pestles, small cauldrons, and cutting boards darkened from use. Tiny glass bottles filled with amber liquid and powdered mixtures lined the surface. Above, bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling beams, their green, and brown stems swaying in the still air, filling the space with a rich, forest aroma.

A window at the far end allowed a sliver of moonlight to filter through. Silver streaks spilled across the wooden floor, catching on the edges of scattered parchment and polished glass vials. The way the light danced in the room made the space pulse with far more than just knowledge.

I could spend long nights hunched over this table, my hands dusty with crushed petals and ground roots, ink, and charcoal staining the creases of my fingers as I scribbled notes into my journal. I would wake to the smell of steeped tonics, the soft flicker of candlelight illuminating unread books waiting to be devoured. I had spent years learning in darkness, in silence, and in secrecy. I would have a space to work, study, and heal—something I had never experienced before. A home, of sorts. The thought took my breath away.

No.

It wasn’t home. It wasn’t mine to claim. I forced a breath and steadied myself, tracing the rim of an empty glass bottle with the tip of my finger. It could be… if they let me stay.

Calder’s voice brought me back to the moment.

“Your name?”

I hesitated, not having given it much thought. I hadn’t needed to until now. Eden Therrin was a name too heavy with old wounds, one I wanted to leave behind me. If I spoke it here, in this place, it would tether me to everything that had been.I wanted a fresh start. An alternative name.

One of my own.

“Quinn Larkspur,” I said, the name unfamiliar yet fitting.

Calder arched a brow. If she suspected the lie, she didn’t press. Instead, she held out her hand. I offered her my journal, placing it into her palm. She took it with care, as though its weight might betray its secrets, and flipped it open, scanning the pages with an intensity that tightened my chest.

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