herbal bath

The healer's hands didn't pause. They moved with unyielding rhythm—pinching, pressing, stitching with a confidence born of years spent tending broken bodies. But Levi felt her eyes on him all the same. Sharp. Measuring. Not just assessing the torn flesh on his back, but reading the map of pain etched into every inch of him. She saw the way he flinched before her fingers even brushed the wounds. The way his breath hitched, shallow and uneven, not from the salve, but from something deeper—something rooted in memory.

Her touch was not cruel. It was brisk, practiced, and without apology. A battlefield kind of care. No gentle murmurs or false comforts, just a quiet, methodical resolve. Every tug of the needle, every sweep of soaked cloth made his raw skin twitch, his nerves scream. The salve she smeared over the lash marks was pungent, thick, and cool at first—but the burn came quickly. A biting fire laced with mint and metal that curled under his skin and made his shoulders jerk.

The tent was quiet but for the soft clinks of glass jars, the whisper of cloth on flesh, and the occasional muffled groan from Levi when her touch struck a nerve.

Kaan hadn't moved since they'd entered.

He sat just beyond the reach of the lantern's glow, his silhouette carved into the dark like a statue watching from the edge of some ancient tomb. One knee drawn up, arms draped across it, his eyes fixed—steadily, silently—on Levi. He didn't speak. He didn't shift. But Levi could feel him there like a second pulse.

The silence grew thick.

The healer paused only to wipe her brow with the back of one hand, then reached for another cloth—this one soaked in a milky-blue salve that steamed slightly in the air. Her voice came quieter now, more personal.

"It wasn't just your back."

Levi's jaw tensed like a drawn bowstring.

"I saw the way you moved when you walked in. The way your arms hung. The bruising along your ribs… your wrists…" Her tone darkened, the weight behind it unmistakable. "What kind of place did they keep you in?"

Kaan stirred slightly, his gaze sharpening. But he said nothing.

Levi kept his eyes down, trained on the dirt-scuffed floor, lips pressed tight against the words he wouldn't give. The fire in his chest burned hotter than the salve on his back.

He didn't need to say anything.

The silence answered for him—dense, bitter, aching.

The healer didn't push. Not yet.

Instead, she reached into her basket and withdrew a neatly folded piece of cloth—a fresh wrap, cream-colored linen. "This will feel better against your skin. Let the wounds breathe. You'll wear this. And you'll rest. That's not a suggestion."

Levi's gaze flicked to it briefly, then down to his own hands—streaked with old blood, dirt packed beneath the fingernails, shaking faintly with exhaustion. His fingers twitched, and he gave a slight nod. But the stiffness in his shoulders never left.

"My mother," he rasped, voice raw as sandpaper. "And Sera?"

The healer exhaled through her nose, long and low, wiping her fingers on a clean strip of cloth. "Stubborn boy."

She turned to move—but froze mid-step.

Her eyes caught on his arm—the one he'd kept tucked protectively close to his side, wrapped in a tattered, unraveling bandage. The linen had slipped loose during the ride, exposing a dark, spreading stain beneath. Her expression shifted. Concern sharpened into suspicion.

"What's this?"

Levi's instincts surged. He moved to tug the sleeve down, to turn away, but his reaction only drew her forward faster.

"Don't," she said firmly, already kneeling again. "Let me see."

"It's nothing," he muttered, too quickly.

"Nothing doesn't bleed through linen." Her fingers found the edge of the wrap and peeled it away with swift, practiced efficiency, ignoring his half-hearted protest.

Layer by layer, the cloth fell away.

What it revealed was no gash. No desert wound.

Etched into the pale skin of his inner forearm was a black scar—deep, deliberate. Not a single line, but a cluster of symbols, almost runic in design. Curling shapes and interwoven marks that had been cut with intent, not violence. Not a punishment.

A ritual.

The healer stilled. Her breath caught, barely audible.

She studied it, eyes narrowing, lips thinning. "This… this wasn't made by a whip, it looks like a tattoo or a brand of some sort."

Levi didn't move. He stared at the wall again, shoulders taut, every muscle drawn tight.

"What is this?" Her voice had lost its warmth. It was colder now, like steel cooling on an anvil. "Who did this to you?"

Kaan shifted for the first time. A faint stir, his head tilting just slightly as his eyes darted between Levi's face and the scar on his arm.

Levi shook his head. "It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't mean it's gone," she murmured. "Not if you're still hiding it. Not if it's still bleeding in ways you can't see."

She didn't wait for more resistance.

From her satchel, she pulled a different jar—small, round, sealed with wax. When she opened it, a pungent scent filled the tent. Iron. Clay. Crushed herbs. She dipped her fingers into the thick, dark salve and pressed it gently into the carved lines. The way she touched the scar was different—slower, almost reverent. Not trying to erase it, but to ease the echo of it.

Then she bound his arm again in soft, clean linen, wrapping it carefully, tucking the edge in with practiced hands.

"You'll tell me one day," she said, not unkindly. Her voice was low, almost inaudible. "When your soul stops bracing for pain that isn't coming anymore."

The words landed deep.

Levi swallowed hard. She said it like she expected him to stay. Like this place—this tent, these people—might be permanent.

He didn't respond.

He looked down at the bandage. It was clean. Soft. It didn't itch or cut or remind him of metal against skin. It didn't feel like the past.

He took a breath. "Can I see them now?"

The healer paused.

She studied him again, reading more than just the words. Then she turned toward the tent flap and spoke to someone waiting just outside in the Sandwalker tongue—quiet and quick.

When she turned back, her expression was composed, unreadable. "They're still resting. You should be, too."

Levi didn't wait. He pushed himself upright from the mat, teeth grit against the roar of pain that followed. His back screamed, his ribs protested, and his arm throbbed with every heartbeat—but he didn't stop. Couldn't.

Kaan moved at the same time, fluid and silent.

He stepped in front of Levi, blocking the way without saying a word. A wall of quiet resistance.

The healer arched a brow at the pair, then gave a tired sigh.

"Kaan," she said, already turning away. "You're watching him until I get back."

The boy gave a single, wordless nod.

And Levi—bruised, stitched, marked and burning—stood trapped between shadow and light, unsure whether the fire in his chest was defiance or something beginning to thaw.Levi clenched his jaw as Kaan remained where he stood—arms folded loosely, unmoving. The silence between them was tense, not hostile, but immovable. Like a wall that couldn't be pushed or shouted through.

"I'm not going to break," Levi muttered.

Kaan didn't answer. His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, simply studied him—measured the tremble in his limbs, the sweat still beading at his brow, the way his posture sagged ever so slightly under the weight of exhaustion and pain.

It wasn't suspicion. It wasn't pity either.

It was something closer to caution. A recognition of someone too close to the edge.

The healer was already gone, the flap of the tent swaying gently in her wake.

Levi shifted his weight. Pain lanced up his side. He hissed, clutching his ribs for half a breath before letting his hand fall away again. "I'm fine," he said, though the words sounded brittle even to his own ears.

Kaan tilted his head slightly, then jerked his chin toward the back corner of the tent. There, nearly hidden behind a hanging cloth partition, sat a shallow ceramic basin, a folded robe draped nearby, and several clay jars of what looked like oils and herbal powders. Beside them was a small, lidded pot still steaming faintly.

Levi followed his gaze, blinking.

"I don't need—" he started.

Kaan moved before he could finish.

Without speaking, he strode across the tent and knelt beside the basin. With practiced movements, he poured water from the steaming pot into the bowl, then added a scoop of powder from one of the jars. The scent of eucalyptus and something sharper—juniper?—rose into the air, cutting through the lingering sting of salve and blood.

He didn't look back at Levi. Just sat there, still as ever, waiting.

Levi stared.

He didn't remember the last time someone had done something like this without being ordered. Or paid. Or expecting something in return.

He swallowed hard, throat tight.

The grime on his skin was old now—some of it from the ride, some from the blood, some from before. A weight that clung to him, layer after layer, like second skin. He remembered his mother once washing him with lavender water when he was too small to bathe alone. That memory felt like it belonged to another life.

Levi didn't move.

Kaan looked back finally, expression flat. "You stink," he said bluntly.

Levi blinked. Then—unexpectedly—huffed a weak breath of a laugh. Just once. Short and sharp. "You could've led with that."

Kaan shrugged.

With effort, Levi made his way across the tent. Every movement was slow, deliberate. His feet dragged slightly on the canvas floor. He dropped to a crouch beside the basin, the pain in his back flaring, but he grit his teeth through it.

The robe folded beside the bowl was simple. Sand-colored, light, soft-looking. He didn't know if it was for him, but no one was stopping him.

Kaan turned his back and moved to the far side of the tent without a word, giving him space. His sand tunic and face cover still tight on his body hiding his looks and age, but close to Levi's, either that or the guy was really short.

Levi stared at the water for a long moment. Steam rose in gentle tendrils, curling through the air like smoke from a long-dormant fire. It looked almost holy in the lantern glow.

He peeled the linen wrap that was clothing from his waist slowly, hands trembling. Then the rest of the rags. The cold hit first. Then the weight of what he wasn't covering anymore. The vulnerability. The scars. The skin rubbed raw. The bruises blooming across his ribs like rotten fruit.

He lowered himself beside the basin and dipped his hands in.

Warmth.

Real warmth.

He sucked in a breath.

One handful at a time, he began to scrub away the layers. Blood flaked and washed down his arms. Sand loosened from his skin. His fingers shook, but he didn't stop. His eyes stung—not from the herbs, but from something else—but he blinked it away.

When he reached for the oils and began working them through his hair, the tent remained silent behind him.

No barked commands. No sneers. No hands dragging him out for taking too long.

Only steam. And silence.

And the slow realization that—for the first time in what felt like years—he was clean.

When he finally reached for the robe and pulled it over his shoulders, the fabric kissed his skin like something sacred.

Levi didn't speak as he stood again, hair damp, skin red from scrubbing, but clean.

He caught Kaan watching him from the corner.

"…Thanks," he muttered. Not loud. But honest.

Kaan didn't reply.

But for the first time, Levi saw something shift at the corner of the boy's mouth. Not a smile. Not really.

Just approval.Levi sat back down on the mat, the robe loose around his shoulders, damp hair clinging to his neck. The warmth still lingered in his skin—soft and strange, as if his body didn't know what to do with comfort. The scent from the basin clung to him too, sharp but soothing. Clean. Real.

His fingers brushed over his arm where the strange salve had been applied, now hidden beneath clean linen. He stared at the steam still rising faintly from the basin. Then he looked at Kaan, who had returned to his original place just beyond the lantern light, quiet and still.

Levi hesitated before speaking. "What… was in that water?"

Kaan didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to gauge whether Levi was mocking him. When he saw only quiet curiosity, he shifted his weight and replied, voice low and even.

"Juniper bark. Ground eucalyptus leaf. A bit of wild mint oil. Powdered ash root to draw out fever, and resin from the desert pine."

Levi blinked at him.

Kaan glanced sideways. "It's not magic," he added. "But it works."

"No, I—" Levi shook his head. "I've just never… had anything like that before."

Kaan didn't answer, but the silence wasn't cruel.

Levi's voice dropped. "Most of the time, we didn't bathe at all. Sometimes they'd dump cold water on us. Just enough to keep us from stinking too badly." His gaze dropped to the now-cooling basin. "And if we were lucky, we'd get a rag and half a minute to scrub. No soap. No heat. Never… anything like that."

Kaan's gaze stayed fixed, but something shifted in the air between them.

"The healer says it pulls the pain from your skin," he said after a moment. "Makes your blood remember peace."

Levi didn't know what to say to that.

He looked down at his own hands again—still scraped and rough, but cleaner than they'd been in months. The robe's sleeve brushed his wrist, soft and light, and again he was struck by the absurdity of it. How something so simple could feel like a miracle.

He rubbed a thumb along the fabric. "She gives this to everyone?"

Kaan's answer was quiet. "To those who survive."

Levi went still.

A weight pressed against his ribs—not just from injury, but memory. The other children. The ones who hadn't. The ones he'd seen fall during training. Or dragged away after being deemed too weak. Too slow. Too human.

He swallowed.

The silence stretched again.

Kaan stood and crossed to the basin, kneeling again. He poured what remained of the water out through a small opening in the tent floor lined with woven reeds—drainage. As he did, the steam curled one last time into the air and vanished.

"Get sleep while you can," he said, not looking up. "When the sun's higher, the healer will let you see them."

Levi nodded faintly, lying back on the mat despite the ache in his body. His back still burned, his ribs still throbbed—but it was different now. Like the pain belonged to him again, not to someone else's hands.

As his eyes drifted shut, the scent of mint and pine lingered in the air like a lullaby.

For the first time in a long while, Levi didn't sleep fearing a whip crack or a scream in the dark.

Just the quiet.

And the knowledge that he was still alive.