The elderly woman nodded several times, clearly pleased that someone had finally paid attention to her condition.

Her wrinkled hands trembled slightly as she packed up the small bundles of herbs.

Her smile was warm, and though her back was bent from years of labor, her eyes carried a spark of gratitude.

"Thank you, Miss Doctor. I'll be there," she said again before shuffling away, leaning on her walking stick.

Lena straightened up, dusting off her hands as she turned toward Gideon. "At least now we have our first patient."

"That's good," Gideon said. His voice was calm, but inside he felt the weight of responsibility.

A clinic wasn't just about medicine—it was about trust. If they failed their first patients, the village might never open its heart to them.

We can't afford mistakes here, he thought.

Lena gathered some of the herbs from the display and handed a few coins to the seller. The woman seemed surprised by the payment, as if she didn't expect a refugee to have any money at all.

Gideon noticed the look, but he let it pass. He knew soon enough the village would start seeing them not as outsiders, but as people who belonged.

"Let's head back," Lena said, holding the herbs close. "We should get started right away. I want to check what we have and see what remedies we can prepare."

They walked side by side through the narrow dirt road that cut across the village. The air smelled of tilled earth and firewood. Smoke curled from several chimneys as women prepared the midday meal.

Children ran barefoot, shouting and laughing, chasing each other between the wooden houses.

Several villagers glanced at them with curiosity, some whispering quietly.

Gideon kept his chin up but his eyes sharp, memorizing faces, gestures, the tone of suspicion or welcome.

Back at the inn, Lena carefully spread the herbs across the small table in their room.

Gideon leaned against the wall, watching as she separated roots from leaves, blossoms from stems.

"You're in your element," Gideon remarked.

"Herbs are simple," Lena replied. "It's the people who are complicated."

Gideon smirked slightly. "True enough."

He pulled a chair and sat across from her. "I met with Lisa, the inn owner. She's offered us an empty house to run the clinic."

Lena's hands paused for a moment before she looked up, eyes widening. "An entire house? That's more than we could hope for."

"Exactly. It'll need cleaning and some repair, but it's better than trying to run things from a single room. And the arrangement is fair. Thirty percent of the profits go to her, seventy percent to us."

Lena nodded approvingly. "That's reasonable. She could have demanded more."

"She knows we're refugees," Gideon said, his tone turning thoughtful.

"She could have taken advantage, but she didn't. That tells me she's a woman worth trusting—for now."

Lena tied several herbs into small bundles with string.

"Then we should move quickly. The sooner we set up, the sooner people will come."

"Agreed. Tomorrow morning, we'll head to the west side of the village and clean the place. For now, let's focus on our first patients."

As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. Gideon rose, opening it to see the elderly woman standing there, leaning heavily on her stick. Behind her stood a younger man, perhaps her son, carrying a basket.

"Miss Doctor," the old woman greeted. "I came as you said."

Lena gestured her inside. The small room became even smaller with three more bodies, but she managed.

The son placed the basket on the floor, revealing a few apples and a loaf of bread.

"For the doctor," he said quietly, almost embarrassed.

"You didn't need to bring that," Lena said kindly, but the man shook his head.

"It's custom. If someone helps you, you must give something in return."

Lena accepted the offering, setting it aside. She guided the old woman to sit on the bed while she prepared her tools—simple cloths, a cup of boiled water, and the herbs she had just sorted.

Gideon remained near the door, keeping watch as always, though he paid close attention to Lena's methods.

Lena worked with calm precision. She checked the old woman's pulse again, asked about her diet, her sleep, the pains she felt each night.

The woman described aches in her chest, shortness of breath, and swelling in her feet. Lena listened without interrupting, occasionally glancing at the tongue and eyes.

"It's her heart," Lena whispered to Gideon after the examination.

"Age and hard work have weakened it. She needs rest and herbs to strengthen circulation. Nothing more can be done without proper medicine, but we can ease her suffering."

Gideon nodded. He knew Lena would do everything possible, even if their resources were primitive.

Lena prepared a mixture of dried leaves with warm water, instructing the woman to drink it twice daily.

She also told her son to avoid giving her salty foods and to let her rest more often.

The old woman clasped Lena's hands, tears brimming in her eyes. "No one has ever cared like this. Thank you, Miss Doctor. Thank you."

Lena smiled softly. "Take care of yourself. I'll visit you at home in a few days to check again."

The woman bowed her head, and her son did the same.

They left quietly, but the gratitude in their eyes lingered in the small room long after they were gone.

Gideon folded his arms, his face unreadable. "Word will spread."

"That's what we want, isn't it?" Lena asked, packing the herbs neatly.

"Yes," Gideon admitted. "But it will bring attention, both good and bad.

The villagers who welcome us will grow in number, but those who fear outsiders may resent it."

"Let me handle the patients," Lena said firmly. "You handle the rest."

Gideon gave a short nod. "That's how we've always worked."

The afternoon stretched into evening as Lena continued sorting herbs and preparing simple remedies.

Gideon left for a while, walking the village streets, observing movement, listening to conversations.

His instincts told him the villagers were not unified—some were open, some suspicious, and some outright hostile.

He caught whispers of weapons being made, though always in hushed voices. Nothing concrete yet, but enough to keep him cautious.

By the time he returned, Lena had finished her work. She looked tired but satisfied.

"We're ready for more patients."

"Good. Tomorrow we clean the new house. By the day after, the clinic opens."

That night, they ate a simple meal from the basket the old woman's son had given.

Gideon sat at the window, staring at the dark village.

A faint wind rustled through the wooden houses, carrying distant sounds of laughter, but also the clatter of hammer on metal.

Weapons, he thought grimly. This village is preparing for something.

The next morning, Gideon and Lena set out early.

The west side of the village was quieter, fewer people moving about, and the houses seemed older.

Lisa's empty house stood at the end of a narrow path, surrounded by tall grass and a leaning fence.

The wooden walls were weathered, but the structure itself seemed sound.

"This is it," Gideon said.

Lena looked at the dust-covered windows and sagging roof. "It'll take work."

They pushed the door open, and a cloud of dust greeted them.

Inside, the rooms were bare, save for a few broken chairs and an old table. The floorboards creaked but held firm.

Gideon moved from room to room, checking the corners, testing the walls. He nodded.

"Solid enough."

Lena pulled open the shutters, letting sunlight pour in. The house brightened instantly, revealing cobwebs and grime.

"It'll take a day, maybe two, but we can make this a proper clinic."

They set to work, sweeping, scrubbing, and repairing what they could.

By midday, sweat covered them both, but the house looked less like an abandoned shell and more like a place that could welcome patients.

They found a small room suitable for an examination space, another for storage, and a larger front room that could serve as a waiting area.

As they worked, several curious villagers passed by, peeking through the open door.

Some asked questions; others just stared. Word was spreading quickly—refugees turning an old house into a clinic was something new in Nikua Village.

By late afternoon, Lisa herself arrived, carrying a basket of food. She inspected their progress with approving eyes.

"You work fast. This house hasn't looked this alive in years."

"We don't have time to waste," Gideon replied simply.

Lisa set the basket on the table. "For your strength. You'll need it."

Lena thanked her warmly, and Lisa lingered for a moment longer, studying Gideon. "You're a man of focus. That's rare. The village will notice."

Gideon met her gaze evenly. "That's the plan."

After she left, Lena leaned against the wall, tired but smiling. "We'll be ready by tomorrow."

Gideon nodded. "And when we open, we'll find out exactly what this village thinks of us."

The following day, the clinic opened. Their first patients were mostly elderly, seeking relief from chronic aches and pains.

Lena treated them with care, using herbs, warm compresses, and gentle advice about rest and diet.

Word spread faster than Gideon anticipated. By the second day, younger villagers came—mothers with coughing children, men with injured hands from farming or blacksmithing. Some came out of genuine need, others from curiosity.

Each patient left with a mixture of relief and respect. Lena's reputation grew quickly.

Gideon stayed in the background, helping where needed but mostly watching, listening, learning.

He caught the way villagers spoke about them—some praising, some doubting, some openly questioning why outsiders should be allowed such influence.

But he also noticed something else: several villagers with hardened expressions, men who rarely spoke, who lingered near the smithies or disappeared into the forest at odd hours.

Their eyes were sharp, suspicious, and unfriendly. Gideon knew trouble when he saw it.

At night, he recorded details quietly in his notebook—names, faces, behaviors.

He wasn't just running a clinic. He was mapping the hidden currents of the village.

On the third night, after a long day of treating patients, Gideon sat by the window while Lena slept.

The moonlight cast silver shadows across the floor.

From far away, faint but distinct, he heard the sound again—metal striking metal, too steady to be random work. Weapons were being forged.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

The clinic gives us cover. But soon, we'll have to choose.

Are we just healers here… or are we preparing for something bigger?

And deep in his gut, Gideon already knew the answer.

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