Forbidden Desires: Conquering Kingdoms And Women In a Fantasy World! Chapter 6: Martha The Seamstress and Lisa

"Martha?" I called out, my knuckles rapping gently against the weathered wooden door of her cottage.

When no response ca, I reached for the brass doorknob, its surface green with age and wear. My fingers barely managed to grasp it properly—a reminder of my physical limitations in this young body—but I managed to turn it with a soft click. The door swung inward with a prolonged creak that seed to speak of years of neglect and the relentless passage of ti.

The hinges desperately needed oil, and if I was being honest, the entire door needed replacing. The wood had warped over the years, leaving gaps that would let in cold drafts during winter months. Martha really should have addressed these maintenance issues long ago, but then again, the sa could be said for most of the buildings in our village.

As I stepped across the threshold, Rumia close behind , I couldn’t help but compare Martha’s ho to our own. Our house was certainly worn and showed its age in countless small ways—loose floorboards that creaked ominously underfoot, walls that had settled unevenly over ti, and a roof that would likely need attention before the next heavy rain season. But we had the excuse of limited resources. Isabella, my mother, spent every copper she earned on herbs and dical supplies for the villagers, often treating people who couldn’t afford to pay her back. Her generosity left little room in our budget for ho improvents.

But Martha’s situation puzzled . As the village’s only skilled seamstress, she commanded good prices for her work. Every few months, traveling rchants would arrive with coin purses specifically set aside for purchasing her intricate tapestries and finely crafted garnts. Wealthy visitors from other settlents occasionally made special trips to commission her work, having heard of her reputation through word of mouth. By all accounts, she should have been one of the more prosperous residents of our village.

Then again, perhaps I was overestimating the economics of our small community. My understanding of comrce and currency in this world remained frustratingly incomplete. The monetary system seed to operate on principles different from what I rembered from my previous life, and the relative value of goods and services wasn’t always intuitive. Maybe Martha’s inco wasn’t as substantial as I had assud, or perhaps she had expenses I wasn’t aware of.

The interior of her cottage was noticeably smaller than our family ho, but the construction appeared more solid. The wooden beams showed signs of skilled craftsmanship, and the floor, while creaking under my weight, felt sturdy beneath my feet.

"Martha, it’s ," I called out but got no answers. As we moved deeper into the cottage, passing through a narrow hallway lined with shelves of fabric and sewing supplies, I began to feel sothing weird.

When we reached the main living area, I widened my eyes. Martha sat slumped in her old wooden rocking chair, her head tilted back at an unnatural angle. Her weathered hands still clutched a half-finished piece of embroidery, the needle frozen mid-stitch as if ti itself had stopped. For one terrible mont, I thought we had arrived too late.

"Martha!" I exclaid, rushing forward with Rumia right behind .

I reached out to check her pulse, pressing my small fingers against the papery skin of her neck. The heartbeat I found was weak and irregular, but it was there. I felt the slow rise and fall of her chest—she was breathing, though each breath seed labored and shallow.

Her skin felt unnaturally warm to the touch, and I could see a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead despite the coolness of the morning. These were signs I recognized from watching my mother treat various ailnts over the years. Fever, fatigue, and now this concerning weakness—Martha was clearly unwell.

"Hey, Martha," I said, gently shaking her shoulder. "Can you hear ?"

Her eyelids fluttered for a mont before slowly opening, revealing eyes that seed cloudier than I rembered. It took several seconds for her gaze to focus on my face, and when recognition finally dawned, she managed a weak smile.

"Oh, it’s you, little Hal," she whispered.

I returned her smile. "Are you feeling tired, Martha? You look like you could use so rest."

"Always so perceptive," she murmured, attempting to straighten up in her chair but failing to muster the strength. "I’m afraid this old body isn’t cooperating with today."

"Would you like my help finishing your work, granny?" I offered, gesturing toward the embroidery in her hands. The term of endearnt slipped out naturally—over the past year, Martha had beco sothing of a grandmother figure to , patiently teaching the intricacies of her craft while sharing stories of the village’s history so I owed her like the old Henrik.

Despite her obvious discomfort, Martha managed a small snort of amusent. "Hmph, you wouldn’t be able to complete this even if you wished to, young one. This particular pattern requires decades of experience to execute properly."

Her pride in her craft remained intact even in her weakened state, and I found myself oddly comforted by this display of her familiar personality. Still, the pallor of her skin and the way she seed to sink deeper into her chair with each passing mont alard .

"Stay here and rest," I instructed, already moving toward what I assud was the kitchen area. "I’ll be right back."

Rumia, who had been standing quietly beside Martha’s chair with obvious concern etched on her young features, looked up at questioningly. "What are you going to do, Hal?"

"Sothing that might help her feel better," I replied.

The kitchen was small but well-organized, with copper pots hanging from hooks on the walls and various dried herbs suspended in bundles from the ceiling beams. I quickly located a clean bowl and filled it with water from the wooden bucket near the window, then carried it to the stone cooking area where Martha prepared her als.

I glanced back toward the main room to ensure both Martha and Rumia were occupied—Martha appeared to be dozing again, and Rumia was softly talking to her, probably trying to keep her comfortable.

Satisfied that I wasn’t being observed, I positioned my hand near the cooking stones and concentrated. A small fla sparked between my fingers, invisible to anyone who might glance in my direction but sufficient to ignite the prepared kindling. Within monts, I had a proper fire burning beneath the water-filled pot.

While waiting for the water to heat, I began searching through Martha’s collection of dicinal herbs. Isabella had taught to identify various plants and their properties during our walks through the forest, and I had observed her preparing similar redies countless tis. What I needed were herbs that could address fever and general malaise—sothing to give Martha’s body the strength to fight whatever was afflicting her.

The search took longer than expected. Martha’s herb collection was extensive but disorganized, with bundles of dried plants stuffed into jars and containers without clear labeling. So of the herbs looked old, their potency likely diminished by ti and improper storage. Finally, in a ceramic jar pushed to the back of a high shelf, I found what I was looking for: dark green leaves with the distinctive aroma I associated with fever reduction.

I had learned about these particular herbs through careful observation of my mother’s work. She often used them to treat the seasonal illnesses that periodically swept through our village, and I had morized both their appearance and the proper preparation thods. The leaves needed to be steeped in hot water along with several other complentary herbs to create an effective tonic.

Working quickly but carefully, I added the fever-reducing herbs to the now-simring water, then began incorporating other ingredients I had seen my mother use: a pinch of dried mint for digestive comfort, a small amount of willow bark for pain relief, and just a touch of salt to help the body retain the beneficial compounds. The mixture needed to steep for several minutes to achieve the proper potency.

As the herbs infused the water, I stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon, watching as the liquid gradually transford from clear to a pale greenish-yellow. The color was exactly what I had hoped for—a sign that the active compounds were being properly extracted from the plant matter.

When the preparation reached the correct hue and the aroma indicated optimal strength, I carefully removed the pot from the fire. A quick gesture extinguished the flas, leaving no evidence of the magic I had used to create them. The herbal tonic was ready, though I hoped its effects would be sufficient to address Martha’s condition.

Carrying the bowl carefully back to the main room, I found Martha still slumped in her chair, though her breathing seed slightly more regular. Rumia looked up at with hopeful eyes as I approached.

"Here, Martha," I said, offering her the bowl along with a clean spoon. "Drink this slowly. It should help you feel better."

Martha’s eyes focused on the steaming bowl, and I saw a flicker of recognition cross her features. She had likely seen similar preparations before, either from my mother’s treatnts or from her own experience with herbal redies. The trust in her expression as she accepted the bowl was both gratifying and concerning—she was placing her faith in the skills of a three-year-old child, which spoke to either her desperation or her remarkable confidence in my abilities.

"Thank you, Harold," she whispered, using my full na in a way that seed sohow more intimate than her usual nickna. This wasn’t the first ti I had prepared dicine for her—over the past few months, I had noticed her declining health and had begun bringing her tonics and treatnts whenever her condition seed to worsen.

But this ti felt different. This ti, I had made the preparation stronger, adding herbs and compounds that I hoped would provide more substantial relief. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen.

As Martha slowly sipped the warm liquid, I settled into a chair beside her, my mind racing with troubling observations. Even without formal dical training, I could recognize the signs of serious illness. The weakness, the fever, the general decline in her condition—these weren’t symptoms of a simple seasonal ailnt or temporary fatigue.

In this world, where magical energy flowed through every living being and generally extended human lifespan well beyond what I rembered from my previous life, serious illness was relatively rare. The fact that Martha was experiencing such pronounced symptoms suggested sothing more significant was wrong—sothing that the natural magical reinforcent of the human body couldn’t address on its own.

My best estimate, based on the progression of her symptoms over the past several months, was that she had perhaps five years remaining. Maybe less, depending on the underlying cause of her condition and whether it could be treated effectively.

The most troubling aspect of the situation was that my mother, with all her knowledge and experience as the village healer, had been unable to provide a cure. Isabella had examined Martha several tis over the past year, trying various treatnts and redies, but nothing had significantly improved her condition. If my mother, with her extensive understanding of both conventional dicine and magical healing, couldn’t help Martha, then the prognosis was indeed grim.

I watched Martha’s face as she continued drinking the herbal tonic, looking for signs of improvent or at least so relief from her discomfort. The warmth of the liquid seed to bring a bit of color back to her cheeks, and her breathing appeared to be becoming slightly less labored.

"How do you feel?" I asked after she had consud about half the bowl’s contents.

"A little better," she admitted, though I could hear the surprise in her voice. "Whatever you put in this mixture, it’s helping. The ache in my bones isn’t quite as sharp."

Rumia leaned forward eagerly. "Hal is really good at making dicine," she announced proudly. "He helped when I hurt my knee that ti, rember?"

I shot her a warning look, hoping she wouldn’t elaborate on the details of that incident. The last thing I needed was for Martha to start asking questions about healing magic that went beyond simple herbal redies.

"Your mother has taught you well," Martha observed, taking another careful sip of the tonic. "Isabella is fortunate to have such an attentive student."

I wasn’t simply a talented student learning from my mother—I was soone with knowledge and capabilities that extended far beyond what any child should possess.

"I just pay attention when she works," I shrugged.

"Attention is a rare gift," Martha said with a weak smile. "Most children your age are more interested in gas and mischief than in learning useful skills."

As if summoned by her words, the sound of children’s laughter drifted in through the open window. Sowhere nearby, a group of village children were engaged in so sort of boisterous ga, their voices carrying clearly in the morning air.

"Speaking of which," Martha continued, her voice growing slightly stronger as the herbal tonic took effect, "shouldn’t you be out playing with the other children instead of spending your ti caring for a sick old woman?"

"I’d rather be here," I answered honestly, surprising myself with the sincerity of the response. "Besides, Rumia enjoys visiting you too, don’t you?"

Rumia nodded enthusiastically. "Martha always has the best stories about the fancy clothes she makes for important people. And she knows all the gossip about the rchants who co through town."

Despite her illness, Martha chuckled at this characterization. "Gossip, is it? I prefer to think of it as valuable information about the wider world beyond our little village."

This comnt caught my attention imdiately. Information about the outside world was exactly what I needed to further my plans for eventual departure from this isolated community.

"What kind of information?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual while leaning forward slightly to show interest.

Martha’s eyes took on a distant look, as if she were rembering conversations from years past. "Oh, stories about the great cities, descriptions of the latest fashions and styles, news about political changes and trade route modifications. The rchants who buy my work travel extensively, and they often share what they’ve seen and heard during their journeys."

"Have any of them ntioned anything particularly interesting recently?" I pressed gently.

"Well," Martha said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "the last group of rchants who ca through spoke of unusual disturbances in so of the eastern territories. Apparently, there have been reports of strange magical phenona—lights in the sky, unexplained weather patterns, that sort of thing."

"Did they say what might be causing these phenona?" I asked.

Martha shrugged, though the movent seed to cause her so discomfort. "The rchants weren’t sure. So thought it might be related to conflicts between different magical factions. Others suggested it could be connected to ancient magical sites becoming active again. There was even speculation about the ergence of individuals with unusually powerful abilities."

That is very interesting...

"That sounds scary," Rumia said with wide eyes. "Are we safe here in the village?"

"Of course, dear," Martha assured her, though I detected a note of uncertainty in her voice. "We’re quite isolated here, and there’s no reason for any trouble to find its way to our little community."

I wasn’t fully convinced by her reassurance, but I kept my doubts to myself—no need to stir things up in front of Rumia. Instead, I nudged the conversation elsewhere.

"Where’s your granddaughter while you’re stuck here suffering alone?" I asked Martha.

"She isn’t interested in girlish work," Martha chuckled.

I scoffed. "She wouldn’t know the art of tailoring if it bit her."

Back on Earth, I’d had a private tailor. Hours spent on perfect fits, every stitch to my exact taste—luxury these villagers couldn’t fathom.

"What did you just say, you little brat?"

"Ngh—!" A fist collided with my skull. I spun around, rubbing my head, and there she was—Lisa, Martha’s granddaughter.

Dark brown hair in a shoulder-length braid, sharp blue eyes, and a beauty mark under her right eye that only made her glare more striking. At ten years old—four ahead of —she carried herself with a quiet, almost lancholic air. Ever since bandits had killed her parents three years ago, her smiles had been rare.

"Bothering Grandma again?" She strode past , kissing Martha’s forehead.

"Lisa, I told you not to hunt so early," Martha sighed.

"Tom’s here." Lisa shrugged, tossing her bow and quiver aside.

Tom, the village’s best hunter. Lisa tagged along with him and the others—maybe to keep her mind off the past.

"You’re so an to Granny Martha!" Rumia huffed, fists planted on her hips.

Lisa smirked. "Am I?"

Rumia flushed.

"You should spend more ti with her," I said, a little too seriously—until Martha shot a warning look. Right. No need to make Lisa worry.

"Says the boy who only sees his mother at night," Rumia fired back, kicking off her boots. "You wander all day but barely spends ti with her except night right?"

I sure "spend" ti with my mom at night yeah.

"I’m busy learning," I said, crossing my arms.

Lisa walked toward and poked my forehead. "Too smart for your own good. Keep acting this cheeky, and you’ll end up alone, Hal."

She was probably referencing how I dodged the village girls—Rumia included. Not my fault I had zero interest in kids.

I held up my ten fingers. "Ten years."

"Huh?" She blinked.

"In ten years, you’ll be twenty. I’ll marry you then."

Silence. Lisa stared. Rumia gaped.

Sure, Lisa was still a brat now, but in a decade? With that sharp gaze, quiet strength and her already very beautiful features? Promising. She was definitely going to be a great beauty reaching adulthood.

Martha burst out laughing. "This cheeky little devil!"

"Hal! What does that an?!" Rumia yanked my arm.

"Exactly what it sounds like." I grinned at Lisa, who rolled her eyes—but the ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.