The smell of pine and the crunch of snow under your boots are almost enough to distract you from the fact that your arm is bleeding again. Not “a little cut” bleeding—more like “that’s going to stain your coat” bleeding. You sigh, adjusting your pace as the familiar cluster of wooden houses comes into view.

Minerva is in front of your home, hands on her hips, foot tapping like she’s been counting the seconds since you left. Her golden hair catches the afternoon light, her sharp blue eyes narrowing the second she spots you.

“Oh for crying out loud—again?” she snaps, striding over. “What was it this time? Fell down a cliff? Punched a bear? Tried to make friends with a wyvern?”

“It was a scouting run,” you reply, holding up your free hand in defense. “Bandits, actually. And I won.”

“You won?” She points at the gash in your arm. “You look like you wrestled a sawmill.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she’s already closing the distance. “Alright, stand still, idiot.”

Her fist slams into your shoulder—hard enough that your knees almost buckle—but the pain in your arm disappears instantly, replaced by a warm rush of energy. You glance down. The wound is gone, not even a scar left.

“You know,” you mutter, rubbing your now perfectly healthy arm, “most people use herbs or magic words. Not… assault.”

“It works,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. “And maybe if you stopped getting hurt every other day, you wouldn’t need my loving care.”

From the corner of your eye, you see your daughter—silver-haired, big-eyed, definitely too smart for her own good—peeking out from behind the doorframe. She’s stifling a laugh.

“You’re laughing at me,” you call out.

“I’m not laughing,” she says, very obviously laughing.

Minerva turns, planting her hands on her hips again. “Don’t encourage him. The last thing we need is two adventurers coming home looking like they lost to a kitchen knife.”

“I don’t lose to kitchen knives,” you say automatically.

Minerva whirls back to you. “That’s because I cook.”

Before you can fire back, your sister’s voice calls from across the snow-covered street. Fortuna is waving, Petelgeuse trailing behind her with that faintly unsettling grin he always has.

“Back in one piece, I see,” Fortuna says.

“Thanks to my violent healer of a wife,” you reply.

Minerva rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop whining. You love it.”

Petelgeuse tilts his head, still smiling. “It is rather efficient. Though perhaps less… subtle than most methods.”

“It’s not supposed to be subtle,” Minerva snaps. “It’s supposed to keep him alive.” She jabs a thumb at you. “And clearly I’m the only one around here willing to do the job properly.”

“Willing or overly eager?” you ask.

Her gaze sharpens instantly. “You want me to test how eager I can be?”

You wisely shut up.

The four of you end up walking back toward your place, Minerva staying just close enough to swat you if she sees a scratch you “forgot” to mention. Every so often, she shoots you a sidelong look—half annoyed, half relieved.

When you reach your door, she stops you with a hand on your chest. “Next time, you take someone with you. I’m not spending my afternoons punching you back together like a broken table leg.”

You grin. “What if it’s Petelgeuse?”

Her glare could level a building. “You take me.”

“...But then who’ll yell at me when I get back?” you ask innocently.

Without a word, she smacks you in the ribs—lightly by her standards—and you feel the lingering ache in your side vanish.

“You’re welcome,” she mutters, brushing past you into the house.

You watch her go, rubbing the spot she just “healed.” The warmth in your body tells you she’s fixed every bit of damage from the trip, but the throbbing in your pride? Yeah, Minerva doesn’t heal that.

From behind you, Fortuna calls, “Same time next week?”

“Depends,” you say, stepping inside. “On whether my wife lets me survive that long.”

Minerva’s voice comes from the kitchen. “I heard that.”

Of course she did. She always does.