"I still find it difficult to imagine you traveling such a great distance just to reach the city," Hector remarked when they finally arrived at Grandmother Royse's modest home. Sweat clung to his broad frame, evidence of the effort it had taken to carry the weight of their purchases all the way here.
Lea laughed softly as she relieved him of several bags. "Now you know how strong I truly am," she said, her voice light with confidence.
Despite the long journey, Lea looked unfazed — her steps steady, her breathing calm. Hector could only shake his head in disbelief. It seemed that beneath her gentle demeanor, she carried a strength that refused to bend.
They stepped inside the quiet house, its wooden walls holding the warmth of familiar lives. Their arrival was greeted by a soft voice.
"I didn't expect to receive a guest today. Welcome—please, don't be shy. Make yourself at home," Grandma Royse called from her room, her words gentle yet firm with hospitality.
Hector approached at once and bowed politely. "Good afternoon, Grandma. I heard your health has improved. I'm relieved to see you sitting up."
Grandma Royse laughed, the sound light as dried leaves stirred by wind. Her wrinkled face seemed brighter than it had been in weeks. "That is all thanks to Lea. She has taken such good care of me."
"I'm truly glad," Hector replied with sincerity. "I hope you'll soon return to your daily routines."
While they spoke, Lea prepared refreshments with practiced ease.
How fortunate, she thought, placing a berry pie and steaming barley tea onto the table. I made this yesterday.
"Please, have some tea, Sir Hector."
Hector nodded and helped Grandma Royse into the living room. It had been a long time since their home had welcomed visitors. Once, people had filled these rooms, seeking healing and guidance. Since her illness, silence had taken their place.
Lea knew her limits. Her knowledge was still that of a caretaker, not a master healer like her grandmother. There was much she had yet to learn.
Hector's presence felt like the arrival of spring — gentle, warm, and unexpected. They spoke of small things, laughter flowing naturally, until the sky outside darkened without warning.
"It's already night. I should take my leave," Hector said, standing by the door. "Forgive me for troubling you."
"Nonsense," Grandma Royse replied warmly. "We're grateful you helped Lea carry everything here. Thank you, dear Hector."
Her voice carried the quiet authority of someone who had lived long and loved deeply. Hector pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head in respect.
"Thank you for your kindness."
Before he stepped outside, Lea pressed a small bundle into his hands.
"Please take these. I hope they help you."
"Oh—there's no need, Miss Lea," Hector protested, startled by the weight of the pouch.
Lea shook her head firmly, her resolve unyielding. "You face danger often. You'll need these. The salves I prepared will heal wounds quickly."
"Please… take them with you."
Faced with her earnest gaze, Hector could not refuse. To do so would be to wound her kindness.
"Then I'll treasure them," he said softly. "Thank you—both of you."
As he turned to leave, he glanced back—and something in his chest faltered when he saw Lea smiling at him.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke again.
"Miss Lea… would you go to the cultural festival with me next week?"
His voice rang louder than he intended, startling even the creatures hidden among the trees.
Lea blinked. Festivals were distant memories. If she left, who would watch over her grandmother?
Before she could speak, she felt a gentle hand against her back.
She turned to see Grandma Royse smiling — a quiet, knowing smile that carried permission without words.
Lea inhaled, then nodded. "…Alright. I'll go with you."
Hector's joy burst forth uncontained. He laughed, leaping into the air like a boy, his steps light as he disappeared into the night.
The night grew quieter after Hector's footsteps faded into the distance.
Lea lingered by the doorway for a moment, watching the darkness swallow the path leading away from their home. Only when the forest fell completely silent did she turn back inside.
Grandma Royse was already seated by the small table near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The faint glow of an oil lamp painted her wrinkled face in shades of gold and shadow.
"You seem troubled," the old woman said softly, without looking up.
Lea paused. "…Do I?" she replied, forcing a small smile.
Grandma Royse lifted her gaze then — sharp, perceptive, far too knowing for someone who had just regained her strength. For a fleeting moment, Lea felt as though she were being examined, not as a granddaughter, but as a patient.
"You have always been like this," Grandma Royse murmured. "Carrying your worries alone. Believing silence will protect everyone."
Lea's fingers tightened around the hem of her sleeve. "I just… don't want to trouble anyone."
A faint sigh escaped the old healer's lips.
"Lea," she said gently, "have you ever wondered why I never asked about your wounds?"
The question struck deeper than Lea expected.
Grandma Royse reached for a small cloth resting beside the lamp. It was old — frayed at the edges, faintly stained with something long since washed away.
"There are injuries," she continued, "that heal better when they are not exposed to fear. And truths that survive only when guarded with kindness."
Lea's throat tightened. "Grandma…?"
The old woman smiled — but there was sorrow woven into it.
"I am a healer," she said. "I have seen blood that carries sickness… and blood that carries curses. Some are born of this world. Some are not."
Her hand reached out, resting briefly atop Lea's — warm, grounding.
"But I also know this," Grandma Royse added. "Blood does not define the heart that carries it."
She withdrew her hand, turning her gaze back to the darkened window.
"There are things you will learn in time," she said quietly. "Things I chose not to name… so that you could live first."
Lea stood frozen, her heart pounding — not with fear, but with a strange, aching realization.
Grandma Royse closed her eyes, her expression serene yet burdened — like someone who had long accepted a truth too heavy to share. Then she went into her room, leaving a slightly awkward silence.
Outside, the forest stirred.
Even as Lea sat at her herb-filled desk, the strangeness didn't go away. One thought continued to haunt Lea.
The Dark Elf's words.
"Your aura… it feels like that of someone already dead."
She tried to forget them. She truly did. Yet the more she pushed them away, the deeper they sank — like poison seeping slowly into her veins.
If they had been nothing more than an insult, she might have dismissed them.
But the truth was—
Stab.
Lea pricked her finger with a sewing needle.
Blood surfaced — dark red, ordinary at first glance. Then, like a breath exhaled by something unseen, a thin purple mist curled upward from the wound.
Blood was not meant to do that.
Her hands trembled.
She let a drop fall onto a mint leaf plucked from the garden. The leaf blackened instantly, its life collapsing into rot in the span of a heartbeat.
She tried again — with meat. Slower, but inevitable. Decay claimed it all the same.
Her heart thundered against her ribs.
To witness such horror was one thing. To know it came from within herself was another entirely.
What is wrong with me…?
Perhaps the Dark Elf had seen this truth. Perhaps his words were not cruelty — but recognition.
Am I even human?
As he had said… Could I already be dead?
Cold sweat drenched her skin. Her strength drained away, nausea twisting her stomach.
"Haaah… haaah…" Her breath fractured under the weight of her thoughts.
She remembered the first time — years ago — when she had cut her hand while preparing food. The shock, the fear, the silence she had wrapped around the truth ever since.
From that day on, she avoided wounds. Avoided blood. She feared being named cursed. Feared becoming something others would recoil from.
So she hid it. But Grandma's reaction earlier was like someone who knew something. Or did she really... know?
Lea gasped, and forgot how to breathe for a moment.
Calm down, Lea. A dead thing does not breathe. A corpse has no pulse. And Grandma...
Her heart still beat. Her blood still flowed.
She was alive. Grandma Royse also still treated her as usual.
And yet—
Blood that devoured life defied reason. It was unnatural. It was wrong.
Lea stared at her trembling hands.
What am I… truly? A human—
—or a monster?