Hope had all but abandoned me when a distant clatter reached my ears. Unless fate was playing some cruel jest, this had to be the Healer. I would need to leave Tarun briefly to intercept them before they passed us by.

  I emerged back onto the road and, with the last remnants of my patience, waited for the approaching rider. A segment later, I saw them—a small hooded figure astride a sturdy horse, galloping at a brisk pace. A dark red cloak billowed behind the rider, the white three-pointed star of the Healers embroidered upon their chest.

  I raised my hand in the dim light of retreating night. A few moments later, they noticed me and cautiously slowed their horse, coming to a halt about twenty meters away.

  “You requested a Healer urgently?” The voice that called from beneath the raised hood was female—calm, but cautious.

  It was unusual that she had chosen to travel alone at this time of night. While Healers could move unimpeded through most of the Enlightened Realms, there were always those willing to disregard their sanctity—especially when the one traveling alone was a woman. But at present, her recklessness was not my concern.

  “Indeed,” I said, gesturing toward the trees. “If you would be so kind—pray, follow me.”

  She turned her hood slightly toward the darkened forest, then back toward me—and did not move. It was evident she had no intention of dismounting. Her willingness to trust blindly, it seemed, only extended so far. I could not fault her caution. For Tarun, however, every moment we wasted in conversation carved away at his chance for survival.

  “Honored Healer,” I said, my voice composed despite the tightness coiling in my chest, “I am Lord Kael Vorat. Rest assured, I would not summon you without pressing cause.” My foot tapped once—an impatient betrayal I could not help. “I understand how this may appear. Yet my horse is gravely wounded. With each passing moment, his chances of survival diminish.”

  “A horse?” There was no mistaking the indignation in her voice. “You summoned me urgently—in the middle of the night—for a horse, My Lord?”

  Apparently, Daaris hadn’t bothered to explain the situation in detail. How perfectly mortifying.

  “You are here now, are you not?” I replied smoothly. “You may return to Kazera, rendering your journey futile… or you may choose to do a noble deed instead. There will be a generous reward, naturally.”

  She remained motionless in the saddle for a full minute, clearly weighing the insult to her profession against her instincts. Healers were proud people, and a situation such as this was a bitter nu’ur to swallow. But in the end, she dismounted with a sharp exhale and tied her horse to a nearby tree, right next to the road. As she passed me, her gaze narrowed into something sharp and haughty.

  “A horse? Ha!” she snapped.

  I nodded with deliberate politeness, feigning ignorance of the barbs in her tone. Then, with a gesture more befitting an invitation to a courtly dance than a battlefield summons, I beckoned her to follow. She gave me a long, sidelong glance—her weathered features momentarily softening beneath the shadow of her hood.

  I led her into the forest, and within moments, we reached the place where Tarun lay still. As I moved to check on him, her hand caught my arm—firm, yet gentle—and stopped me mid-step.

  “Step aside, Lord Vorat,” she said firmly.

  The Healer knelt beside Tarun’s head and placed a steady palm over the wound. A soft glow flickered between her fingers, briefly illuminating his dark coat. When the light faded, she turned to me, her expression unreadable.

  “His condition is dire. Even with treatment, his chances of survival are slim.” She paused, letting the weight of those words settle before adding, quietly but with conviction: “But I will do all that lies within my power.”

  Still, the Healer waited for my nod before proceeding. She whispered softly, her fingers glowing once more as she took hold of the bolt. With painstaking care, she eased it free from Tarun’s side. Even at the brink of exhaustion, he neighed sharply, flanks twitching, legs flailing weakly in protest. Blood surged from the open wound, frothing with his every strained breath.

  The Healer raised her other hand, and a second spell took shape. A mist of golden particles swirled between her delicate fingers, coalescing into a myriad of very fine threads, each delicate as gossamer. With masterful precision, she guided them over the wound, weaving them into an intricate lattice of glowing patterns.

  “Your technique is remarkably elegant,” I murmured, unable to suppress a note of admiration.

  She glanced at me, genuine surprise flickering across her face. “You can perceive the Elements?”

  “Indeed. Since as long as I can remember,” I replied, then quickly added, “Though I possess none of a Mage’s abilities.”

  “That is a rare gift indeed, My Lord.” Her hands never faltered in their motion, guiding the threads with unerring precision. “You either bear the Blessing of the Overlords… or your lineage holds some intriguing and ancient secrets.”

  I shrugged, unwilling to delve further into that topic. “Perhaps. But as I said, your Weaving is impressive.”

  “You’re only flattering me because of this whole horse situation,” she said, a faint smile gracing her lips, “but thank you nonetheless, My Lord.”

  I offered no further reply. My words had been genuine, but I would not distract her again. I had seen far more of such workings than any ordinary soul would care to imagine. Her Magic Weaving was exquisite—a form of art far beyond what most practitioners could hope to achieve. She had subtlety and precision that even many Archmages would envy.

  Still, concern for Tarun gnawed at me, tempering my awe of the Healer. The throbbing in my skull had returned, noticeably stronger now, but I forced it from my thoughts as I continued to observe her work.

  The spell continued to weave, golden filaments shifting and shaping, knitting tissue with the soft grace of morning mist. When the final thread dissolved into Tarun’s side and the glow began to fade, the first hues of Blood Dawn streaked the sky between the treetops. The wound had vanished, leaving only a small patch of missing fur.

  Though he remained motionless, Tarun’s breathing had steadied. Then, slowly, with visible effort, he lifted his head. His gaze found mine—heavy, weary, but lucid.

  “Allow him to rest for at least a few partitions before setting off,” the Healer advised, her voice tinged with fatigue. “And avoid burdening him excessively for the next three days.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “I understand,” I nodded, as I counted out fifteen anarandi from the pouch I had prepared. “Thank you for your assistance. This horse means a great deal to me.”

  She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the gold coins but accepted them without comment, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. “If you care for your people as well as you do for your horse, Lord Vorat, perhaps I should consider moving to D’al Vorat.”

  “Good folk like yourself are always welcome—”

  But the Healer didn’t let me finish. Suddenly, her smile vanished as her expression turned grave. Before I could react, her hands shot out, seizing my head. Concern replaced her sternness as her gaze bore into mine with startling intensity.

  “By Azur’s mercy, what happened to you?!”

  “Nothing of note,” I said, stepping back. “I hit my head when I fell off my horse.”

  “Not that!” she interrupted sharply. “A blow like that wouldn’t cause this kind of hemorrhaging. Sit down!”

  “But—”

  “Sit down, Lord Vorat, or I shall force you to!”

  I was so taken aback by her sudden shift in demeanor that I obeyed without thinking, lowering myself onto the soft forest floor. The Healer knelt before me, stretching out her hands. Moments later, golden threads of a healing spell began to weave around them. Her eyes shone with a hypnotic intensity, locking onto mine. Caught in their glow, I lost all sense of time.

  “It is done.” Her voice, filled with quiet satisfaction, broke the trance. “But I strongly advise you to sleep for two or three partitions before attempting anything else.”

  “What have you done to me?” I demanded, making no effort to conceal my irritation.

  “I healed you,” she replied, her lips pressed into a tight line.

  “You should have asked first.”

  “Listen to me, My Lord,” she interrupted, her tone unyielding. “I have no idea what has befallen you—I have never seen anything like it. But there were microscopic hemorrhages scattered throughout your brain. Had I not intervened, you would have left D’al Vorat and Amalay to your nearest kin by this evening!”

  Her words stunned me, and only then did I realize my headache was gone. I had never imagined its cause could be so grave. While the Healer remained in the dark, I knew all too well the source of this malady. Ra’maen. Even in death, the kar’dagora had found a way to outmaneuver me in our deadly contest. Had it not been for last night’s ordeal, she might have succeeded.

  “I… I thank you.”

  “You are most welcome,” she replied, her eyes gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion. “As I said, I would suggest you use this time to rest while your horse recovers.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, acknowledging the futility of arguing with a Healer. “One more request—pray do not mention that we have met. I prefer this encounter to remain a secret.”

  The Healer raised an eyebrow but nodded.

  “Certainly, My Lord. The confidentiality of Healers is well known.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. May Azur’s light guide your journey back to Kazera!”

  She offered a faint smile before turning towards the road. I watched her disappear between the trees, then turned my attention to Tarun. The horse lay in a deep and undisturbed sleep, even when I placed a hand on his neck. The unhealthy warmth was gone, and his breathing had settled into a calm, even rhythm.

  Satisfied, I found a spot beneath the canopy where the fallen leaves formed a soft bed and used my bag as a makeshift pillow. Contrary to my expectations, sleep came almost immediately—and with it, the dreams.

  The banquet hall was silent, shrouded in deep shadows. Yet the enormous, elongated table at its center was strangely illuminated, revealing every detail with uncanny clarity. Half-eaten dishes, empty goblets, and scattered remnants of delicacies adorned its surface, all served on the finest Lashopian porcelain—a sight both decadent and forlorn. The feast, it seemed, had long since ended.

  I knew I had been invited, though for some unknown reason, I had arrived disastrously late. Yet this did nothing to lessen my hunger. Without hesitation, I walked alongside the table, searching for a place with untouched cutlery. One setting stood out: the nearer head of the table, pristine and undisturbed. It was then, with a jolt, that I realized it was meant for me. A guest of honor. May Moritán take me! How could I have allowed myself to be so late? My mind churned, grasping for an excuse that might salvage some shred of my dignity.

  But my stomach growled with unexpected ferocity, and, setting aside my worries for the moment, I carved a generous slice from a massive roast leg garnished with exotic vegetables and a thick, glistening sauce. The meat was rare, its flavor exquisite yet unfamiliar. Even as the lingering aroma of spices filled my senses, I couldn’t quite place the animal it came from. Still, I was far too famished to dwell on it.

  I took my seat, determined to savor this portion before reaching for another—or perhaps sampling one of the other dishes I had noticed earlier. At least four or five had caught my eye as I walked the length of the table, their rich aromas and appetizing textures promising decadence. The mere thought of tasting them made my mouth water. I quickly turned my attention back to the roast, taking another bite, then another, as hunger eclipsed all else.

  However, only a few bites later, an achingly familiar voice drifted from the far end of the table, halting me mid-chew.

  “Dan Kael so’nirao tir sana (My dearest Kael)!”

  She was seated directly across from me in the host’s seat. I could not fathom how I had not noticed her until that moment. Her scarlet dress, crafted from the finest silk, featured an extraordinarily high neckline, yet it clung to her exquisite form in a way that left little to the imagination. The deep crimson seemed chosen to complement her long hair, and the two blended seamlessly from my vantage point. As always, her face was obscured by a featureless white mask, a blank canvas that, even so, radiated menace.

  “Ra’maen,” I stated evenly, setting down my knife and fork as I leaned back in my chair. “How unexpected.”

  “I deeply regret that you missed the celebration held in your honor.” Her voice dripped with mock sincerity as she tilted her head to one side, resting her cheek on her fingers in a seemingly casual gesture. “Everyone awaited you with the keenest anticipation and curiosity.”

  “Everyone?” I inquired, my tone suspicious as I glanced around the empty hall.

  “Oh, you shall meet them,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. “In due time. It seems that next time, I shall have to escort you myself. We cannot have you arriving late again, can we, my dear?”

  “Indeed, we would not wish for that,” I replied dryly, my gaze sweeping the table, searching for a suitable weapon.

  “I trust you are finding my unique cuisine to your liking?” Ra’maen continued, her tone carrying a playful lilt undercut by something far darker. “I oversaw every preparation personally, you see!”

  “Is that so? How… fascinating.” My gaze drifted towards a particularly menacing cleaver, laid just within my reach. “I must admit,” I continued, my voice a carefully measured drawl, “it is quite delicious.”

  “I am most delighted that it pleases your palate,” she purred, her words curling with overt malice. “The leg you sampled belonged to a rather influential merchant—a man of steel willpower, that one! Procuring him took months, but the flavor is truly unmatched, wouldn’t you agree? Still, I strongly recommend the hearts with butter and mint. Only the most compassionate of nobles were selected for that harvest. Now, they simply melt on the tongue!”

  “What in the name of sanity are you speaking of…?” My voice faltered, the question hanging in the air as the grotesque truth of the table unfolded before me, piece by horrifying piece.

  At the far end of the table, a large bowl contained what unmistakably resembled a roasted, garnished human brain. Beside it, a platter displayed long, boiled, spiced pieces of meat—peeled tongues. Nearby were the hearts Ra’maen had so casually recommended, their surfaces glistening obscenely under the dim, uncanny light. And the slice I had carved? It was from a disturbingly thick and fatty human leg, resting amidst a garish bouquet of colorful vegetables that did little to disguise its true nature.

  Nausea surged through me, sharp and unbearable. I barely managed to twist to the floor, my body convulsing as I violently emptied my stomach. Ra’maen’s laughter pealed through the hall, sharp and unrelenting, a discordant melody that mingled with my ragged breaths and desperate convulsions. The sound grew louder and more distorted, as the banquet hall dissolved into nothingness, leaving me suspended in a suffocating void.

  Hey, thanks for reading this far!

  I hope you've enjoyed the story until this point and I'd like to hear your thoughts about it. Also, I am trying a new, more contemporary style in my English writing and I am curious to hear some feedback about it. So, let me know in the comments below!

  Boris Khan