Morning light returned through the shutters, pale and slow, scattering across the small table where a half-emptied bowl of herbs rested from the night before. The cottage smelled faintly of mint and boiled linen. Rain had passed again in the early hours, leaving droplets still trembling along the sill.
The body stirred. Cain brought breath under control first, grounding the rhythm; Aldric catalogued muscle tension; Henry groaned in mock agony.
Henry: I swear this body wakes up slower every day.
Aldric: That would be because you force it into inefficient sleeping positions.
Henry: I don't control how it sleeps!
Cain: Both of you, silence. Mirella's moving.
From the adjoining room came the soft rustle of cloth and the scrape of wood against stone. Mirella was already up, sorting dried herbs into neat piles.
She looked over when the body sat upright. "Morning," she said, voice carrying that quiet mix of care and caution she'd worn since the recovery began. "How are you feeling?"
The head dipped. Cain managed a calm tone. "Better."
She studied him for a beat too long before nodding toward the counter. "Good. Eat something, then come with me to the workshop. The healer asked for an extra pair of hands."
Henry: She's taking us to work? Finally—something interesting.
Aldric: A field observation opportunity. Perfect.
Cain: Stay alert. No unnecessary remarks through the mouth.
Mirella tied her shawl tight against the morning chill and led the way through the small path beyond the fence. The ground squelched softly under bare soles, the air thick with the smell of wet soil and wild sage. The village was still half asleep—smoke drifting from a few hearths, chickens muttering near coops.
The healer's hut stood near the edge of the stream, its roof sagging under the weight of moss. Inside, bundles of roots hung from beams, jars lined shelves in orderly chaos, and the air carried the sharp tang of crushed leaves.
"Ah, you brought him," the old healer 'Seren Valen' murmured without turning. Her hands were deep in a mortar, grinding something that hissed faintly. "Good. My back's had enough of this rain."
Cain guided the body forward, polite, measured. "What should I do?"
Seren smiled, eyes unreadable. "You can start by not breaking anything. And if you can tell feverleaf from woodmint, you'll save me some patience."
Aldric: Categorisation test. Simple.
Henry: Just don't pick the wrong leaf, or we'll poison someone.
Cain: Henry.
Henry: What? He said 'save me some patience.' I'm trying.
The hands moved carefully, selecting the right stems from the heap. Aldric analyzed the cuts, the drying marks, the faint glow of residual mana.
Aldric: Fascinating—mana retention proportional to chlorophyll density.
Henry: You're talking about leaves, Aldric.
Aldric: And yet they pulse with magical structure, unlike your wit.
Cain: Enough. Focus on the task.
Mirella watched from the side, her movements efficient, quiet. The way her fingers brushed each herb came from long habit—small, sure, unthinking care. Every now and then her eyes flicked toward the boy, observing his precision with faint disbelief.
"Your hands are steadier today," she said softly.
Cain allowed a brief nod. "You've been good at keeping them busy."
She smiled a little at that, though something thoughtful lingered behind her eyes.
Seren straightened, wiping her hands. "You learn quick, boy. Good. Maybe you'll be useful yet."
Aldric: Observation—she's testing us deliberately.
Henry: Or just impressed. Let's take the compliment.
Cain: Take it, but stay careful.
The old woman gestured toward a small cot where a young farmer lay pale beneath a sheet. "He has fever since yesterday. We'll try the compress again."
Cain moved closer, instincts sharpening. The rhythm of breath, the heat radiating from skin—it all lined up too easily with what he remembered from another lifetime.
Henry: You're in doctor mode again.
Aldric: Intriguing. Muscle memory aligning with stored cognition.
Cain: Not muscle memory. Pattern recognition.
He dampened a cloth in the cool infusion, wrung it out evenly, placed it on the patient's brow. Seren watched, eyes narrowing slightly at the practiced efficiency.
"Your hands know more than they should," she said.
Mirella's fingers froze mid-motion.
The room went still.
Henry: Oh boy.
Aldric: Predictable outcome. Our behavioral anomaly has been noted.
Cain: Maintain composure.
He kept the tone gentle. "Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets."
The old woman studied him another moment, then nodded once, satisfied—or pretending to be. "Happens," she said simply. "Bodies are stubborn things."
Henry: That was close.
Aldric: Inaccuracy tolerated, for once.
Cain: Continue working. Stay normal.
They spent the next hour mixing salves, grinding bark, measuring powders. The smell of rosemary and bitterroot filled the air. Lira appeared halfway through, hair wind-tangled and smile too bright for the dim hut.
"There you are!" she said, hopping across the threshold. "Mother said you'd be helping. Can I help too?"
Henry: Here comes trouble.
Aldric: Excellent variable for distraction.
Cain: Stay civil.
Seren waved her toward a pile of clothes. "If you can fold, you can help."
Lira grinned. "I'm the best folder in the village."
Henry: She's adorable.
Aldric: She's noisy.
Cain: She's watching us again—eyes on the hands.
As the body wrung another cloth, Lira leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, "You talk funny when you're working. Like, there are multiple of you arguing."
The hand stilled.
Henry: …She's good.
Aldric: She perceives resonance leakage.
Cain: Lower the tone. Smile.
The body smiled faintly. "Maybe it's just the herbs."
Lira squinted. "Herbs don't make people mutter about 'mana density.'"
Mirella turned sharply. "Lira."
Her daughter flinched, muttered a quick "sorry," and went back to folding.
Silence settled again—only the rhythmic scrape of pestle and the soft hiss of simmering brews.
By noon, the fever had broken. The patient's breathing eased, sweat cooling across his skin. Seren covered him with a clean sheet and exhaled. "Good work," she said. "You've got the touch for it."
Henry: Told you we'd be good at this.
Aldric: It was a simple compress.
Henry: You can't even hold a leaf properly without turning it into an experiment.
Cain: Both of you, enough. Let's finish cleaning.
When the tasks were done, Mirella and the healer spoke quietly near the door. Lira lingered outside, playing with pebbles near the stream.
Henry: She's humming again.
Aldric: Emotional stability restored.
Cain: For now.
Seren's voice reached them faintly. "Your son's recovered remarkably. Almost unnatural."
Mirella hesitated before answering. "He's… strong."
The old woman's eyes flicked toward the boy. "Strong, yes. But I've seen spirits stitched back wrong before. Be careful what you thank the gods for."
A pause. Then Mirella's soft reply: "I know."
The body's pulse quickened, though Cain kept its posture still.
Henry: That sounded like a threat.
Aldric: Or recognition.
Cain: Either way, we move carefully now.
They left as the afternoon stretched long and golden. The stream's surface flashed light between trees; Lira skipped stones ahead, her laughter cutting clean through the silence. Mirella walked behind, thoughtful, a quiet crease between her brows.
Henry: She suspects something again.
Aldric: Inevitably.
Cain: Then tomorrow, we train outside. Keep to routine. Ordinary things keep suspicion quiet.
The body nodded faintly, sunlight breaking across its face as they reached the cottage path again.
Inside their shared mind, the voices fell into uneasy stillness, the sound of three minds balancing inside one borrowed shell.