Magic?

The morning stretched thin, gray light spilling through the window slit as the forge's smoke thickened the air. Evan slumped against a grain sack, propped on a folded blanket near the table, his head tilting like it couldn't decide where to settle. He pushed against the sack, arms trembling, but they buckled fast, leaving him sprawled with a rustle of straw. A grunt slipped out, sharp and annoyed, and he glared at the mud wall, its patches glinting with damp. The air nipped at his face, cold despite the heat rolling off the coals, and he squirmed, the blanket scratching his back.

Mira shuffled around the forge room, boots scuffing the dirt, a steady beat under the fire's crackle. She'd fed him earlier—milk warm and thick, pressed to his mouth while he squirmed—and now she hovered by the workbench, sorting tools with a clatter that jolted him. Hammers and tongs clinked against a bent plowshare, and she muttered something low, brushing sweaty hair from her face with a soot-streaked hand. "Gav!" she barked, voice cutting through the haze. "Up—fire's low, and we've got Jorric at noon."

A groan rumbled from the workbench corner where Gav sprawled, half-buried in shadows. He rolled over, rubbing his face, and hauled himself up, his bulk swaying like a tree in a gust. "Gods, Mira, give me a breath," he rasped, voice rough as the dirt underfoot. His hair stuck out in wild tufts, beard a tangled mess, and he squinted at the forge, its coals pulsing red. "Noon's ages off."

"Plow won't fix itself," she said, tossing him a hammer. He snatched it mid-air, grumbling, and shuffled to the fire, jabbing at it with a stick until sparks flared. Heat swelled, pressing into the room, and Evan felt it crawl over his skin, sweat beading despite the chill clinging to his blanket. He watched them—Mira counting nails into a clay pot, Gav coaxing the flames—his eyes flicking between the two like he was mapping a puzzle he didn't ask for.

His stomach gurgled, a faint twist that made him shift, straw jabbing deeper. He didn't want more food—didn't want to lean on her again—but the ache didn't care, nagging until he huffed, a sound that came out more like a hiccup. Mira glanced over, her face softening for a blink, and stepped closer. "Holdin' up, Ryn?" she said, kneeling to tug the blanket tighter around him. He scowled, cheeks bunching, and she chuckled, a low rumble that shook him. "Aye, you're a tough one."

She stood, brushing her skirt, and turned back to her work, leaving him propped there. Tough? He snorted—or tried to, the sound catching in his throat—and stared at the ceiling, streaked with damp. The forge flared as Gav tossed on more wood, the hammer striking metal with a clang that rattled his skull. He flinched, ears ringing, and the noise dug in, sharp and relentless. Mira grabbed a wicker basket from a peg, its creak loud in the quiet. "Checking the traps," she said, slinging a shawl over her shoulders. "Storm might've scared the rabbits, but we're low on meat."

"Don't overdo it," Gav called, pausing his swing. "You're still wobbly."

"I'm fine," she snapped, heading for the door. "Keep him off the fire." Cold air gusted in as she left, prickling Ryn's skin, and he shivered, watching her go. Traps and rabbits—she talked like it was normal, but it landed strange, a world of mud and sweat he couldn't grasp. Gav turned back to the plowshare, hammering steady, and the room settled into a hum—clang, hiss, crackle—leaving Ryn stranded, stewing in the heat.

Light shifted through the window, silver creeping into the gray, and the village stirred outside—dogs yapping, a goat bleating sharp and close. Gav worked on, sweat dripping down his face, the plow taking shape under his hands. Ryn's eyes roamed, tracing the rough walls, the scattered tools, the puddle by the door glinting wet. He pushed against the sack again, arms shaking, but they gave out, head thumping back with a rustle. A growl bubbled up, escaping as a gurgle, and Gav chuckled, not looking over. "Squirmy, eh? Plenty of that 'round here."

Squirmy? Evan's eyes narrowed, but Gav kept at it, lost in the metal's glow. The heat thickened, sticking the blanket to his skin, and he twisted, itching to break loose. The door banged open mid-morning, a sharp voice slicing through the forge's drone. "Mira Tarn, you mule-headed fool—where's that babe?" Old Tilda stormed in, shawl dripping, her wiry frame bristling like she'd wrestled the wind to get here. Gav straightened, wiping his brow, and nodded toward Ryn. "She's at the traps. He's there—been calm enough."

"Calm ain't healthy," Tilda huffed, stomping over. She crouched by the blanket, peering at Ryn with eyes like chipped flint, and he stared back, pinned by her gaze. She smelled of herbs—bitter, green, smoky—and her hands shot out, cold and quick, flipping him onto his back. He kicked, a weak twitch, and she clucked her tongue, prodding his chest, his legs. "Still scrawny. Let's fix you up."

She fished a clay vial and a small pouch from her satchel, the pouch rustling as she opened it. Evan watched, eyes curious, as she tipped out dark, crumbled leaves into her palm, their earthy bite stinging his nose. She uncorked the vial, amber liquid glinting as she poured a drop, and mashed it with her fingers, working it into a thick, sticky paste. "Hold still," she said, smearing it across his chest in a rough circle. He flinched, the stuff cold and wet, clinging like damp clay.

Then it changed—warmth spread where it touched, a slow burn sinking deep, tingling under his skin. His chest loosened, a tightness he hadn't noticed easing, and a faint hum buzzed in his ears—not the forge, not Gav's hammer, but something softer, alive. He froze, breath hitching, as Tilda's hands moved again, tracing the air above him, fingers twitching in a quick, sharp pattern. The hum sharpened, prickling his arms, and a pale green glow flickered around her hands—brief, faint, gone fast. His heart thudded, eyes popping, and he gaped at her, mind scrambling. What was that?

"Salve and a nudge," Tilda muttered, wiping her hands on her shawl. "He's sturdy—lungs are clear now. Tell Mira she dodged a fever." She stood, brushing her knees, and turned to Gav. "She back soon?"

"Aye," Gav said, leaning on his hammer. "Traps won't keep her long."

Tilda snorted, stomping out, and the door slammed, leaving Evan reeling. The warmth lingered, a faint buzz humming under his skin, and he couldn't shake it—that glow, that hum, it wasn't normal. He'd seen lights—streetlamps, screens—but this was different, raw and strange, like a trick he couldn't figure. His brain chewed at it, restless, but it slipped away, a spark he couldn't grab. It stuck with him, odd and sharp, cutting through the day's sweaty grind.

Mira trudged back not long after, boots muddy, a lean rabbit dangling from her hand. "Traps were slim," she said, dropping it by the table. "Broth tonight, maybe." She glanced at Ryn, then Gav. "Tilda come by?"

"Checked him," Gav said, setting the plowshare aside. "Says he's good—left something for you."

Mira nodded, scooping Ryn up, her grip firm despite the tired slump in her shoulders. "Fine," she said, settling him against her chest. "Let's keep it so." She carried him back to the pallet, the day rolling on—Gav hammering, the forge hissing, the rabbit simmering in a pot. Evan stayed quiet, eyes flicking, that buzz still tingling, a question he couldn't voice as the village thrummed around him.