The Raven: Prince of Iron and Blood.

Numeris Dešimt

THE YEAR 143 B.C.

In the quiet town of Willow's Bend, nestled in the folds of Brindlemoor between the Whispering Woods, Hargrove, and the sea, Elijah tended to his garden. His hands, gnarled from years of toil, danced with a gentleness among the rows of herbs and vegetables. Each plant received his meticulous care, and in return, they whispered secrets of the earth to him. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, reflected the sky above, and his silver hair fluttered in the warm breeze. His garden was his sanctuary, a place where the outside world's troubles could not reach.

Elijah had lived in the village for as long as anyone could remember. He had arrived as a young man, full of vigour and tales of distant lands, and over the years he had become the village's herbalist and healer. His knowledge of plants and their mysteries was unrivalled, and the townsfolk often sought his counsel for their ailments, both physical and emotional. The garden was not just a source of livelihood for him; it was his life's work, a testament to his unwavering dedication to the natural world.

On this particular day, the sun hovered lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the neatly organized beds of mint and lavender. Elijah worked tirelessly, his thoughts drifting to the evening's meal and the quiet solace of his cottage. The town's children played in the distance, their laughter a sweet melody that drifted through the air like a gentle stream. It was a simple, uncomplicated life, and he cherished every moment of it.

A shadow fell over Elijah's patch of lilies, castor beans, foxglove, and angel trumpet. He looked up to see the village elder, Gertrude, huffing and puffing her way towards him. Her clay face was in deep concern. She clutched a piece of parchment in her hand, her knuckles white with the tension of her grip.

"Elijah," she panted, "you must come with me. The Queen has taken ill, and the court physicians are at a loss. They've sent for you."

Elijah's heart skipped a beat. He had never been summoned to the Queen before, after the execution of King Jarrin, and the very idea of leaving his garden filled him with trepidation. He knew the stakes were high. If he couldn't help his Queen, his peaceful life might never be the same. With a heavy sigh, he wiped the dirt from his hands and followed Gertrude, the parchment fluttering in the breeze like a flag of fate calling him to a destiny he never asked for.

"Do they know what ailment has taken the Queen?"

"Here." She showed the paper. The writing was almost griffonage.

What in the blazes? Did he ask a monkey to write this letter? "I can read enough. Let me get my things. I shall be a few minutes. Can you bring Daffodil from the lean-to with the saddlebags?"

Gertrude skipped away over the pebbled path with surprising speed despite her girth to the woodshed. Elijah gathered his belongings, scanning among the verdant rows of potions and brews, He carefully selected his most precious vials of herbs, each one imbued with the essence of the land and the secrets of the earth. He chose a selection of dried leaves, stems, and roots, their potency and properties etched in his mind like a map. He packed them into his saddlebags, the soft leather creaking as he stuffed them tightly.

Next, he reached for his mortar and pestle, worn smooth by years of use. The smooth wood felt like an extension of his own hands, and he knew every curve and groove by heart. He wrapped it carefully in a soft cloth, protecting it from the rough ride ahead.

The spices were next, each one chosen for its unique flavour and property. Dried lavender buds for relaxation, sage leaves for purification, and chamomile flowers for soothing teas.

He wondered what kind of wounds could have befallen the monarch, and what kind of treatment would be required to cure it. His mind whirred with possibilities as he packed a small pouch of powdered Gryphon horn for its legendary healing properties and he retrieved his collection of vials, each meticulously labelled with the names of rare herbs and extracts: Feverfew for headaches, comfrey for broken bones, and valerian for sleeplessness. These vials clinked softly together as he placed them gently into the bag, ensuring they were snug and secure.