The Healing

The first challenge wasn't the healing. It was convincing the people of Frae to accept it.Aldric and Lysara stood in the town square, the sick huddled together in the shade of the abandoned market stalls, their fevered breaths visible in the cool morning air. But it wasn't just the ill that had gathered—the healthy ones stood apart, whispering among themselves, their gazes filled with suspicion.

Some of them refused to move closer.

"I am not sick," a man in a ragged but well-kept tunic said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because I have remained pure." His words carried weight, and several others murmured in agreement.

One woman clutched a prayer charm, her fingers white with the force of her grip. "We were spared because the gods saw us fit. We cannot share space with the impure."

Aldric had no patience for this.

He stepped forward, his tone sharp as steel. "Then don't."

Silence fell.

He met their gazes without hesitation. "If you'd rather stand here, proud, while the rest of your town suffers, that is your choice. But don't expect the gods to look kindly on those who let their neighbours die over their own arrogance."

Some flinched. Others looked to Celta, as if hoping she might offer a different answer.

She didn't.

Instead, Celta stepped forward, moving beside Lysara and Aldric, her movements slow but determined. She raised her hands, her voice firm despite the exhaustion that lined her features.

"This Lightborn and this man are servants of the gods," she declared, her words carrying across the silent square. "They carry their blessing. If we are to survive this, we must put our faith in them."

Some of the townsfolk shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting toward one another, hesitant.

A burly man with a tattered scarf crossed his arms. "Faith has brought us nothing," he muttered, his voice edged with anger. "Where was Vida's mercy when my brother died choking on his own blood? Where was Tellik's shield when our children took sick? Now you tell us to put our trust in them again?"

His words struck deep, and for a moment, the air was thick with doubt. Others nodded, murmuring agreement, their faces lined with grief and distrust.

Celta held her ground, but the weight of their despair was evident in the slight tremor of her hands.

Lysara's scales flickered, her silver eyes narrowing. "Do you think your doubt changes anything?" she asked, her voice sharp as flint. "The plague is still here. Your people are still dying. You can wallow in anger or you can fight to live."

A hush settled over the square.

Aldric stepped forward then, his tone as unyielding as stone. "No one is forcing you. If you'd rather sit here, clutching your bitterness while your neighbours suffer, that is your choice. But make no mistake—faith or no faith, this plague doesn't care. It will take you all the same."

A murmur ran through the crowd, uneasy but shaken.

Then Celta turned back to them, her voice softer now, but no less firm. "She is Lightborn. Her kind were chosen by the gods to stand against corruption." She gestured toward Lysara. "If anyone can help us, it is her."

That was enough for most. The flickering embers of hope won out over their fear. The people began moving, gathering the sick, preparing the space needed for the treatment.

Some still stood apart, clinging to their self-righteous belief in their purity, unwilling to stand beside the infected. Aldric cast them one last glance.

"May your arrogance keep you warm," he said simply, then turned his back on them.

They were out of time for fools.

Now, it was time to act.

The process was slow and gruelling.

Lysara worked tirelessly, her hands glowing with divine energy, drawing forth every ounce of strength she had to ease the suffering of the infected. It wasn't enough to cure them outright—not yet—but it kept them stable, kept them breathing, bought them time.

Aldric did what he could.

He moved between those who hadn't yet fallen ill, casting Tellik's protection against disease and poison over them, forming a barrier around their bodies, shielding them from the creeping sickness. It wasn't an impenetrable defense, but it was something—a shield against the unknown.

By the time the second night fell, they were exhausted.

And there was still one final task left. A task they left to last as they were loath to do it.

There hadn't been enough divine power left for a proper burial.

Aldric had known that from the start.

The dead outnumbered the living. Rows of bodies lay covered in cloth, waiting, their spirits lingering on the edge of the veil. They could not be left to rot, not when corruption had already tainted the town.

Lysara stood beside him, watching the flames rise, her silver eyes dark with something unreadable. While pyres efficiently disposed of large numbers of bodies, this didn't make the practice ethical.

Neither of them spoke.

The fire roared into the night, consuming the fallen, sending their souls skyward.

It was not the way of Tellik. Not the way of the Prime.

But it was all they could do.

And when the last embers finally faded, the town of Frae stood quiet, its people weary but alive.

The battle was not yet won.

Time was not on their side. The plague had slowed, but it was still there, lingering like a sickness woven into the very air. The survivors clung to hope, but hope alone wouldn't save them. They needed to complete the ritual.

And for that, they needed the right ingredients.

Celta knew what was required, her knowledge of spiritually rich plants and sacred materials surpassing even Aldric's experience with healing rites. But the town's stock was scarce.

She sighed as she rummaged through her personal stores, fingers brushing over bundles of dried herbs and rare resins. "It's not enough," she muttered, shaking her head. "Not for something this large. We'll need fresh ingredients, and a lot of them."

Aldric exhaled. "Then we start searching."

Celta hesitated, glancing around at the haggard townsfolk, most of whom were too weak to help. "It will take too long," she admitted. "Some of these things grow in the outskirts, in the forests. Others are tucked away in the ruins of the old temple. Even if I had all my apprentices back, it would take at least a week."

Lysara clicked her tongue and turned toward the group of children huddled nearby. They were watching the adults work, faces thin from hunger, but eyes still alight with curiosity.

"You're looking at this wrong," she said, flashing a sharp-toothed grin.

Celta frowned. "What?"

"You're thinking like a scholar." Lysara crouched down, her scales flickering a playful shade of silver-blue as she addressed the children. "Who here is fast?"

A dozen eager hands shot into the air.

Lysara smirked. "Good. Because we're about to have a scavenger hunt."

The town came alive with purpose.

The children, desperate to help, sprinted through the town and into the outskirts, chasing after the ingredients Celta described. The adults, seeing their energy, soon followed suit, gathering anything remotely useful.

It was slow going at first. A few false finds, some misidentified plants, but eventually, Celta's expertise and Lysara's way with words kept them on track.

By midday, sacks of dried herbs, vials of resin, and bundles of fresh flowers had been collected. Celta, however, had to make a choice.

Her fingers lingered over the last of her personal stockpile—ingredients she had saved over the years, some of which she had hoped to use for her own work, for her own people.

With a deep breath, she let it go.

"If we do this right," she murmured, "there will still be people left to use it for."

She turned to Aldric and Lysara, her hands full of sacrifice.

"Now," she said, "we prepare."

--

As the town worked, Aldric took a moment to inspect his battered equipment. His sword, dulled from battle, was barely more than a sharpened hunk of steel. His shield? Splintered and barely holding together. His spear was still functional but it was a weapon he had mastered or enjoyed.

Lysara took notice, but her mind was elsewhere.

"We should be prepared for a fight," she said suddenly.

Aldric frowned. "Against what?"

Lysara adjusted the straps of her satchel, her silver eyes sharp. "This plague isn't just a mistake. It was twisted. Which means something had to twist it."

Aldric's grip tightened on his sword. "You think it was corrupted by something sentient?"

Lysara exhaled. "Not just corrupted. Possessed."

That stopped him cold.

She continued, voice lower now, so only he could hear. "This has all the signs of a wraith's influence. They're drawn to prayers, to strong emotions, especially grief and desperation. If Celta's original plea was heard by something else, something lurking beyond the Veil…"

Aldric understood now. Wraiths were incorporeal creatures, things of twisted faith and lingering echoes. They didn't just attack. They inhabited, consumed, turning faith against those who wielded it.

"Can it be fought?" he asked.

Lysara nodded once. "It can be destroyed. But it won't die easily."

Aldric let out a slow breath. "Then we need better equipment."

The people of Frae had little left to give, but they gave anyway.

Aldric was examining his broken sword when a burly man approached, a bundle wrapped in cloth in his hands.

"This belonged to my brother," he said simply, unwrapping the cloth.

Aldric's breath caught.

A sword and shield, both well-crafted, worn but sturdy. The blade was steel-forged, sharp even after years of disuse. The shield, while not ornate, was solid—stronger than anything he had wielded since Sir Danton.

He looked up at the man, surprised. "Are you sure?"

The man nodded once. "You're the best chance we have. My brother would have wanted his sword in the hands of someone who could still use it."

Aldric adjusted the weight of his newly gifted sword, testing its balance. It wasn't quite like the blades he had trained with under Sir Danton, but it was close—closer than anything he had wielded since the war began. Across the square, Lysara inspected her own equipment, though with markedly less reverence.

She turned over a set of leather armour in her hands, the material well-crafted, reinforced at key points. Sturdy, but flexible. She slipped it on with a practiced ease, rolling her shoulders to test the fit. Satisfied, she reached for the second piece of clothing she had been offered—a robe.

Aldric expected her to dismiss it outright, but as her fingertips brushed the fabric, she froze.

Her silver eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the material. The robe was old, but not dead—thick with prayers long spoken, healing rites absorbed into its very fibers. Even Aldric, standing a few feet away, could feel something different about it.

"This belonged to the last healer of Frae," the woman who had gifted it said, her voice edged with something heavier than grief—responsibility. "Maybe now, it can serve again."

Lysara didn't respond at first. She turned the robe over, tracing the faded embroidered sigils of Vida.

She exhaled slowly and pulled the robe over her shoulders. A pulse of warmth flickered across her scales, an unfamiliar energy settling over her. Aldric saw the shift in her posture—subtle, but there.

Lysara lifted a hand and summoned a small trace of healing power—just a whisper of divine energy, barely enough to mend a scrape.

Her eyes widened.

Aldric noticed the way she flexed her fingers, like she was testing something newly sharpened.

The robe hadn't just been steeped in spiritual energy. It had amplified hers.

Lysara smirked, more to herself than anyone else. "It will be put to good use."

Aldric wasn't sure whether that should reassure him or concern him. He was worried about their next training session.

By Morning, everything was ready.

The ritual site had been cleared, the ingredients carefully placed in their proper positions. The survivors who could still stand gathered nearby, watching in tense silence, their expressions flickering between fear and hope. They had given everything they had—now it was up to Aldric, Lysara, and Celta to give Frae a future.

Aldric adjusted his grip on his new sword, feeling the solid weight of it at his hip. His shield sat firm on his arm, a welcome improvement from the battered thing he had discarded days ago. Lysara, standing beside him, pulled the old healer's robe over her shoulders. The moment it settled against her scales, something shifted—a faint ripple of power thrummed through the fabric, amplifying the divine energy within her.

"Ready?"

Aldric exhaled, rolling his shoulders beneath his armour. He had spent the long hours of the night in prayer, kneeling before Tellik's sigil, letting the divine warmth seep into his bones. His mark pulsed with stored power, more than he had ever held before.

"As I'll ever be."

As the first light of dawn broke over the town, the square filled with the entire population of Frae.

Smoke from the torches curled in the chill air, casting long, restless shadows across the makeshift altar. The townsfolk huddled together, whispering anxiously among themselves. Fear clung to them like mist, a palpable thing that neither fire nor prayer could chase away.

Forming a triangle, Aldric, Lysara, and Celta stood ready.

Celta had worked tirelessly through the long hours of the night, grinding powders, mixing tinctures, and laying out vials of blessed water in careful patterns around the square. Now, they encircled the survivors, forming a protective barrier—one that, if the gods willed it, would hold.

The town had prepared. The prayers had been spoken.

Lysara turned to the assembled people, voice sharp and commanding. "Listen to me. This ritual is going to work. But—" her gaze swept across them, locking eyes with as many as she could, "when the wraith appears—and it will—you run. Get out of the square. Do not try to fight. Do not try to help. Just go."

The nervous murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Some nodded. Others simply gripped each other's hands tighter.

Aldric inhaled deeply. They were out of time.

Celta stepped forward, kneeling before the altar, her hands clasped over a bundle of dried herbs and powdered resin. The weight of the moment pressed against her, but she did not falter. Her lips parted, and her voice rose over the wind, carrying words of supplication to Vida, the Healing Hand.

"Vida, Keeper of the Sacred Breath, Healer of the Wounded, Guardian of the Weary,

We call upon You in this hour of need.

Your mercy flows like water, Your grace mends what is broken,

Let Your hands rest upon these afflicted, let Your light drive out the darkness.

You who know the balance between life and death,

Who does not heal for war, but for peace,

Who grants strength to the suffering and rest to the lost,

Hear us now, as we bind this place against the creeping blight.

By the sacred breath, let this air be cleansed.

By the blessed earth, let these bodies be restored.

By the healing flame, let corruption be burned away.

By Your will, let the innocent be spared."

As the last words left her lips, a ripple of divine energy spread outward from the altar, making the torches flicker, the air hum with unseen power. For a moment, it felt as if Vida had answered.

Aldric's breath caught as the torches flickered wildly, their flames twisting unnaturally, stretching toward the sky. The holy markings inscribed in the dirt around the townsfolk began to glow, light spreading outward in gentle, pulsing waves.

For a moment, it felt as if something sacred was taking hold—like the gods themselves were answering.

Then came the laughter.

It echoed from nowhere and everywhere, a mocking, ethereal rasp that made Aldric's skin crawl. The temperature plummeted, a biting cold settling over them, unnatural and wrong.

The shadows congealed.

A wraith materialized at the edge of the square—its form shifting between the remnants of a woman and something far more alien. Her body was half-formed, pieces of her wisping into the air like smoke, her face contorting into a rictus grin. Her eyes were empty voids, hungry and knowing.

"Pathetic little mortals," she sneered, her voice dripping with amusement and loathing and coming out in the old tongue.

Aldric gritted his teeth and stepped forward, his sword already glowing with divine energy. Lysara moved beside him, her staff blazing with light.

The battle began instantly.

Aldric swung first, his blade slicing through the air with a divine arc—but it passed straight through her, harmless.

Lysara attacked a heartbeat later, her staff crashing down with the force of a hammer, but it too phased through the wraith's incorporeal form.

The wraith tilted her head back and laughed.

Lysara narrowed her eyes. "So, did your wise old master leave any advice for fighting something that doesn't want to be hit?"

Aldric tightened his grip on his sword. "Yeah. Just hit harder."

The wraith's grin widened. "Oh, this is delightful. It will be such a pleasure watching you all die. You little creatures, scrabbling in the dirt, so convinced of your importance."

She turned her empty gaze toward the Aldric pack where the bundle of holy tree bark lay. Her expression shifted—hunger curling across her features.

Her voice dropped to a purr. "Ah… but this… this I will take for myself."

She lunged toward it.

Celta acted first.

With trembling hands, she hurled a flask of blessed water at the wraith.

The moment it touched her form, the wraith screamed, her body twisting violently as the blessed liquid burned through her like acid.

Aldric's eyes widened.

That worked.

Lysara clicked her tongue. "That would've been nice to know before we swung at her like idiots."

Celta snatched another vial. " use it!"

Aldric and Lysara exchanged a look.

New plan.

Aldric grabbed a flask, uncorking it with his teeth, and poured the blessed water along the length of his sword while reciting a prayer asking Vida for help.

Lysara did the same, dousing the head of her staff.

The wraith recovered, her form still hissing where the water had touched her. "Clever. But it won't be enough."

Aldric charged.

This time, when his blade met shadow, it connected.

The wraith shrieked, recoiling as the holy-infused weapon carved through her essence, splitting her form with searing light. Lysara followed, her staff smashing into the creature's side, sending ripples of divine energy through her body.

The wraith lashed out, black talons ripping through the air, forcing them both back.

Aldric gritted his teeth as his shield absorbed the impact, but even through the metal, he felt a creeping cold, something trying to pull the strength from his limbs.

Lysara wasn't so lucky.

The wraith clawed at her, her incorporeal fingers skimming Lysara's arm, and wherever she touched, her scales darkened, turning brittle and cracked.

Lysara hissed in pain and stumbled.

Celta reacted instantly. She rushed forward, pouring more blessed water onto the wraith's wound. Aldric jump in forcing the creature back before it could do more damage.

Lysara shook herself, glaring at the wraith. "I really hate these things."

Aldric wiped sweat from his brow. "Then let's finish this."

The final exchange was brutal.

The wraith dove for Celta, sensing her as the weakest link, but Aldric threw himself between them, blocking her path, his sword carving another gash into her spectral form.

Lysara moved like lightning, diving past the wraith's defenses, slamming her holy-infused staff directly into the center of the creature's chest.

The wraith screamed, her form collapsing inward, flickering wildly.

Aldric took the opportunity, raising his sword for a final strike.

"Go back to whatever pit you crawled from."

He drove the blade home.

The wraith let out one last, terrible shriek—then her form dissolved, the air splitting apart with the force of her disappearance.

Then, silence.

Aldric exhaled heavily. His body ached, his limbs shook, but it was over.

Lysara leaned on her staff, her breath ragged. "Well, that was awful."

Celta sank to her knees, her hands trembling. "It's gone… it's really gone."

Aldric turned toward the gathered townsfolk, who had watched the battle from the edges of the square. Their faces were filled with awe, with relief… with hope.

"It's over," he told them.