Page 33 of Tethered In Blood

“Yes,” I asserted. “Even if you think it’s nonsense.”

He sighed and moved toward a shelf. His fingers brushed against the spines of old books as if he were searching for a memory rather than a title. “Ailments I can help with, but superstitions…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Most of that was abandoned years ago.”

Something in his tone disturbed me. “What do you mean?”

The healer waved a dismissive hand. “The village used to have certain… practices. Old customs meant to ward off magic. But people stopped bothering with the magic that was outlawed, and the kingdom quelling anything remotely suspicious. They figured there was no point.”

My head turned toward Oberon, and our eyes locked in silent understanding.A place steeped in fear and quiet rituals upheld for generations had abandoned its ways just as the people fell ill?It gave me goosebumps.

The healer shifted beneath my scrutiny, wearing a wary expression.

“What customs?” I pressed.

He shrugged. “Simple things: symbols carved into doorways, salt scattered across thresholds, and leaving offerings outside the village when the seasons changed. Nothing that should matter.” He hesitated before adding, “Nothing that should have caused this.”

Pulling out my journal, I flipped to an empty page. As I noted the details, my fingers tightened around the charcoal, and my brows furrowed in concentration. These weren’t just superstitions; they were protective measures—ones the village had relied on for years. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was calculated. Or worse—coerced.

Oberon’s discerning voice cut through my thoughts. “You don’t believe in coincidences.” He didn’t ask; he noted.

My charcoal scraped against the parchment. “Not when people are dying.”

The healer guided us to the inn, pausing briefly to share a few quiet words with the innkeeper before handing over a single key.

“Shared room,” he said cautiously. “It’s all we can afford.”

The weight of the books and notes in my arms captured my focus. Their knowledge was more important than our sleeping arrangements. I nodded and adjusted my grip as he departed down the dim corridor.

Oberon opened the door and stepped inside first. The room was modest, with wooden floors creaking beneath our boots and a single narrow window allowing a sliver of night. A lone candle flickered on the bedside table, casting a faint golden light against the walls.

I walked past him without a glance, heading straight for the desk. The books landed with a solid thud, parchment rustling while I spread them out. The chair groaned under my weight. There was much to sift through—histories of past plagues, theories on cursed lands, and recipes for tinctures that promised relief. It was enough to keep me awake for several nights. The sooner I began, the sooner I would find what cured the villagers’ suffering.

Behind me, Oberon released a heavy sigh. “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor.” My attention stayed on the faded ink before me. Sleep wasn’t in my plans for the night.

His footsteps grew nearer. “Herbalist.” There was a pause. “Did you hear me?”

Sighing, I waved him off, skimming a paragraph on warding salts. “I heard you.”

“And?”

I turned the page. “And I’m sitting here.”

Silence lingered between us for a moment.

“That wasn’t an option,” he gritted out.

A slow hum escaped my lips in response. I was disinterested in entertaining him. He could remain frustrated. I had more pressing concerns than a bed neither of us would use.

The gentle clinking of buckles filled the space, followed by a metal clatter and a heavy thump against the floor. I sighed through my nose, refusing to face him. He wanted to be tenacious? Fine. But I had a job to complete.

The notes were messy—pages filled with symptoms, scattered observations, and half-formed theories. My fingers smudged the ink while I sifted through them, cross-referencing everything I had collected throughout the day.

Frowning, I tapped my charcoal against the page, the rhythmic motion grounding my thoughts. The healer mentioned the village had once practiced protective customs—warding symbols, salt barriers, offerings—but had since abandoned them.

What changed?

Prince Alric had long banned magic. What would change if someone were secretly using it? Why would people only start falling ill after the traditions ended?

I flipped the page, staring at my scrawled notes until the words blurred together in my vision. My limbs ached with exhaustion, and the multitude of possibilities alongside the scarcity of answers weighed heavily on my mind.

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