Suraia woke to the hush and rush of waves, the sound of water lapping just beyond the cave’s mouth. She blinked into the pale morning, feeling for the first time in days a true, bone-deep warmth—a rare gift after so much cold and fear. Her limbs were heavy with exhaustion, but not pain; she was wrapped in the oversized cloak, and the fire’s dying coals still cast gentle warmth on the mossy stone. The dawn light filtered through in hesitant gold, painting the cave’s ceiling with faint green and amber.
The red headed woman sat up, clutching the cloak tighter. She was alone—Thorn was gone, but not far: his footprints were fresh in the damp sand, and a small, neat pile of firewood waited by the coals. His presence lingered even in absence and Suraia found comfort in the small signs of care. She’d barely begun to gather her wits when Thorn returned, ducking beneath the arch of stone, arms full of wild berries and—were those carrots?
He knelt by the fire and began coaxing the embers back to life, working with quiet skill. Suraia watched him, uncertain whether to speak, but hunger made the choice for her.
“Where are we?” she ventured, her voice barely above the surf’s hush.
Thorn’s reply was blunt, but not unkind. “Not sure. Another island—one of many. Might be close to your people, might not. Either way, we need to keep moving.”
Suraia nibbled at the berries, their tartness bright on her tongue. She hesitated, glancing towards the world beyond the cave. “Do… Do you think there’s a village? Or… anything nearby?”
He shook his head, frowning into the fire. “We will find out. The best thing is to head inland. You might recognise something. Or, more likely, someone will find us first.”
There was little comfort in his answer, but she drew her knees to her chest and nodded, accepting the uncertainty. Thorn finished eating and rose to his feet with a little more gentleness than she’d expected.
“Stay close,” he said, voice softer now. “We will move as soon as you are ready.”
Suraia packed away the last crumbs of breakfast, watching Thorn sling their lone bag over his shoulder. She noticed then that her old belt—her healer’s kit—was gone, lost somewhere between the wreck and the beast that had dragged them beneath the waves.
The two set out beneath the towering trees, their path little more than a thread of hope through tangled undergrowth. Suraia’s cloak dragged behind her, catching on roots and stones. Wild red curls tumbled loose about her shoulders, and she felt exposed, small, and very far from something she would consider home.
Thorn led the way, his bark-brown skin blending into the shadows, every sense alert. He paused occasionally, tilting his head as if listening for threats she could not hear. Eventually, he lifted his head, nostrils flaring.
“Smoke,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “Could be a village—or trouble.”
Suraia’s heart leapt. Together they followed the scent, weaving through thickets and ferns, until the woods opened into a wide clearing. There, nestled at the forest’s edge, was a small settlement: rough timber buildings clustered around a market square, smoke rising from a blacksmith’s forge and the low roof of a tavern.
Thorn stopped short, dropping the sack to the ground. He reached into the bag and withdrew a weighty bundle, pressing it into Suraia’s hands.
“There is coin in there—enough for food, clothes, maybe even passage home,” he said quietly. “Go to them. You will be all right now.”
The human woman stared at the towering elf, the weight of the sack unfamiliar in her grasp. “You’re not coming?”
His gaze flickered away. “I will stay at the edge. You do not need me scaring folk. Go.”
Suraia hesitated, searching his face for some sign she might persuade him otherwise, but Thorn only turned, already fading into the shadows of the wood.
With a nervous breath, Suraia stepped into the bustle of what looked like a trading post. The marketplace was a noisy swirl of smells and colour—smoke, spices, leather, freshly baked bread. Her oversized cloak and mismatched boots drew curious glances, but most people were too busy haggling to stare for long.
She found a market stall selling bread and, after a moment’s fumbling, exchanged a coin for a warm, crusty loaf. She’d only taken one bite when a sharp voice cut through the chatter.
“Well, look at you—little thief and a bag of gold?” A half-elven youth, perhaps only a few years older than herself, stood blocking her path. His servant, a nervous human boy, hovered at his elbow. “What’s your name, beggar? Give me that sack.”
Suraia drew back, clutching the bag to her chest. “I—I’m not a thief. This… is mine.”
The half-elf snorted. “Yours? Likely story. I think you should hand it over before someone takes it from you.”
He reached for the bag. Suraia stepped back—and nearly stumbled over a young Oakhai woman with a shock of white hair with blue tips in a braid, a couple of white fluffy fox ears with blue tips and a matching artic fox tail flicking behind her.
The ebony skinned woman flashed a grin. “There you are! Thought I’d lost you in the crowd?”
For a moment, Suraia could only stare. The stranger’s pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief and—was it reassurance? She seized the lifeline. “Oh—yes, I... I mean... no... I... am here... you found me.”
The Oakhai’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you all alone.” She said while she looked at the half elven young man.
The half-elf bristled but backed off, grumbling. “Careful who you make friends with, Hybrid. That one’s a liar.”
“Will do, M’lord.” The ebony skinned woman said, dismissing the half elven man with a flick of her tail.
Once the half elf and his servant had slunk away, the fox woman led Suraia to the edge of the market. “Shipwrecked, weren’t you?” she asked, glancing at Suraia’s battered clothes and sniffing. “You smell of ocean; it’s written all over you.”
Suraia hesitated, not sure what to trust the young woman in front of her with, but the Oakhai’s smile was patient. “Come on, let’s get you sorted. You look half-starved. I’m Vasha by the way.”
The red headed woman smiled back hesitantly: “My... my name is... Suraia...”
Vasha steered her to the tailor’s shop, where two gentle ladies—one plump, one silver-haired—fussed over Suraia, tsking at her torn dress and skinny frame.
“Poor girl! Skin and bone... What are you wearing? Well, we’ll fix that. You need to eat more, child!” said the elder, bustling about with a measuring tape.
Within minutes, Suraia was fitted for a soft, beige underdress she could wear immediately, a light blue sleeveless overdress that was open at the front but laced at the body. It would need adjustment. Then a new leather belt, boots, and a grey woolen cloak that actually fit. The blue overdress, promised for tomorrow, would be ready before Quintra’s sun reached her peak.
“I... I want to...keep the cloak,” Suraia hesitantly said, gathering the oversized piece of fabric.
“Of course, dear,” the younger tailor said kindly as she took the cloak and stuffed it into an over the shoulder bag: “Take it love, you’ve been through enough already!”
Vasha, meanwhile, was eyeing a pair of sturdy boots and some leather bracers. Suraia noticed the Oakhai her own boots were thorn so she asked the tailors if Vasha could try them on.
Vasha shook her head: “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Let me—please. It... It’s the least I can do. You... You helped me.” Suraia said as she paid for the boots and the bracers. With a grateful grin, Vasha relented.
Their errands continued: first the market stalls for sweets and fresh fruit, then the narrow, crooked door of the apothecary, its sign shaped like a sprig of belladonna painted in faded green and purple.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and sharp spirits. Shelves lined every wall, though most were half-empty jars of roots and pressed leaves sat beside bottles stoppered with wax, but the usual rows of healing draughts were clearly missing. Dried bundles of lavender, sage, and something unfamiliar hung from the low ceiling, trailing just above Suraia’s head. A faded rug softened the flagstones underfoot.
A middle-aged man with frizzy hair and quick, intelligent eyes stood behind the counter, polishing a set of weighing scales. He looked up as the bell tinkled above the door.
“Evening to you,” He greeted, voice brisk but not unkind. “Here for something in particular? Or just shelter from the wind?”
Suraia hesitated, her fingers already itching with old habits. “I—well, I was hoping for some healing supplies. Bandages, salves, maybe even a potion or two?”
The apothecary made a sympathetic sound and gestured to the nearest shelf. “You’re not the only one to ask. Last storm swept the trader’s ship off course—stock’s thin as soup. I can give you some clean cloth and a small pot of comfrey salve, but as for potions…” he shook his head. “You’ll not find much until the next boat comes in.”
Vasha, meanwhile, had drifted to a display of fragrant soaps, lifting a pale blue bar to her nose. “What about this?” she asked, curiosity clear in her voice.
“Sea lavender and goat’s milk,” the apothecary replied. “Good for the skin after too much salt and wind. You’re welcome to take a sliver.”
Suraia’s gaze wandered the shelves, her eyes catching on a battered wooden box tucked near the back. “Is that… an alchemy set?”
The shopkeeper followed her gaze and grinned. “Aye, what’s left of one, anyway. Mortar, pestle, a couple of spoons, two vials—one with a chip, mind you. And a set of old scales that still measure true. Left behind by a travelling herbalist who couldn’t pay his tab.”
He opened the box for Suraia to inspect. Inside, the tools were worn but serviceable—each piece wiped clean, though the metal showed years of use. Suraia’s fingers hovered above the collection, reverent.
“I’ll take it,” she said at last, a hopeful lift in her voice.
The apothecary added, “And if you need surgical implements, I’ve got a pouch of those as well. Second-hand, but I’ll boil and sharpen them for you. Nothing fancy—needle, thread, and some tweezers.”
Suraia nodded eagerly, relief colouring her cheeks. “Yes, please. That would be—wonderful.”
“All right, then.” The man jotted a note in his ledger and began wrapping the soap for Vasha, who had already tucked a sliver into her pouch. “I’ll have everything cleaned and ready by morning, if you stop by after breakfast. Payment now, if you please—the times being what they are.”
Suraia counted out the coins, feeling her purse grow lighter, but a small thrill warmed her chest as she imagined her kit—rebuilt, if only in part. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.”
The apothecary gave a warm, approving nod. “Healers are always welcome here. Good luck—may Ysandra guide your path.”
As they stepped back outside, Vasha offered Suraia a little smile. “You look relieved, or at least a little less worried.”
Suraia squeezed the wrapped box to her chest, feeling—for the first time in what had felt like ages—a flicker of hope for tomorrow.
Evening crept in, and the sky deepened from blue to indigo as the blue moon Denday began her climb. Suraia, the day’s fatigue catching up with her, looked around for a moment.
“Should... should we... go to the... tavern and... well... book us a... a room for the night?” The human woman hesitantly asked with a shy blush on her cheeks. Slowly and unsure she looked at the Oakhai.
Vasha blinked in surprise but gave her an appreciative smile. “Really? You would want that? You’re good company, Suraia. I’d like that very much, thank you!”
Suraia looked around for a moment, hoping to perhaps see a glimpse of moss green hair, bark brown skin, glowing green eyes or a towering figure in the distance, but there was none. She sighed and turned her attention back to the Oakhai and nodded: “Let’s get… let’s get going then.”