Chapter 2: A Smile in the Smoke
842 Words
Greymoor smelled of pine trees, woodsmoke, and healing herbs — a far cry from the stench of blood-soaked cities and whispered deaths.
Riven arrived just after dusk, cloaked and hooded, his belongings reduced to a travel sack and a single blade tucked inside his boot. He hadn’t used his real name in years, and he didn’t plan to start now. To the villagers, he would be Corren, a quiet tradesman from the East looking to settle down.
No one questioned strangers in Greymoor. That was part of its charm.
He passed small stone cottages where firelight danced through curtained windows. Laughter echoed from the tavern. A blacksmith’s hammer rang in the distance. It was... peaceful.
He wasn’t used to peace.
The apothecary sat at the corner of the village square, a modest two-story building with a green-painted door and herbs hanging in bundles from the awning. A wooden sign swung overhead, creaking softly in the wind: Elira's Remedies.
His pulse quickened.
He wasn’t sure why he had come. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe desperation. Maybe hope.
He stepped inside.
---
The scent of crushed lavender and peppermint struck him first. Soft candlelight bathed the room, illuminating rows of glass jars, dried roots, powders, and potions. It felt like a sanctuary — not just from wounds, but from the world.
And there she was.
Elira.
She stood behind the counter, her auburn hair braided over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to her elbows, arranging small bottles into a crate. She wore a simple blue apron stained with powdered chalk. Her hands were stained with ink and herbs, her cheeks smudged with charcoal.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
Her brow furrowed for a moment as if trying to place him — and then her expression softened into recognition. “You,” she said.
Riven froze. “You remember me?”
“You bled all over my floor,” she said, smiling. “That tends to leave an impression.”
Something uncoiled in his chest. Not fear. Something warmer. Stranger.
“I need work,” he said, his voice low and rough from disuse. “And a place to stay.”
Elira tilted her head. “What kind of work?”
“Chopping wood. Deliveries. Cleaning. Anything.”
She studied him. “You don’t strike me as a man used to chores.”
He didn’t answer.
After a moment, she nodded toward the back door. “There’s a shed out back. Empty. Floor’s cold, roof leaks, but you can patch it up. You fix the shed, I’ll let you sleep in it. And in return, you help me carry crates and run errands.”
“Deal.”
“And no bleeding this time,” she added, smirking.
He almost smiled.
---
Over the next few days, Riven threw himself into work.
He chopped wood for the hearth, cleared snow from the front steps, carried crates of herbs from the market, and even mended the leaking roof. He kept to himself mostly, but Elira would talk — about customers, remedies, strange requests, and once about how she wanted to expand the apothecary with a second room for patients.
He listened.
Sometimes he answered.
She never pushed. She never pried. And that, more than anything, made her feel... safe.
---
One night, a storm rolled through Greymoor, drenching the village in cold rain and thunder.
Riven sat in the shed, sharpening a knife he swore he’d never use again, when Elira knocked on the door and pushed inside, holding a lantern.
“You’re going to freeze out here,” she said, already soaked. “Come inside.”
“I’m fine.”
She crossed her arms. “I have soup. And dry blankets. Come in, or I’ll drag you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’d try?”
“Don’t test me, stranger.”
So he went.
They ate by the fire. She handed him a bowl and made him promise to stay awake until his clothes dried. They didn’t talk much, but that silence was different. Comfortable. She didn’t fill the space with nervous chatter. She let it breathe.
As the storm howled outside, Elira dozed off in a chair, curled up like a cat, the lantern flickering beside her.
Riven watched her sleep for a long time.
He had seen many things in his life — kingdoms burning, men begging for mercy, empires rising and falling. But nothing had ever made him feel like this quiet moment did.
Warm. Wanted. Human.
He didn’t deserve it.
But he wanted it.
---
Later that night, as he lay on a blanket by the hearth, he took the dagger from his boot and stared at it.
He gripped it tight, knuckles white.
Then, without a word, he stood, walked to the fireplace — and threw it into the flames.
The metal hissed as it blackened and twisted.
He watched until it was nothing but ash and sparks.
And when he turned around, Elira was watching him from the shadows.
She didn’t ask anything.
She just whispered, “Good.”
- Writer
