Arion woke up.
He blinked a few times, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slowly, edges of the room sharpening into focus.
Then he felt it—a strange, somewhat painful warmth spreading through his right shoulder, like molten threads weaving through torn muscle, stitching him back together with insistent heat.
He glanced over. The same healer from before sat beside him, but exhaustion clung to her now—hair disheveled in loose tangles, armour shed, leaving her in a simple cloth shirt that clung faintly with the damp of sweat and effort.
“Selene,” he murmured, “So, I finally meet my healer.”
Her eyes flicked to his for a heartbeat, a green hue glowing softly between strands of golden hair that caught the dim light like faint embers. She blinked, then returned to her work, hands steady despite the shadows under her eyes.
“Mm. Save your strength—you’ve used enough already.”
“But I thought I could—Ow!”
Selene tapped his punctured shoulder with deliberate pressure.
“What did I say?” she replied, voice stern yet laced with a motherly edge.
“I just wanted to—Hngh! Hey!”
She chuckled softly, the sound warm and unexpected in the quiet room. “Stop being a baby.”
He looked away, a pout tugging at his lips despite the lingering ache.
“Those damn kids tricked me… Not cute at all,” he muttered under his breath, the words half-lost in the pillow.
“What was that?”
“N-nothing.” He winced inwardly, remembering he was at her mercy.
His gaze drifted back to the woman beside him, her hands gliding along his shoulder and chest, Vitalis humming faintly beneath her palms like a distant melody.
Her eyes flicked to his again, then away.
“I didn’t say you could glare at me like that either.”
“Mm, I know.”
Her hands stopped glowing.
Tap.
He winced sharply, eyes bulging. “Mmf!”
“Your shoulder’s done now.”
“…Ow, really? It somehow feels more painful now.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Well, I just sped up your body’s healing factor and helped stitch together muscle and skin. It’s going to feel moody for a while.”
She let out a tired sigh, shoulders slumping as fatigue settled deeper.
“Now sit up—let me look at your other shoulder and back.”
He pushed himself upright, a fresh wince escaping as pain lanced through his ribs and pulled at fresh scars. He shuffled, turning his back to her.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, curiosity slipping through her weariness.
Wait, what happened to not talking?
“…Sure.”
“How did you know to treat Elise first? You said it like you knew she was in more critical condition than you…”
“Well—Eiya!”
Her hand released another glow around the puncture wounds, warmth blooming sharp and insistent.
“Ah, sorry! You’ll feel a slight pain and discomfort.”
Slight?
“I think… You’re supposed to warn someone before you do that.”
She let out a tired chuckle, the sound echoing faintly in the small room.
He sighed. “When I was carrying her on my back, I felt her limbs tremble and spasm. Her breath was inconsistent, out of tune—ragged.”
She worked silently for a moment, hands moving with practiced care, as if she was filing his words away.
“When I first discovered her, I noticed a trail of blood from her head, staining hair and skin. I could only assume she took damage to the skull—leading to some kind of brain trauma or clot.”
“You seem rather wise and knowledgeable about medical and healing practices,” she observed, voice thoughtful, fingers tracing the edges of a wound. “Some of these words you speak are new to me.”
Her hand moved down his back, one wound at a time—warmth seeping in, mending what had been torn.
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“Were you taught by a master, Arion?”
He sat in silence for a moment, the question hanging heavy.
“Yeah… you could say that.”
“Elise survived because of what you did,” she said softly, “Thank you.”
“It was only because of the children,” he replied, almost sarcastically. “I couldn’t make them cry, could I?”
She smiled faintly, unseen behind him. “You give yourself too little credit.”
“I’m no saint, you know? Not the good man you paint me as… They were merely saved from an act of revenge and selfish motivations.”
And yet… Did any of it even mean anything?
He took a slow breath, the air thick with the faint scent of herbs and healing salves.
“A debt I owed. Otherwise, I would have walked away.”
The glow and warmth filled the room, Vitalis humming like a distant lullaby, wrapping the silence in a gentle resonance.
“Mm… it’s strange, you see,” she said after a pause, her words measured. “Most people tend to say something similar. But most of the time, they turn out to be wrong.”
“I believe you’re good because you believe yourself not to be.”
“In my opinion, it’s the people who do too much—who paint themselves as good—that are usually the bad ones.”
She froze for a moment, as if the words had escaped from somewhere deeper, a shadow crossing her features before she continued her work.
“A snake hidden in a field of lies,” she added, voice quieter now.
Arion’s brow rose. Then he chuckled, the sound low and genuine.
“That’s… an interesting hypothesis.”
“Well, I hope you’re right about this one,” he replied, twisting slightly to meet her gaze. “Who knows—you could be healing a villain in the making.”
Selene pressed slightly on his wound.
“Ow!”
“I don’t believe a villain goes around saving innocent children,” she said firmly. “I believe my hunch is spot on this time.”
Arion furrowed his brow, twisting his neck to try and catch her eye fully.
“Wait, this time? How many bad guys have you birthed from your painful healing?”
Selene went suspiciously quiet for a moment.
“Gah—ow!”
“Is healing always this painful?” he grumbled. “Or is this just exclusive to the Selene bundle?”
“Hm… who knows.”
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
Selene finally finished her healing.
Slap.
“Gah!”
“Now,” Selene said as she stretched, “you’re all healed.”
Arion turned to look at her, rubbing the spot.
“Healed, huh? So why does it feel like you just hit me with a hammer?”
Selene sat there, stifling a yawn as moonlight slipped through the thin curtains, casting soft silver across her features.
“Ahhh… well, your body will still be aching and weak. This is the extent of my ability, so get used to it.”
She stood up and walked towards the door, movements graceful despite the fatigue.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Arion—I’ll need to retire to bed.”
She opened the door and stepped through.
Before it shut completely, her head poked back in.
“Ah, I forgot—Wiela and the children made you some nutritious soup. I left it on your bedside table. It’s a thank you. Once you’ve finished, get some rest.”
But before he could reply, she had closed the door and walked off, her footsteps fading down the hall.
“Get used to it… huh? Well, at least she didn’t blow through the ceiling.”
His stomach growled as the sweet and savory aroma of the soup—lukewarm now—wafted up from the bowl beside him, rich with herbs and broth.
“This… this is my first proper cooked meal since I came here.”
Arion sat there, savoring the soup—made by the very children he had come to save, each spoonful carrying a warmth that seeped deeper than the healing.
“I guess good things do come to be.”
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
Arion set down the empty bowl.
His stomach full, his body now feeling evidently much better than before—aches dulled to a distant throb, strength trickling back.
He looked toward a chair in the middle of the room. His robe and shirt hung on it, surprisingly repaired and seemingly as new—stitches neat and invisible, fabric clean and mended with care that spoke of quiet gratitude.
Wow, I got the full package.
He sighed, the sound heavy in the empty room.
So how the hell did those kids manage to lead me here? But when I try to find the town, I get led to a bloody murderers’ den?
As his awareness settled, so did the fact that he was in a town—an unfamiliar one, too close, too alive, pressing in with its normalcy.
Flashes of his arrival flickered back: the walls looming like barriers, the gates a threshold he hadn’t meant to cross, the bustle of lives intertwined in ways he couldn’t touch. Each one left him uneasy, disturbed in a way that sank deeper than nerves—like something in him recognized the wrongness, the rejection.
Brisden felt too real. Too anchored. Every shape, every voice, every ordinary thing whispered the same unrelenting truth:
You don’t belong here.
Deep down, he knew he’d stepped into someone else’s life—a character swallowed into a story that wasn’t written for him, forever the outsider peering in.
I can’t stay here…
He stood up and made his way over to his clothes. Once changed, he looked toward the window.
He saw he was on the ground floor.
Before he opened it, he just stood there—a moment stretched by indecision, the weight of the town’s warmth clashing with the cold pull of isolation.
Then he opened it.
He jumped out, boots landing softly on dew-damp grass.
His legs nearly buckled under him, muscles still strained from last night's ordeal.
He steadied himself against the wall.
Then, a voice came from above.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
It was Wiela, her small face peering from an upper window.
“Shouldn’t a young girl like you be asleep?”
“Shouldn’t someone who nearly died be resting?”
He chuckled, the sound low and reluctant. “Touché. But I need to get back to my own home. Hey, do me a favor—can you point me to the gate?”
She sighed, leaning on the sill. “Go left, past the front door, and when you hit the path, go right and continue. You’ll see it, but I can’t guarantee they’ll just let you out.”
“Bah, don’t worry about that. Well, see ya.” He put up a hand, the gesture casual but final.
Wiela stared at him as he made his way, her eyes wide in the moonlight.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
Night draped itself over Brisden. Torches burned low along the inner wall, casting flickering orange pools that shaped the silhouettes of two gate guards.
Arion stood in the treeline shadow, staring at his way out.
There’s two of them…
So does one just stroll up and leave, just like that? But I’m not a citizen—wouldn’t they think I’m suspicious?
He groaned inwardly, not really having much choice.
As he stepped out of the shadow, one guard leaned forward slightly and squinted, trying to make out the figure in the moonlight.
The first guard came forward, hand raised in a firm stop.
“Halt.”
Arion stopped some metres away, keeping his distance.
The guard took time to examine him, eyes narrowing under the torch flicker.
“You… don’t look familiar. Are you an outsider?”
“Mhm. You might have heard the ruckus of those kids returning.”
The guard furrowed his eyebrows. He took time sizing him up, gaze lingering on Arion’s mended clothes.
“Where are you off to at this hour?”
“Home.”
“Home?” The guard frowned.
“You haven’t even given a statement to the Guild or the Captain yet. We can’t just let—”
The smaller door in the gate creaked open, hinges groaning in the quiet night.
“Let him through.”
The second guard—older, beard streaked gray—stepped into the torchlight, his face weathered by years and worry.
He gave Arion one long look.
“That boy…” his voice cracked, just slightly. “Hyjal. He’s my grandson.”
Arion blinked, caught off guard.
The older man cleared his throat, straightening with visible effort.
“You brought him home. Don’t matter if you’re a Freeblade, a stranger, or a ghost out of the woods. That debt sits with me.”
He stepped aside, opening the door wider, the wood scraping against stone.
“Go. Before someone higher up wakes up and decides to make your life difficult.”
The first guard hesitated, shifting uneasily. “But regulations say—”
“Regulations can wait. The lad’s alive. That’s what matters.”
Arion lingered only a heartbeat. Gratitude burned unfamiliar in his chest—a sharp, unwelcome heat.
“…Right,” he muttered, stepping past, the cool night air rushing in as he crossed the threshold.
The older guard’s voice followed him out into the cold:
“If you ever need a place to rest… you’ve got one here.”
Arion didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
Don’t get used to it, he told himself, disappearing into the dark, the town’s lights dwindling at his back.
—— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——
