The cottage greeted Bjorn with the gentle scent of drying herbs and a faint curl of smoke from the fireplace. Sunlight streamed through a small window that pooled across a narrow cot against the far wall.

Rowan lay curled beneath a thin blanket. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, while his hands rested loosely at his sides. Along his arm, the mark from the Hazbin radiated beneath his skin. 

Across the room, Thorne was already working on a brew. Without looking up, he stretched out a hand toward the doorway. Bjorn slipped the satchel from his shoulder and placed it carefully into Thorne’s grasp.

Thorne opened the satchel with quiet precision, as though each item carried a fragile secret. First, he pulled out the ghostroot, pulsing softly as he held it to the light. Next came a strip of apple bark. Thorne brought it to his nose, giving it a quick sniff. His eyes teared up, and his nose wrinkled as if caught between surprise and distaste. Finally, he lifted a small jar of springwater gathered from the Springs of Echoes. Sunlight caught the glass, and light danced across the cottage walls.

“You’ve done well, Bjorn,” Thorne said at last. His voice was calm, but carried a quiet strength that filled the room.

Bjorn’s gaze drifted back to Rowan. “Will it work?”

Thorne didn’t answer. He simply turned back to the fireplace, where coals glowed with a strange blue flame. With careful, practiced motions, he lowered a wide black pot above the fire.

The ghostroot went in first. It hissed the instant it touched the water, curling in on itself as a sharp, minty scent burst into the air. Next came the strip of apple bark. It unfurled into the bubbling water, releasing a sweet-and-sour smell, like rotten fruit left too close to a campfire. At last, Thorne lifted the glass jar. He raised it, and slowly, he poured it into the pot.

The liquid struck with a soft pop. Steam hissed upward, not drifting but spiraling, twisting into a perfect ribbon that swirled as though tugged by invisible hands. The brew flashed green, then orange, then a dazzling white, before settling into a steady, glowing blue.

Bjorn leaned over the big black pot and sniffed. His whole face scrunched up at once. His eyes watered, his nose burned, and his mouth puckered. Even the hairs on his arms prickled straight up.

“Guh!” He stumbled back, waving a hand.

Thorne didn’t even flinch. He dipped a hand into a pouch and sprinkled a dusting of yellow powder across the surface. 

Bjorn edged back another step, eyeing the glowing pot. “This… doesn’t look like any remedy I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” Thorne said. His gaze never left the shifting light. “This is a healing brew, but not for ordinary wounds.”

Bjorn glanced nervously at Rowan, then pinched his nose with two fingers.

Thorne’s voice dropped lower. “This is for wounds marked by a Hazbin.”

Bjorn edged closer to the cot. Rowan’s skin glistened with sweat, his forehead damp, his body still except for the faint twitch of his fingers.

“We need to hurry,” Bjorn whispered. His voice cracked slightly.

Thorne gave a single nod. With steady hands, he dipped a ladle into the glowing pot. The liquid gleamed like starlight as he poured it into a small clay cup, steam curling upward. As he walked to the cot, he blew gently across the rim, cooling the brew.

Thorne knelt beside the cot. He slid one arm beneath Rowan’s shoulders, lifting him with a tenderness that made Bjorn’s throat tighten. He tipped the cup to Rowan’s lips.

“Drink,” Thorne said softly. His voice carried the weight of command and the warmth of care. “Your journey isn’t finished yet.”

Rowan stirred. His eyelids fluttered, opening just enough to see Thorne’s face. His lips parted, and with a trembling breath, he took a slow sip.

At once, the cottage shuddered. A rush of wind howled through the rafters, whistling like a cry from distant mountains. The shutters banged against the windows. Glass jars clinked and toppled. Bundles of herbs whipped madly on their strings. The fire leapt in a sudden blaze of blue before shrinking back to its gentle orange glow.

Rowan shot upright, gasping for air. His back arched, arms shooting skyward, fingers stiff and trembling. The very air seemed to grow heavy. For an instant, Bjorn swore he could see the wind surging through Rowan’s chest, racing down his arms, pouring into every vein like a river set free.

The scar blazed, dazzling bright, like the sun at high noon. And then, just as quickly, it softened. The brilliance dimmed to a steady, soothing blue. It pulsed once, twice, then faded into calm.

Rowan’s eyes fluttered open, and his chest lifted and fell into a calmer rhythm. His arms sank back to his sides, and the rise and fall of his chest settled into something steady. For the first time since they had left the Shadowlands, a quiet spark seemed to buzz inside him.

Bjorn stood frozen, unsure if he should shout, laugh, or fall to his knees. “Is he…?” Bjorn began, the words tumbling uselessly in his mouth.

Thorne set the empty cup on the table and answered without looking away from Rowan. “He’s healing. But the mark will not vanish quickly. Like all wounds, it will take time.”

Bjorn moved to a wooden chair by the window, his axe resting across his lap. Outside, the forest swayed in the breeze, carrying the mingled scent of pine and faint smoke from the fireplace. Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of birds lifted their voices, their calls rising like a gentle greeting. 

At last, Rowan let out a groan, the kind that came from both weariness and relief. He pushed himself upright, slow and unsteady, and rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand. A soft yawn escaped before he blinked at the room around him as though seeing it for the first time.

By the window, Bjorn glanced up, and relief instantly flickered across his face. “You’re awake.”

Rowan blinked and sat a little straighter. “I feel… better,” he admitted, his voice still groggy.

“Here, drink this,” Thorne said gently, approaching Rowan with a clay cup cradled in both hands and passing it with care.

Rowan took it and sipped slowly, while he looked down at his arm. The mark was still there, but the fiery sting was missing.

Thorne’s concerned expression softened. “The mark may fade or it may stay, but what matters is the poison has stopped spreading.”

Rowan turned on the cot and lowered his feet to the floor. “I feel good enough to travel again,” he said with a slight grin. That was all the signal they needed. The wooden planks felt solid beneath him as he reached for his cloak and swung it over his shoulders. Then, he turned toward the door, where Bjorn was already waiting with the door open. Together, they left the cottage.

Rowan paused, glancing back at Thorne, who lingered in the doorway. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Thorne lowered his head slowly, a single nod that carried more than words could hold. Then he stepped inside, and the door closed with a gentle, weathered creak. Bjorn adjusted the strap across his chest and studied the trail ahead, winding into sunlight and shadow. “So,” he asked, a spark of curiosity in his eyes, “where to next?”

Rowan looked toward the horizon, where the path curved between the trees. “Southwest,” Rowan said, a grin spreading across his face.