Petra's clinic smelled of sharp herbs, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of blood. The afternoon light slanted through the small windows, catching dust motes as Pip sat on the examination table, leg stretched out while her mother worked.
"You could have died."
Petra's voice was quiet, but it carried the kind of weight that made the air feel heavier. She didn't yell. She never really yelled. Instead she stitched the gash on Pip's leg with steady, precise movements, each pull of the needle sharper than the last.
Pip winced, gripping the edge of the table. "I know, Mama. I'm sorry. I just wanted to help. You said we were low on bloodwort and—"
"And I told you it grows too close to the treeline," Petra cut in, not looking up from her work. "I told you to wait until I could go with you. Or at least take one of the guards. But no — you decided you were ready to be a big adventurer like the stories."
Her hands paused for a moment. When she continued, her voice was lower, tighter. "You're sixteen, Pippa. Not immortal. Those scavengers could have torn you apart before anyone even knew you were gone."
Pip's eyes stung. She stared at the floor, blinking hard. "Mister Garret found me. He came really fast. He hit them with a hoe and they ran away."
Petra let out a long, tired breath. "Garret Mole is not your bodyguard. He's a farmer who wants to be left alone with his drink. The fact that he had to drop everything and run into the woods after you should tell you how reckless you were."
From the corner of the room, Garret leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, looking every bit the reluctant witness. His tunic was still torn from where he'd ripped strips for bandages, and there was dirt and dried blood on his hands. He hadn't said much since they'd limped back.
"She's not wrong, kid," he grunted. "Next time you sneak off, I might not hear you screaming. Then what?"
Pip swallowed. "I… I thought I could handle it. Like you do. You make it look so easy."
Garret snorted. "I make it look easy because I avoid trouble until it's right in front of my face. Then I throw rocks and swear until it leaves. That's not a strategy. That's laziness with extra steps."
Petra tied off the last stitch and started wrapping a clean bandage around Pip's leg. "Exactly. And you're not lazy, Pippa. You're impulsive. That combination is going to get you killed one day if you don't learn some caution."
She finally looked up, eyes tired but fierce. "You're my only daughter. I patch people up every week who thought they were tougher than the borderlands. I won't do the same for you. Do you understand?"
Pip nodded, throat tight. "Yes, Mama."
"Good." Petra stood, wiping her hands on her apron. "You'll stay off that leg for at least three days. No training. No sneaking. And you're helping me grind herbs every afternoon until I say otherwise."
The clinic door banged open.
Sable stumbled in, one hand pressed to her side. Blood soaked through her cloak and dripped onto the wooden floor in steady patters. Her face was pale under the dirt and sweat, but her jaw was set in that quiet, stubborn line Garret had seen before.
Petra moved instantly. "Gods above — Sable! What happened?"
"Ambush," Sable rasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Small group of demons' scouts. Or cultists. Hard to tell. They hit the trade road about two miles out. I was tracking something else and walked right into it."
Garret pushed off the wall, moving before he even thought about it. He caught Sable's other arm and helped her to the second table. She was heavier than she looked — all lean muscle and coiled tension.
"Easy," he muttered. "You're bleeding all over Petra's clean floor."
Sable managed a weak, pained chuckle. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt the family lecture."
Petra was already cutting away the bloodied fabric around the wound — a deep slash across her ribs that looked nasty but hadn't hit anything vital. "Hold still. Garret, press here. Hard."
Garret did as told, his big calloused hand covering the wound while Petra worked. Sable hissed through her teeth but didn't flinch much.
"What kind of scouts?" Garret asked quietly, keeping pressure steady. "The howling ones or the sneaky ones?"
"Both," Sable said, breathing shallow. "They're getting bolder. Moving closer to the villages. One of them had markings I've seen before — Hollow Congregation symbols. The cult."
Pip sat up straighter on her table despite her bad leg, eyes wide. "The demon cult? Here? But the hero is supposed to—"
"Not now, Pip," Petra said sharply, threading a fresh needle. "Sable, you're lucky this isn't deeper. Another inch and you'd be in real trouble."
Sable's gaze flicked to Garret for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I fought my way out. But they're testing the borderlands. Probing. Seeing where the defenses are weak."
Garret kept his face blank, but his stomach twisted a little. He'd heard the rumors — the golden hero kid, the rising Demon King, all that epic nonsense. He'd been doing a damn good job of ignoring it.
Until now.
Petra worked quickly, cleaning and stitching with the efficiency of someone who'd done this far too many times. "You should rest here tonight. No riding out again until that wound closes."
"I'll be fine by morning," Sable said, though her voice was thinner than usual.
Garret finally stepped back once the bleeding slowed, wiping his bloody hands on a rag. He looked at Sable, then at Pip sitting small and bandaged on the other table, then at Petra's exhausted face.
Another day in Cragmore. Another round of small consequences that didn't feel so small anymore.
He sighed and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Pip called after him.
"Home," Garret said without turning around. "To pretend none of this is my problem for a few more hours. Try not to get eaten while I'm gone."
He stepped out into the cooling evening air, the two suns dipping low and painting the sky in deep orange and purple.
The distant treeline looked darker than usual.
Garret scratched the scar on his jaw, muttered a quiet curse, and started walking back to his farm.
"Not my circus," he told the empty path.
But the words felt a little less convincing than they had yesterday.
End of Chapter 9