The weather for herb gathering was downright wretched. Yesterday, the rain poured so fiercely that everything around turned into a soggy mire.
And even though I’d enchanted my boots, every now and then my leg would sink knee-deep into the muddy quagmire.
But there was no choice in the matter. Such whims of nature were more the rule than the exception in these parts. Waiting for a sunny day was pointless. Winter always arrived abruptly, each year at a different time, guided by the celestial clock.
Here, in the Lands of Crimson Mists, the seasons are dictated by four stars: Akania for spring, Brinna for summer, Zerata for autumn, and Rearnar for winter.
The trouble is, they rise in the sky and bless us with their light in whatever order they please. Usually, each star shines for about two and a half months, though that’s never guaranteed.
To plan our lives at all, we rely on a whole crowd of seers and oracles. It’s thanks to them that we survive. But even they get it wrong sometimes.
This was one of those times. Erina the Mighty had predicted Akania’s arrival, and yet, lo and behold, autumn descended instead.
Still, the herbs needed gathering, no matter the weather.
“I told you we should’ve stayed home! Are you completely blind, you daft witch? Now I’ve got to freeze my bones off like a rat’s tail!”
“Quit whining, Skully. You’ve got nothing to freeze—you don’t even touch the ground!” I snapped back, irritated.
Skully is my companion. Most folks call them familiars, but I reckon they’ve never seen a Frostkin. Otherwise, they’d never imagine these creatures could guard anyone, even a witch like me. Scaring people, though? That they can do with ease.
Ever seen a dog’s skeleton? No? Well, I have. That’s Skully, except his bones glow day and night. Green. And he’s got wings, just as bony. Skully loves to fly. At night, it’s a particularly striking sight. More than once, he’s terrified villagers on the borderlands so badly that, despite their natural fear of witches, they nearly burned my house down.
Frostkin are called that because they’re supposedly already dead, yet they eat and drink enough for three living souls.
“So what if I don’t touch the ground? My bones are still cold! May the dragons curse this weather!”
“Stop flapping your jaws and start looking for Bloodroot. How are we supposed to make a living if I can’t brew a rejuvenation potion?”
Skully snorted disdainfully and flew ahead.
“This is all your fault, Danaya! If you’d done things right, you wouldn’t be stuck in this backwater, scraping by making salves for foolish women! Bah!” His angry buzzing drifted back to me.
Mechanically pulling the needed herbs from the soft earth, I pressed my lips together.
He just can’t help himself, can he?
Every single time, the same old song! I swear, I’d—
“Help…” A faint whisper reached my ears.
I lifted my head and looked around. Nothing. Who could be out here? In this part of the Dread Dragon’s Forest, there are no strangers. Just beasts, me, and Skully.
Must’ve imagined it.
I took two steps, and then I heard the same voice again, now laced with desperation.
“Someone… help… hel—” The cry cut off abruptly.
No, I’m not imagining things. Someone’s definitely here.
I pulled a thin blue thread from my canvas bag, held it to my lips, blew on it, and murmured:
“Thread, oh thread, my guide, show me where the secret hides.”
Glowing blue, the thread began to lengthen. It fell to the grass and darted forward through the dense thickets of Redthorn—a fragrant, crimson plant, invaluable for expectant mothers.
Without giving myself time to doubt, I ran after my guide.
About ten minutes later, I emerged onto a completely dry clearing, which was odd considering yesterday’s downpour.
In the middle of the tall grass lay a man.
A giant of a man.
Only one kind of folk in the Lands of Crimson Mists were built so sturdy. Dragonhunters!
Dragon’s breath, what’s he doing here?
The man groaned weakly. He must be wounded. But the Dragonhunter territories are at least two weeks’ journey from here!
I approached cautiously. His armor covered nearly every inch of his body and head, so I couldn’t tell where he was hurt.
I’d never seen a Dragonhunter in full gear before.
Made of some gleaming, red metal, the armor mirrored the contours of his body. The helmet, adorned with long spikes, had a mask concealing his face.
My gaze finally landed on a massive claw protruding from his right side, near his back.
I rushed to him and, pressing my hands to the wound, tried to sense how deep it was and whether the claw could be removed.
“Dragon’s skull! Get away from him, Danaya! Have you lost your mind? He’s a Dragonhunter! Step back and let him die!”
“No!” I said stubbornly, not stopping what I was doing.
“You stubborn fool! If he comes to and kills you, I’ll thank him myself. Your mother didn’t spank you enough as a child, that’s for sure! Nothing decent came of you!”
“Maybe if she hadn’t hit me so much, something decent would’ve!” I shot back. “I’ll just pull this thing out of him, and we’ll be on our way. I think he can still be saved.”
Focusing, I whispered words I’d known since childhood.
“Dragon of old, who granted me power, lend me your aid.”
My palms glowed with a faint blue light. Gripping the edge of the claw, I pulled with all my might, trying to keep the man from bleeding out.
I tugged and tugged, sweat beading on my temples. My head throbbed from the effort. With one final yank, I fell to the ground, the monstrous claw in my hands.
The Dragonhunter groaned. Blood began to pour from the wound.
“Skully, he’ll die like this. I don’t have enough strength to close the wound. We’ll have to take him home. We’ve still got some healing tincture left.”
“No way! I’m not letting that filth into our home. I’m telling you, let him croak!”
“Skully, stop it. He won’t even know who helped him! What’s so wrong with saving someone’s life?”
“What’s wrong is that they’ve been slaughtering dragon witches for centuries, Danaya. They killed your great-grandmother! And this one, when he comes to, won’t be thanking you!”
I sighed heavily.
“If you don’t help me carry him, I’ll use up all my strength and die of exhaustion. I’m not joking!”
“Fine, go ahead then, if you’re so thick-headed you want to kill yourself for this scum!”
Skully flapped his bony wings, gained altitude quickly, and flew off.
“You miserable pile of bones! Why do I even feed you? If I die, you die too!” I shouted after him.
“I don’t care! I’m already deaaad!” came his fading reply.
What now? How did this man even end up here, and how could I hear him from so far away?
I can’t drag him with magic. The problem with Dragonhunters is that they absorb it. I nearly drained my reserves just pulling out the claw.
To kill even one, a witch or warlock needs to be decked out in power amulets and exceptionally gifted.
I’d have to use magic, but wisely.
Looking around, I spotted a pile of broken branches. I walked over, picked up a sturdy one, and blew on it softly.
The stick bent, sprouting fresh green shoots.
“Come on now, weave together!” I commanded.
The stick leapt from my hands and spun. The shoots grew thicker, intertwining until a green stretcher formed before me.
Thanks to magic, it was strong yet incredibly light.
Sliding the stretcher under the man’s side, I carefully rolled him onto it. He landed face down, so I had to turn his head to the side. As I did, the metal of his helmet burned my fingers.
Grabbing the flexible green shoots, I tugged the stretcher forward.
And it moved! Slowly, heavily, but it moved.
After about five minutes, my arms ached, then my back. Stepping onto waterlogged ground again, I had to stop. I’d check if the path was clear, then return to drag my burden.
I don’t know how much time passed. All I focused on was the bloody trail the Dragonhunter left behind.
I don’t know why, but I didn’t want him to die on my watch, not after I’d dragged him halfway through the forest myself.
Finally, a small cottage appeared among the trees. Covered in green grass and leaves for camouflage, it looked more like part of the cliff it stood beside than a home. The only hint it wasn’t just a forest scene was the smoke curling from the wide chimney.
The door swung open, and there on the threshold hovered Skully, his eyes blazing with fury.
“I won’t let him in! And I won’t let you in either! If only your mother could see this!” he howled.
Dropping the green shoots and straightening my aching back, I said in a hoarse, strained voice:
“Don’t push me, Skully. Or I’ll order you to sit in the cellar. I thought you came with me of your own free will. If you don’t want to do as I say, you can go back where you came from. Winterheim Graveyard will welcome you with open arms.”
That was a low blow. Winterheim Graveyard is the source of a witch’s power. It births the Frostkin and, when the time comes, takes them back. There, they’re promised eternal life—on one condition. They mustn’t anger their witch. Eternal oblivion awaits any Frostkin banished by a dragon witch.
And even though I don’t wield full power, I could curse Skully easily enough.
Of course, I had no intention of doing so, but it was the only way to get rid of him, at least for a few hours.
As I expected, Skully glared at me with his infernal green eyes and let out a terrifying wail:
“So that’s how it is! Fine, then. But when this monster kills you, at least I’ll go to eternal paradise, while you’ll be trapped in this world forever!”
I shuddered involuntarily. Yes, if a dragon witch is killed by a Dragonhunter, her spirit remains bound to the place of her death, doomed to relive the horror of her end over and over.
“I won’t interfere,” he continued, “but don’t ask for my help either. I reckon he’s already a goner!” Skully bared his long, sharp teeth at me and vanished.
I nodded and hurried into the house.
Inside, it was warm and cozy.
A spacious room with a simple stove in the kitchen. A large bed, a table by the window. Herbs and various utensils hung everywhere.
I dashed to a cupboard in the corner.
Please, let there be some left! The healing tincture was incredibly hard to make; the herbs for it only grew in the first month of summer.
Finally, I spotted a vial of bright red liquid, occasionally sparking with blue flickers.
Returning to the wounded man, I hesitated, unsure of what to do next. I had the potion, but how to remove his protective mask? And with the armor on, I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
I knelt beside him and tried to pull off the mask. It looked like a tight black mesh, but when I touched it with my fingertips, a searing pain shot through me. Again.
Pulling my hand back, I saw blood.
“What in the world is this?!” I exclaimed in despair.
For a moment, I wanted to leave this giant here and wait for him to die. But I pushed the thought aside.
Tearing a strip from my skirt, I wrapped it around my hand and tried again. It hurt, but there was no blood this time. I fumbled until I felt something like a small hook, pulled it, and the mask began to come off his face.
Seeing the burned, bright red eyelids of the Dragonhunter, I nearly cried out. The burns near his temples looked especially horrific. Even if his sight wasn’t damaged, healing such wounds would be a challenge.
I held my hand to his nostrils. He was breathing.
Pressing the vial to his full, well-shaped lips, I used a practiced motion to press his cheeks hard, forcing his mouth open, and poured in the potion.
Minutes passed, but the Dragonhunter lay still as a corpse.
Suddenly, with a precise movement, he grabbed my hand and rasped:
“Where am I…? I can’t see…”
He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t; dried blood had sealed his lids shut.
Gripping my hand tighter, he asked:
“Who are you?”
I stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, he passed out again just as suddenly. His strong fingers released my hand.
Well, at least now he definitely won’t die.
I had no desire to drag him into the house still clad in that armor.
Examining it, I noticed leather straps hidden beneath the metal.
Pulling a small, sharp knife from my bag, I began cutting them. It wasn’t easy; they were incredibly tight.
Once done, I removed the useless metal plates.
Only the helmet remained. The long, sharp spikes made me particularly uneasy.
I had to tear another strip from my skirt.
My hands burned; I gritted my teeth against the pain. The helmet shifted forward, and I managed to take it off.
Tossing the hideous piece of metal aside, I looked at the man.
Short, fiery red hair, so bright it resembled a blazing flame. High forehead, thick black brows, a straight nose, and full lips.
The armor hadn’t exaggerated. He was indeed a trained warrior; beneath the strange, tight-fitting clothing, hard muscles were visible.
I’d never seen such attire. Dark green fabric clung to the Dragonhunter like a second skin. Something akin to trousers and a high-necked sweater.
Maybe it’s for mobility?
Either way, I needed to get him inside.
For that, I used a bit more magic. There was no way I could’ve moved him to the bed on my own.
A levitation spell is considered simple, but the Dragonhunter drained my magic, so by the time I finished, I collapsed to my knees, bracing myself on my hands, trying to stop the spinning in my head.
“Maybe Skully’s right?” the thought flickered through my mind. “Maybe I should’ve left him there in the clearing? What will I do with him when he wakes up?”
I sighed heavily. There’s no turning back now.
Struggling to my feet, I put the kettle on the stove and pulled out some Bitterheal. A herb used for wound treatment. I needed to make a decoction and apply bandages to his eyes; it wouldn’t hurt for him to drink it too.
For myself, I poured a vigor tincture. After the third sip, the room stopped spinning.
Finishing it quickly, I cut open the Dragonhunter’s strange sweater to clean the wound.
The potion was working; blood barely seeped from it now. But his eyes remained unchanged. Strange!
Probably some kind of magical injury.
Once the Bitterheal decoction was ready, I applied a soaked bandage to the burns.
I stepped outside. Zerata was sinking below the horizon, the last cold rays of light brushing the crimson leaves atop the towering trees.
Pulling the thread from my belt, I blew on it and whispered:
“Skully, where are you? Come back!”
No one answered.
Dragon forbid, he’s gone off to scare villagers again! The last thing I need is a mob with torches!
Last time, I had to camouflage the house all over again.
As night approached, the wounded man’s condition worsened.
He began groaning loudly and was burning up.
Fetching icy water from outside, I diligently wiped him down, but it did little good.
I poured the Bitterheal decoction into him twice more.
I even undressed him, searching for other wounds. But I found nothing.
Could there have been poison on that claw? I doubt I’d figure out what kind in time; it could take a month, and I didn’t have that long.
There was one option left. The Grimoire.
The problem is, the book doesn’t obey me. Sometimes it lets me flip through its yellowed pages, but more often, when I touch it, it heats up like coals in a stove, burning my fingers. I think it’s trying to get back at me. So, I avoid handling it unless absolutely necessary.
I stood in the middle of the room, feeling as if cold water had been poured over me.
What if they come for this Dragonhunter? What if they’re already looking for him?
And find him here, half-dead?
Or fully dead?
My chest tightened. Despite everything, I wanted to live.
Rushing to a hidden panel, I pressed a small lever. The board slid aside, and with one swift motion, I snatched the Grimoire from its hiding place.
I carefully placed the book on the table.
Pulling out the thread, I blew on it and ran its tip over the lock shaped like a dragon’s claw.
The thread glowed faintly blue, and that light slowly transferred to the book.
“Please work, please work!” pounded in my head.
The book lit up, and the lock clicked open.
The thick, slightly curled pages began to move. I couldn’t even read the names of the spells flashing before my eyes.
I was starting to lose hope when the Grimoire lifted into the air, shook its pages one last time, and stopped.
Hovering before me, the book showed a single spell.
“Witch’s Blood.”
I’m hardly the most experienced witch in these lands, but even I knew this recipe was forbidden.
If anyone found out I’d brewed this potion—and given it to a Dragonhunter, no less—they wouldn’t just kill me. Death would seem like a mercy.
I pressed my lips together.
So, two options: either this giant’s friends kill me, or my own kin do.
I hesitated. Maybe I should drag him back?
The man groaned, and the firelight from the stove illuminated his high forehead, slick with sweat, and his cracked lips. His strong hands clutched the bedsheet.
No, I can’t.
Spitting five times in different directions, as my grandmother taught me, I grabbed a cauldron and hung it over the fire on the stove. She said it would blind any prying eyes.
Good, I hope this trick works.
Taking the necessary herbs, I tossed them in one by one, chanting the required words. The final ingredient was my own blood.
I had to cut deeper; otherwise, the potion wouldn’t work.
Finishing and lifting the cauldron off the fire, I felt like I was about to collapse.
According to the book’s recipe, the potion needed to be given every half hour, one spoonful at a time.
Outside, it had long since grown dark. The sound of the wind drifted through the open window.
It felt like the night would never end.
I wiped the Dragonhunter with water, applied bandages to his eyes, poured the potion down his throat. Over and over.
Finally, as dawn began to break, the fever subsided. He breathed more evenly and, after a while, stopped groaning.
Too exhausted to even undress, I quietly lay down beside him and fell asleep instantly.