The Healer

# Chapter 4: The Healer

The coughing echoed through the cramped cellar, each ragged breath reverberating against stone walls lined with shelves of dried herbs and tinctures. Liora Merrick's hands moved with practiced precision, measuring powders into a small brass mortar. The pestle made a soft grinding sound as she worked, creating a rhythm that countered the child's labored breathing.

"Will I die?" The small voice broke through the silence between coughs.

Liora looked up from her work, her eyes finding the child huddled beneath threadbare blankets in the corner. A boy no more than eight, his face pale and drawn, dark circles beneath eyes too old for his years. The spiral mark on his forearm pulsed with a sickly light.

"Not today," she replied, her voice gentle but firm. She set down the pestle and approached him, kneeling beside the makeshift bed. "Let me see your arm again."

The boy extended his arm reluctantly, wincing as the movement aggravated the Shroudmark that wound its way from wrist to elbow. Unlike the marks Liora had treated before, this one had begun to frost over, tiny crystals forming along its edges.

She pressed her palm against the mark, feeling its cold bite into her skin. Closing her eyes, she directed her focus inward, finding the warm current that flowed beneath her own skin. Slowly, carefully, she let it rise to the surface, channeling it through her palm and into the boy's arm.

Her hands began to glow with a subtle amber light. The boy's eyes widened as warmth spread through his frozen limb. The crystals receded gradually, melting away beneath her touch.

"The pain... it's going," he whispered, watching in awe as the light from Liora's hands pulsed in counterpoint to the mark's cold glow.

"Good." She maintained her concentration, feeling the resistance of the mark as it fought against her healing. Whatever had created these marks had designed them to persist, to resist conventional treatment. But Liora's methods were far from conventional.

Time stretched as she worked, minutes bleeding into an hour. The safehouse around them creaked and settled, the sounds of the city above muffled by layers of stone and wood. Herbs swayed gently from the rafters, stirred by air currents too subtle to feel.

When she finally withdrew her hands, the mark had dimmed to a dull outline. The frost was gone. The boy's breathing had eased, his coughing subsided.

"How did you do that?" he asked, examining his arm with wonder.

Liora rose to her feet, suddenly aware of the fatigue that had settled into her bones. "Rest now," she said, ignoring his question. "Your body needs to recover."

She returned to her worktable, completing the mixture she had been preparing. A precautionary measure, in case the mark began to reassert itself during the night. The grinding of the pestle masked the trembling of her hands.

When she was certain the boy had fallen asleep, Liora retreated to her private room at the back of the cellar. The space was barely large enough for a narrow cot and small table, but it offered something precious—privacy.

She locked the door behind her, then leaned against it, allowing herself a moment of weakness. Pain radiated from her fingertips, spreading upward through her hands. She removed the thin gloves she always wore in the presence of others, revealing what lay beneath.

Her fingertips had transformed, becoming translucent, crystalline. The condition had spread since she last checked, now reaching the first knuckle of each finger. In the dim light of her single candle, they caught and refracted the flame, creating small rainbows on the wall.

Beautiful, in their way. And terrifying.

From a locked drawer beneath her cot, she withdrew a small wooden box. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay three vials of Grey Chord. The liquid inside moved sluggishly, neither fully solid nor liquid, catching the light in ways that hurt the eyes.

The scent hit her as soon as she uncorked the first vial—rotten roses, sweet decay, the perfume of endings. She had grown to associate the smell with relief. With necessity.

Her hands trembled as she prepared the injection. The needle gleamed in the candlelight, a slender promise of temporary salvation. She found a vein in her wrist, just below where her own Shroudmark would form if she ever stopped the treatments, and pushed the needle in.

The Grey Chord entered her bloodstream, cold at first, then burning. She bit down on a leather strap to keep from crying out as the liquid fire coursed through her veins. The pain was always worst in the first moments, before the blessed numbness began to spread.

Gradually, the crystallization in her fingertips receded, retreating back to the very tips. Not gone completely—it never was anymore—but manageable. Containable beneath gloves and bandages.

As the pain subsided, shame rose to take its place. How many times had she lectured her patients about the dangers of Chord use? How many had she treated for addiction, for the side effects that inevitably followed? And yet here she was, dependent on Grey Chord to keep her own condition at bay.

She wrapped clean bandages around each finger, covering the evidence of her hypocrisy. The irony wasn't lost on her—a healer who couldn't heal herself.

With practiced movements, she returned the vials to their hiding place, locked the drawer, and extinguished the candle. In darkness, she lay on her cot, waiting for sleep to claim her, knowing it would be fitful at best.

---

The pounding on the safehouse door came just before dawn. Liora jolted awake, instantly alert. The knocking wasn't the pattern used by allies—it was erratic, desperate.

She pulled on her gloves, checking that her bandaged fingers were completely covered, then moved swiftly through the cellar. The boy still slept, his breathing easier now, oblivious to the commotion.

"Who's there?" she called through the thick wood of the outer door, one hand on the latch, the other on the bone scalpel she kept in her pocket.

No answer came. Just another round of pounding, weaker this time.

Against her better judgment, Liora unbolted the door and opened it a crack. The figure on the threshold swayed unsteadily, head bowed, shoulders hunched beneath a tattered cloak.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Do you need—"

The figure raised its head. Where eyes should have been were hollow sockets that wept clear fluid. The liquid sizzled as it hit the stone steps, eating into the rock. A Weeper.

Liora tried to slam the door, but the creature surged forward, its weight throwing her backward. She stumbled, regaining her balance as the Weeper staggered into the safehouse.

"Get behind me!" she shouted to the now-awake boy, who stared in horror at the intruder.

The Weeper lurched toward the child, drawn by his fear, by the fading Shroudmark on his arm. Liora intercepted it, driving her bone scalpel deep into its chest. The creature howled, a sound like wind through broken glass. Its tears flowed faster, splashing onto Liora's upturned face as she twisted the scalpel deeper.

Acid pain blossomed where the tears touched her skin. She cried out but maintained her grip on the weapon, driving it upward into where a heart would be in a human.

The Weeper shuddered. Its movements slowed. It leaned close to Liora, its hollow sockets level with her eyes, its breath the scent of empty graves.

"The Eclipse sees you," it whispered, the words bubbling up through a throat not designed for human speech.

Then it collapsed, dissolving into a pool of caustic fluid that ate into the floor. Liora scrambled away, one hand pressed to her face where the tears had landed.

"Are you alright?" The boy stood trembling by his bed, clutching his blanket like a shield.

Liora nodded, unable to speak through the pain. She made her way to a basin of water, splashing it over her face. The burning eased slightly, but she knew without looking that the damage was done. The acid had left its mark—another secret to hide, another price paid.

She turned to the boy, forcing steadiness into her voice. "We need to move. It's not safe here anymore."

"What was that thing?" he asked, eyes fixed on the smoking puddle that had been the Weeper.

"Something that shouldn't exist," she answered, already gathering essential supplies. Her mind raced. If a Weeper had found them, others would follow. And the creature's parting words echoed in her thoughts: The Eclipse sees you.

The cult knew about the safehouse. About her. Perhaps even about what she harbored beneath her gloves.

As she packed medicines and bandages, Liora's fingertips throbbed beneath their wrappings. The Grey Chord was wearing off faster now. Each dose lasted fewer hours. Soon, bandages and gloves wouldn't be enough to hide the crystallization.

The boy watched her movements, sensing her urgency if not understanding its cause. "Where will we go?"

Liora paused, considering. Most of her usual hideouts would be compromised if the Eclipse truly saw her. But there was one place, one person who might still offer sanctuary.

"We're going to find an alchemist," she said, resuming her packing. "Someone who might understand what's happening to you. To all of us."

She didn't add the rest—that this alchemist might also understand what was happening to her. That he might know of a cure beyond the temporary reprieve of Grey Chord. That he might be her last hope.

Dawn light filtered through the high windows of the cellar as they prepared to leave. Liora caught her reflection in a small mirror as she checked her face. The Weeper's tears had left raised, reddened tracks across her cheek and jaw. They would scar, she knew. A visible reminder of the night's events, impossible to hide.

Unlike the crystalline secret beneath her gloves, this new mark would be seen by all. Perhaps it was fitting—the outward manifestation of the corruption that had been growing within her for so long.

She touched the burns gently, feeling their heat beneath her fingertips. Then she turned away from the mirror, away from truth, and focused on the immediate need to escape. To survive.

To find the alchemist before the crystallization claimed more than just her hands.