Sullied Remembrance
Hours had passed since the fall of the beast.
It was believed that the main wall of Limelight City had been assaulted by a swarm of Cootic—colossal magical creatures. Though the cities defences had held for the most part, a few of the beasts managed to bypass the main wall and launch a direct assault on the heart of the kingdom—the royal castle.
Most of the creatures were eventually repelled or slain, but not without cost. And thus, a day meant for solemn remembrance was tarnished—sullied not by the beasts themselves, but by the rising controversy surrounding one woman's desperate attempt to save them all. Though the truth of what happened remained unknown to most, the rumours spread like wildfire, growing louder with each passing minute.
Outside the castles main entrance, in the grand courtyard where elegant carriages once waited in perfect rows for their noble masters, disorder had taken root.
The castle had been sealed off. Closed to all visitors, invited or not. Even the royal guests were turned away. Security protocol had shifted drastically in the wake of the attack. What had once been a place of ceremony had become a staging ground for confusion, grief, and whispered speculation.
Dozens—perhaps hundreds—gathered outside, nobles in fine dress, ministers in ceremonial robes, royal attendants and minor aristocrats, all left to wait beneath the open sky. No one was permitted to re-enter the castle.
The orders had been clear, all guests were to vacate the premises immediately.
At the center of the courtyard, where the crowd had unknowingly converged, lay the corpse of a slain Cootic.
Its size was imposing, even in death. Deep, clean lacerations marked its neck and legs—sure signs of precision strikes, likely the cause of its demise. Rumours claimed it was the first to fall, struck down by the infamous Moon Maiden—Princess Lucia and her knight during the height of the siege.
A hush settled over the crowd—not out of mourning for the beast, but from a quiet awe. Despite its monstrous body, the creature bore an unsettling beauty. Its feathers shimmered with unnatural light, iridescent and otherworldly, catching the eye like gemstones catching the moon.
Guards stood watch, keeping the curious at bay. Even dead, a magical beast could remain dangerous—its body might still hold residual natural magic, or worse, some lingering magic waiting to be triggered by foolish onlooker.
Beyond the castle gates, among the fleeing carriages, the Frasier family was in disarray.
Their youngest daughter Leyla lay unconscious on her mother laps in the carriage. Her skin, usually warm with life, had turned pale, and a thin layer of sweat clung to her brow. Her breathing was shallow, her small body wrapped in layers fur coat that did little to hide the way she trembled.
Every bump in the road seemed to jolt her further into a restless state, as if even in sleep, her mind could not escape the nightmare she had seen.
The family had been denied treatment at the Royal Infirmary. With no other option, they raced toward the nearest clinic beyond the cities main wall toward the common district.
Leyla had seen something no child should ever see.
She had seen the lifeless, blood-soaked body of her friend Kimberly—Kimmi—carried in her brother Lawrence arms. That sight shattered something in her.
Only three rode in the carriage now.
Emeline Frasier, her husband Leighton, and their unconscious daughter. Lawrence had remained behind, ordered to stay as support to Lady Catherine at the infirmary.
Emeline sat stiffly, her fists clenched, her eyes hot with fury—not at the beasts, not at cursed fate that fell to her friend and daughter, but at her husband. She blamed him for everything that had gone wrong during the soiree.
Her daughter had nearly died. If not for Kimmi and the knight who rushed to save her, she might have shared the same fate as Kimmi.
Emeline did not know the full truth.
All she knew was that they had come under attack by a beast. Then her daughter returned—bloodied, trembling, and in tears—barely able to speak. And Catherine, her dearest friend and long-time rival, was left in despair, watching as her own daughter was carried away like a broken doll.
When Lawrence arrived with Kimmi limp body, Emeline could not bring herself to look. She had no more words of comfort to give to her friend, no voice left to speak. Her heart twisted with guilt, grief, and something deeper—a mothers terror, raw and bottomless.
She had left Catherine behind quickly, too consumed by her own sorrow to stay. And so, she turned that pain into anger.
In the swaying carriage, as the towering walls of the capital faded into the distance, Emeline Frasier let herself break in the only way she knew—through fury. She screamed and hit her husband while clutching Leyla fragile body against her chest.
"You said it would be safe!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Where were you when we needed you? Off bartering with your precious nobles, no doubt—too important to even spare a moment for your own family!"
Tears streamed down her cheeks as her voice rose, trembling with rage. "And Lawrence—he was taken from us, thrown into the jaws of maw! Used like bait, like some disposable pawn! He could've died, do you even realize that?"
Her fists pounded against his chest—powerless blows, fuelled by anguish. "Do you want all our children to die? Is that what it'll take before you stop chasing that old, fading grace?"
She choked on her sobs, clutching Leyla closer, her voice falling to a whisper thick with pain. "Do you want me to bury them all… like… like—" She buried her face against her child fragile body. "Oh, Catherine… I couldn't bear it…"
Leighton remained quiet—not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew his wife did not want answers. She did not need logic or reason. She needed release all her bitter sorrow. Better for her to shatter now in fury than let the sorrow rot and fester in silence. So he let her scream. Let her rage. Let her weep.
Anger, after all, was easier than sorrow.
Grief gripped her soul like a tide in the night, a terror so deep, it swallowed the light.
Royal Infirmary
The royal infirmary blazed with light—enchanted lanterns hung from every rafter, flooding the halls with their soft, magical glow. But the light did little to mask the grim reality within.
Bodies of a wounded lay shoulder to shoulder, packed into every available space. Groans of pain echoed off the cold stone walls, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and pungent herbal medicine.
Even the corridors were crowded with knights, soldiers, guess of castle and the occasional noble. Healers in white robes moved swiftly through the chaos, doing what they could. The infirmary had long since exceeded its capacity, yet the wounded kept coming.
Suddenly.
A knight burst into the ward, dragging a blood-soaked soldier across the threshold.
"Where are all these soldiers coming from? The main wall?" snapped one of the senior healers. Unlike most of the staff, this healer wore a blue scarf tied neatly across one arm with a patent of embroiled golden emblem of Limelight Kingdom—a symbol of authority.
Even as he spoke, his hands were busy, pressing bandages into another patients wound and cleaning them.
"There's no space for them here! This wing is reserved for nobles and guess."
"But sir," the soldier said, panting, "we were ordered by the Knight Commander to bring the wounded here—"
"And what good is that order if I have nowhere to put them?" the healer barked, throwing a bloodied cloth into a basin. "You want them to bleed out on the floor?"
The soldier hesitated, torn. "But… he said the infirmary—"
"For the love of all Divine!" the healer shouted, stepping closer, his voice shaking with exhaustion. "The commander wants them treated, not stacked like firewood!"
He shot a quick glance at the bloodied knights the soldiers had dragged in.
"These wounds are minor—they'll live. What you'll need are carriages, wagons, stretchers—anything that moves. Get them out of the royal district and treated elsewhere!"
He yanked a folded slip of parchment from inside his coat, scrawled a quick instruction across it, then shoved it hard against the soldiers chest.
"But—" the soldier did know what do to with it
"Take it and MOVE!" the healer roared.
The soldier faltered, then nodded, retreating back into the hall as others rushed past him, dragging stretchers and crying for help.
No one paused to watch the argument unfold. The infirmary had become a warzone of its own—healers, knights, and wounded alike too busy trying to save what was left to notice the rising voices. Only the lanterns burned calmly above, casting a pale light over the chaos.
The Infirmary had been crowded even before the disaster struck.
Wounded soldiers and knights from the war months ago were still being treated, their injuries lingering. Now, with an influx of even more wounded, the workload for the healers piled higher. Most of the new patients were left on the cold stone floors, their cries blending with the frantic hustle of the overburdened staff.
Then—
A door creaked open, and an elderly man stepped into the infirmary. His white long coat shimmered faintly beneath the enchanted lanterns, more ornate than those worn by the other healers. His eyes remained shut in a look of constant contemplation, his long, silver-white hair was tied neatly at the back. Making him stood up among all the healer at the infirmary.
"Grand Elder," a nearby healer murmured, straightening instinctively.
The old man did not reply. Instead, he drifted over to a patients bedside, where a white fabric pouch hung from the bedpost—a standard fixture. Embroidered with the crescent moon, it held the clipboard detailing the patients condition.
He was the Grand Elder of Crescent Cleric Clinic, that was tasked to oversee the Royal Infirmary.
He slipped the clipboard from the pouch and scanned the handwritten notes. His eyes remained half-lidded, as if too burdened by the day to open fully.
Then, with a soft rustle, he pulled a feathered quill from the sleeve of his coat and began scribbling across the top of the page.
"Tell me," He said softly, not looking up, "did you see the two?"
The healer with blue scarf blinked. "The Paladins, Grand Elder? Sir Garin and Sir Seward? Yes… Room Seven." He replied, pointed down the corridor.
The elder held out his hand again without a word. The healer passed him another clipboard from a nearby bed. The elder glanced at it and scoffed.
"They don't need such luxury," he muttered, drawing a thick line across the top of the page and handing it back. "Move them out and replace their beds with patients who actually need them."
A pause.
Then, still without looking up, he added, "Prepare my tools. I will personally assess those two fools."
The healers exchanged wary glances, but none dared speak. Orders were orders—especially his.
Within moments, a small group moved quietly toward Room Seven.
Room Seven, Royal Infirmary
Two men lay in the chamber, their legs wrapped tightly in linen, their skin pale and drawn. Both wore the garb of clerics—robes marked with the symbol of Lioris, the Moon Goddess. They had once stood proudly beside Princess Lucia, guardians of sacred rites and wielders of divine strength.
Now, they could not even rise from bed without help.
A white pouch hung from each bedpost, the moon emblem stitched neatly into the fabric. A healer reached into one, retrieved the treatment chart, glanced at the notes, and gave a silent nod.
Without warning, they were hoisted to a stretcher.
"What's going on?" one paladin gasped, the sudden motion sending a jolt through his aching body.
They were carried into the corridor—past soldiers groaning on bloodied stretchers, past nobles swathed in makeshift curtains, past harried healers weaving through the chaos.
Then, with little ceremony, they were lowered beside a row of stretchers in the overcrowded hallway.
A familiar figure stood nearby—a healer with a blue scarf tied on his shoulder.
"Cory?" one of the paladins asked, straining to sit up. "What is this? Why are we out here?"
Cory sighed—the kind of long-suffering sigh "Your faith should carry you now, Sir Seward."
Seward squinted. "Cory, what do you mean by that?"
"Heal yourself... and your affliction." Cory said flatly.
"If we could, we would have done that a while ago, Cory," Sir Garin muttered, exasperated.
Cory folded his arms. "Hmmm…" He paused in thought before continuing, "All I can say is—the Grand Elder is coming to see both of you. Soon." He smirked.
Then he turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate, his silence louder than all the cries and groans filling the ward.
Garin and Seward exchanged a look.
They both gulped.
Not long after, an elderly figure approached them, carrying a black leather bag. Without a word, he moved to the nearest bed beside the two injured paladins.
He was the Grand Elder of the Crescent Cleric Clinic.
With a nod, he pulled a clipboard from the fabric pouch hanging on the bedpost, gave it a brief glance, then gently returned it. He leaned closer to the patient and whispered, "May my call become the warmest, purest fire, and salvation be yours…"
A soft white flame flickered to life around his hand, glowing brighter with each passing second. Then he placed his palm over the patients wound.
Light bloomed. The flame intensified, casting a radiant glow down the hall. Nearby healers turned their heads. Even groaning patients paused, squinting into the brilliance.
The wound began to mend, skin knitting together with divine precision. The patient, moments ago gasping in pain, now exhaled a long, easy breath.
A miracle.
Garin and Seward recognized the miracle at a glance. The Grand Elder had used healing magic—a burning white flame that mended wounds. It was a dangerous spell, capable of causing trauma or even death if the recipients mana did not align with the casters magical affinity.
But their awe quickly turned to dread.
"Cleric!" the Grand Elder snarl, snapping the moment reverence. Several healers hurried to his side.
"Remove this patient and let the guards handle the rest," he instructed curtly.
Without hesitation, the healers lifted the patient onto another stretcher and carried him away.
"Clear this area. I wish to speak to these two fools... in private."
The remaining healers obeyed. They unfolded a series of partition screens, sealing off the hallway into a makeshift chamber.
The Grand Elder set his black bag on the now-empty bed, then turned toward the two paladins.
"Now then," he murmured, "where was I?"
He stood between their beds, peering down at them with closed eyes.
"How did you both end up crippled?"
"Grand Elder Raimund…" Garin croaked. "We were appointed by the Moon Maiden—Lady Lucia—to fought and be her shield. We fought the beast… Cootic…"
"That does not answer my question," Raimund said, unmoved.
"We encountered the Royal Knights," Seward added quickly. "They severed our tendons, Grand Elder…"
"Did you fought them?"
"No, Grand Elder. We would never dare… that would be treason."
"Good," Raimund said coldly. "You should have been executed on the spot. Proximity to royal affairs brings nothing but ruin to the faithful of Lioris."
"But… Grand Elder," Garin began, "Lady Lucia was born blessed by Lioris, a god chosen. Surely we should—"
"You fool," Raimund snapped. "Many have been born under Lioris's favour. Lucia is not the only one. She's fickle and stubborn—always defying the wisdom of Lioris and the authority of our order. No doubt her noble blood has made her prideful… and too stubborn to listen."
He added coldly, "Princess Lucia should be excommunicated—for daring to flaunt the Moon Goddess's grace, nonchalantly."
The two clerics froze. His words bordered on blasphemy. "Grand Elder, that—"
"Blasphemous? Hardly," Raimund scoffed.
"She should follow the example of her brother, Lux Julia Sheen—the King of Limelight—born and blessed."
Raimund sighed and began to pray under his breath.
Then he spoke again, his voice quieter but laced with steel. "The Lord of Sheen, wished both of you to be healed." He paused. "Painfully."
His eyes opened slightly, a crimson glow flickering in his pupils like burning embers.
Rolling up his sleeve, he began to chant. A spark of white-amber light bloomed in his palm.
"May my call become the warmest, purest fire—and may salvation be yours."
He reached down and gripped Garin ankle.
The white flame surged.
Garin arched his back, screaming as healing magic coursed through his leg. He tried to pull away, but Raimunds grip was inescapable—like a hawk gripping it pray.
With a flick of Raimunds finger, the area fell silent. A silencing spell. Garin agonized cries were reduced to soundless gasps.
Moments later, he collapsed into his bed—fainted, lifeless, save for the scar left where the wound had once been.
Then Raimund turned to Seward.
Seward did not flinch.
He knew the truth.
Garin pain stemmed from magical incompatibility. Healing magic was rejected by the body if the mana alignments were opposed. Though the spell could still mend wounds, the victims nerves would feel as if they were burning with Lirion's wrath—God of Bright.
But Seward shared the same magical affinity as Raimund. His pain would be minimal—just a cramp, perhaps.
Raimund tilted his head.
"Hm? What's on your mind, Seward?" He turned his back to him, facing the empty stretcher where he had placed his leather bag.
With calm precision, he began rummaging through it, laying out a few cold, gleaming surgical tools. "I suppose a traditional procedure will do just fine for you," he said, almost thoughtfully.
Seward eyes widened in horror.
"Lord Raimund, please! We were only serving Lioris! Lady Lucia… she's seen visions of the Land of Curses—she glimpsed the darkness to come!"
He resumed unpacking tools.
"Ah, that was what's been gnawing the king—some foreboding little prophecy…" Raimund mused aloud, his hands never pausing as he laid out a row of cold, glinting tools beside the bed.
He glanced at Seward, expression unreadable. "Paladin Seward… why don't you amuse me while I work? I've always found that a good story helps the blade glide smoother."
With a lazy gesture of his hand, translucent threads of magic unspooled in the air—like silver spider silk—and wrapped themselves around Sewards limbs.
The magical restraints snapped taut, pinning him flat to the stretcher.
"Now," Raimund said, his voice soft but laced with something sharp, "continue..."
Seward screamed, thrashing as Raimund leaned in—a long scalpel in hand—and began to cut open the old wound anew.
Not further from them.
An entity with green—emerald eyes, gleaming and watching, evaluating Raimund with a quiet stare.
The entity was Kimmi, had been watching them for the whole time.
She lay curled on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket, her small body wedged between a wall and an unused stretcher, forgotten and untreated. Her limbs lay numb and heavy, her breathing faint. She did not know how long it had been—only that the blood had dried.
Not far from where she lay, she could see a room with the door slightly ajar. Inside, rows of still bodies, shrouded in cloth, rested in eerie silence.
A morgue.
It was the place they brought the dead.
She realized then—someone had placed her near it on purpose.
A convenient location, should she pass. Quicker to move a corpse when it was already close to the morgue.
The Royal Infirmary worker must have been—Very Efficient.
Kimmi blinked slowly. A soft wheeze left her lips.
She had tried to move her body, but to no avail—she failed. And every time she did, she heard an eerie voice speaking to her.
Cripple— Immobilized— Critical—
It was a voice that mocked her, constantly, whenever she tried to move.
Across the stretcher, the Grand Elder Raimund stood over a patient he had just finished treated. The bloody mess of his surgery, on the paladin leg still fresh in her mind. The maddening scream, still ringing in her eyes like ghostly whisper. The man writhed no more—unconscious or perhaps something worse.
The elder stepped back, admiring his work like a sculptor proud of a twisted creation.
Then he turned.
His gaze fell upon Kimmi.
Panic seized her. She tried to turn her head, to shrink beneath her blanket, but her body remained unresponsive. Only her eyes still moved, and so she shut them tight.
'Dear gods… am I next? He looked at me, right?' Kimmi thoughts raced, her heart pounding. 'Maybe that's a good thing—maybe he'll heal me! With fire magic! That's... good... right?' She swallowed hard, her eyes remained closed.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Inevitable.
Then, cold fingers pried her eyelids open.
She gasped.
Grand Elder Raimund loomed above her, his face blank and unreadable as he knelt beside her. At the tip of his finger, a pale light shimmered—a ghostly flame that danced in silence.
He waved it slowly from side to side. Kimmi gaze followed, drawn to the movement.
"Ah… still alive," he murmured, almost to himself. "And breathing… By Lioris's merciful light." He was surprised.
The flame snuff out.
"Are you in pain?" he asked softly, as if the answer mattered.
"…No," she rasped, her voice brittle. "But… I am. Alive"
Raimund looked her over, considering the girls words carefully. The commoner was clearly no noble, no knight—just another casualty in the chaos. And yet, her survival felt like a miracle—a testament of God willed or worst.
He had witnessed both miracles and omens—enough to tell when something was touched by divinity or tainted by darker forces. But the child before him was an enigma. He sensed no divine aura, no infernal stench.
Nothing.
And yet she still breathed.
For one so broken to cling so fiercely to life—it was more than stubbornness. It bordered on legend.
Perhaps she was borrowing strength from something else, something unseen—be it a blessing or a curse, he could not say.
With a quick motion, he pulled back the blanket covering her fragile body.
What lay beneath was horrifying.
Burnt flesh clung to fractured bone, wounds torn wide and deep—a body torn apart by chaos itself. And yet, the heart within still beat.
Faint, slow—but there.
The cleric might have mistaken her for already dead. But he saw her eyes—bright, alert, untouched by pain. They were not the eyes of someone clinging to life. They were the eyes of someone thriving—unbroken, serene, untouched by the horror she had endured.
It was unnatural.
Perhaps it was a trick.
Perhaps—she was not alive at all.
Perhaps she was an undead—a creature that lives in death.
'No, there was no corruption in her heart… Not yet,' he thought.
With a nodding gesture, he continued to ask Kimmi a question.
"And what should I do for you?" he asked, his tone flat as stone.
'What kind of question is that?!' Kimmi screamed silently. 'I'm injured, so help me!'
"Help me...?" Kimmi said, almost awkwardly holding back from speaking her true thoughts.
"Pain," he continued, "is proof of life. A gift. A fire that reminds you're still tethered to this world."
His voice darkened, dropping to a reverent whisper.
"Beware those who offer you freedom from it—the honeyed voices that promise salvation from pain. That is the call of Tazrial, the Twisted God of Pain—the Devil who soothes with lies and replaces the pain of the living with unending bloodlust against the living."
Kimmi breath caught. A tremor passed through her heart.
'Could it be… that voice that helped me…? That power that numbed the pain—was it his?' She worried.
Her thoughts began to spiral. 'If what he says is true… if I've been blessed with something unholy…'
Kimmi mind raced. The strange, unrelenting urge that had followed her—restless and sharp—could no longer be dismissed.
It could bore the shape of something darker, something primal. Perhaps it was bloodlust, buried beneath the surface, guiding her hands in battle. It would explain why she had confronted a creature far beyond her means, driven not by reason, but by a hunger she that she could not sated.
"Shhh…" Raimund said, seeing the fear bloom in her eyes. "Do not worry, child. You're in the hands of Lioris now. Her faithful. Her Domain. Her cold light burns away demons and devils alike. No darkness lingers where her light falls."
His hand returned to hers, warm and dry and cold all at once.
"Now, recite after me."
He spoke in a calm, even voice—a ritual cadence like a lullaby spoken at the edge of death.
O Lady of the Moon,
Lioris, who lingers beyond the veil,
though shattered in form, thy light prevails.
Take now my breath, so soft, so slight,
and place it within your cold, calm light.
Let me drift on your broken crown,
where stars flicker soft and never drown.
Until dawn returns with breath anew,
my soul belongs, O Moon, to you."
Kimmi repeated the words, slowly, uncertainly.
But as she did, a chill crawled up her spine.
This was not a prayer for blessing or healing.
It was a farewell.
Terror surged in her chest.
'He's trying to offer me to the Moon Goddess! He's thought of letting me dies!' Kimmi screamed silently.
Her lips trembled.
'This is wrong. I'm still here. I'm not done. I have more to do—'
Kimmi let a single tear slip down her cheek—not because of the looming shadow of death that hovered ever closer, but because of the sharp sting of Raimund words. She did not weep from fear, for that had long since faded into something crude, borderline maddening.
Nor were her tears born of sorrow, but from something deeper—something far more bitter. It was the searing burn of indignation, of being so casually dismissed, of being treated as though her struggle, her pain, her very life were so insignificant.
An insult to her willfulness, a reminder of the pride that had once faded.
'How dare he speak as if her fate were already sealed—how dare he act as though her suffering was something to be endured, not fought!' Kimmi gritted her teeth in anger.
Kimmi thought Raimund word was nothing more than cruelty disguised as care, a monster hiding behind robes and prayers.
There were still things left undone—fragments of purpose buried deep within her mind. She could not name them, not yet, but they tugged at her mind like forgotten dreams begging to be remembered. Secrets still veiled in shadow. A truth just beyond her grasp, whispering that her story was far from over.
She was not done.
Raimund saw it.
He reached out, brushed a tear away with one thumb.
"Shhhh," he whispered. "It's alright. Everything will be fine. For death is another great journey…"
"Cleric!" He called.
One of the healers, heard Raimund calling, they opened the folded partition screen and walked straight toward him.
"Grand Elder…" They reported to him, with hesitation.
"I want you to take this child to room seven, clean her up, and make her presentable so her family can meet her." He ordered.
As Raimund turned to leave, a small, rasping voice tugged at his ear.
"Grandpa… what's your name?" Kimmi asked, her words barely more than a whisper.
He paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. "Hmmm. My name is Raimund. Raimund Warmheart," he replied.
A flicker of emotion stirred in her eyes—faint, but genuine. "Grandpa… Raimund… Warmheart… why don't you heal me like them?" Her gaze drifted toward the unconscious paladins nearby. She paused, then added softly, "Am I not worth saving?"
"Child," he said, gently pulling the clipboard from beside Kimmi's stretcher. He squinted at the notes, then gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Kimberly Mae Gustmill, is it? Ah… I'm afraid I cannot heal you, child. The truth is—your body holds small amount of magic, in your blood, and around you. What's worse, your essence and mine… they don't align. Should I attempt to mend you with my White fire, it would burn you from the inside out. Your life would vanish in an instant."
"I will endure!" Kimmi said firmly, though her voice cracked under the strain.
"Grand elder?" the younger man asked, awaiting any changed of orders.
Raimund did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted to the ceiling as if seeking answers written in the shadows above.
He had to change his perspective on her treatment—to rely not on divine knowledge, but on traditional medical knowledge. A form of healing so ancient and rarely used in modern practice, yet proven effective in the most critical cases.
Raimund knew that Kimmi had endured more pain than most and was still alive—a fact that pointed to a troubling possibility. Her nerves, likely damaged by the trauma or the fractures in her spine or limbs, might have begun to shut down. Pain was the body's alarm system, and when it fell silent, it often meant something had gone terribly wrong.
An attempt to heal her with magic was out of the question. Surgery was the only path left to him. He could repair and restructure her fractured bones—it might save her life. But in doing so, there was a risk her damaged nerves would awaken, and with them, the pain would return—tenfold.
He closed his eyes. "O Lady of the Moon, Lioris, grant me your wisdom…" he whispered.
The room fell into a still silence, broken only by distant cries from the wounded and the shuffle of boots outside the door.
"Hmmm," he murmured at last, blinking slowly as though waking from a vision. "Bring me a pain-calming potion. And one for the mind. A spoonful of each."
The cleric raised a brow. "Grand elder, you intend to...?"
"I will perform surgery," Raimund said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "On this child."
"Understood, Grand Elder," the cleric said, bowing quickly before disappearing down the corridor.
"Child, the Lady of the Moon has given her guidance… She has shown me a path." He looked directly into Kimmi green eyes. "Child… No… Kimberly Mae Gustmill… I ask only this—Endure. For pain will come again, and it will be fierce. But if you can survive it… then perhaps, you truly were meant to live."
Kimmi listened to it all. She understood now. Raimund would not heal her with magic. He would cut her open, stitch her back together by hand, force her body to survive through pain and willpower.
She had hoped for miracles, but Raimund offered her more suffering.
And yet, she felt grateful.
Endure the pain, let it not be in vain—Survive, and your purpose shall remain.