Chapter 12

“Back to the cabin,” Aoba muttered to herself, her voice gaining a resigned edge. “In the woods. I can go back there, make weird potions. Take on odd jobs.”

She let out a deep breath and grabbed her satchel. Her daggers were sheathed in her thigh strap. She left the inn and started her way back to the cabin.

She walked through the maze of the city until she reached the outskirts. The open air and the view of grass were a welcome vista after the amount of violence, now burned in her mind. She traveled on foot, moving through the wilderness with a swift, silent grace. Unlike their travel to the big city, Aoba let herself make several stops along the way in villages or farmhouses. Helping the villagers in exchange for board or supplies useful for her trip, enjoying the experience, and the view.

She watched the livestock as they grazed in the fields, and the villagers as they went about their own lives. For the first time, her heart was quiet.

The cabin was silent when she arrived a week later. Aoba circled the outer perimeter once, checking for signs of life, for traps. There was nothing.

The door was unlocked, and it creaked as she swung it open. The air was thick with the scent of pine and steel. His scent.

It was exactly as they left it, but it felt different. Most of the herb bouquets she hung before were dried to a crisp. Even in a little over two months, the dust on the surfaces was thick. The cabin felt hollow, a ghost of a life that almost was.

The first thing she did was to open all the windows, clearing out the musty air. She moved with ruthless efficiency, cleaning and washing. She found her journal tucked in a drawer and used her entries to reorganize the workbench. She took inventory of ingredients and the tools.

Next, she dug around the almost empty chests and found Soren’s polishing tools. A couple of fine whetstones, a coating, and a rag. She placed them beside her daggers on the table, something to work on later.

Content with what she’d accomplished so far, she headed out into the woods to hunt and gather. She still had some rations left from the last farmer she helped, but only a few meals’ worth. It would take time to prepare another proper meal, so she thought it best to stretch them out. With the gain from her hunting, she could use the drying rack and smokehouse outside to preserve the meat.

“This is my life now.” She let out a sigh, but not out of disappointment.

A heavy, suffocating blanket enveloped her. The anger and heartbreak from the party have cooled, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve. The hollow ache in her chest was still there, yes, but it was no longer a void. It was a foundation, a starting point for her new quiet life.

Hunting, preserving, concocting, and trading were now Aoba’s new routine. The hunting kept her skills honed, the trading kept her sustained and grounded.

Once in a while, she would hear rumors from the traveling merchants. Whispers about a new, powerful merchant guild, a ruthless organization that controlled the flow of goods and information in the city—tales of a man who preyed on the rich and greedy, showing no mercy.

Soren.

Or, Caldris Blackroot, as he called himself now.

With each rumor and whisper, a pang of something dark would tug on her heart—a strange, aching sense of loss and grief.

Weeks went by, and she managed to trade some pelt for a pair of chickens and a rooster. Farmer Mill even helped her build a coop as thanks for the potion she gave him to help with his son’s fever.

Slowly, her life was taking root. A former rogue, now hunting for sustenance, raising chickens, gathering and growing herbs to make potions, and trading her skills and goods for others’ skills and goods. Life was finally easy for her.