We entered the sanctuary in a hush, its purpose unknown to me, yet its ambiance was undeniably serene. It was akin to a greenhouse, if not for the imposing stone walls. Verdant foliage spilled from pots, and big, pink blooms of Fittere, a sight I believed lost to me and the rest of this world, flourished in vibrant defiance.
Our path led to a central fountain, now a cradle for plants rather than water, reminding me of a similar sight in Dithune -a fountain adorned with flora. Amidst the blossoms perched a statue of a robust woman, her identity lost to me. It seemed the people here revered a pantheon of deities, each presiding over their own domain of miracles—crops, weather, fertility, love, death, magic...
A sudden movement caught Damien's attention; footsteps hastened toward us. An elderly woman emerged from behind a towering bloom, her gasp punctuating the air as her eyes fell upon us. She halted, sinking to her knees—a gesture I found distasteful.
"Valea, de A lai," I approached, extending my hand to lift her from her undeserved prostration. Her grey robe pooled around her on the floor, the white of our uniforms was more than enough of an introduction.
She raised her head, her gaze lingering on me before settling on Damien, who remained a silent sentinel behind me. The woman stayed rooted to the ground, ignoring my outstretched hand, instead offering a cascade of apologies in a voice roughened by age or sorrow.
I bowed slightly, a concession to her fear. It was a loathsome thing for me, to have someone kneel and beg forgiveness for no fault of their own. She could not have anticipated our arrival; we were, after all, accustomed to moving without announcement throughout the continent. Her eyes, wide with terror, spoke volumes of the tales spun about my family in these remote corners. Perhaps she feared a swift and unjust retribution for any unintentional offence.
"Ceatta mossi et ratt'u?" I asked, reversing the roles of aid. If she would not accept my help, perhaps she could help me.
"Ratt'u?" she echoed, her confusion palpable as she searched for the appropriate response. I nodded, unwilling to repeat myself, especially not in the screwed dialect that had taken root here. Unlike Damien I preferred the old language, I just didn’t enjoy the local tweaks. "Anallea ratt'u..." she murmured, her voice a whisper before unleashing a torrent of words, each one laden with an urgency that demanded deciphering.
The sanctuary's air become thicker with tension, a silent battle of wills unfolding within its ancient walls. Damien's presence loomed beside me, a silent guardian as I sifted through the old woman's words. "She claims the commander is absent, that only the common folk tread these sacred grounds," I translated, though I knew Damien's grasp of the language was as innate as the blood coursing through his veins.
"Then where might he be?" Damien pondered aloud, his fingers rifling through the dossier with a sense of urgency.
I stood up, Damien rummaging through the papers in his hands. I pulled out a picture of the man we were looking for. He does not look like a commander, he is not muscular and isn't far from retirement. The clean-shaven head makes his giant ears stand out, and his gaze isn't as hard as one might expect from a commander.
"I asked her about a soldier, not a man." I said, bending down to the now praying woman. Fear had enveloped her, she must’ve thought we presented danger. "A catta is musso?" The photograph was met with a fleeting glance and a shake of her head.
"She's lying," Damien declared, a statement as clear as day though absolutely useless, we could both sense it. A subtle twitch from the woman caught my eye; she understood more than she let on—she understood the Imperial tongue.
The commander had to be close; the sanctuary's confines were not vast. "Finding him will be easy," I assured myself, knowing full well that Damien would heed my command.
"No magic," he reminded me, a warning that drew an involuntary eye roll from me as I unsheath my sword—not with the intent to harm, but to ensure our safety.
The sanctuary's secrets were not deeply buried. A door to the right beckoned, and I approached, resisting the urge to use a spell to gain entry. The handle resisted, then gave way, revealing an empty room—or so it seemed. A shadow and a sound of breathing betrayed the presence of another.
I stepped in, poised for confrontation. A swift movement, a deft dodge, and I had the intruder's arm secured behind his back, his face pressed against the wall, a cry of pain escaping his lips. "I don't want trouble," he uttered in a coarse accent.
Silently, I escorted him back to Damien, his compliance portrayed a contrast to the defiance I had anticipated.
I forced him to the ground beside his would-be protector, who remained prostate, likely at Damien's insistence. The gleam of Damien's sword lay between them, a barrier of crystal and intent. "We don't want problems either. On the contrary, we came to solve them." I proclaimed, sheathing my sword as a gesture of peace, awaiting Damien to follow suit. "In the name of the Light, we come to mend and enforce order. You have reported a very serious crime, and we trust you hold the evidence to substantiate such claims." The man before us held secrets, ones that extended beyond the confines of the file in Damien's grasp.
The man looked me straight in the eye, his look a maelstrom of fear and defiance, met mine. His lips turned into a narrow, thin line. He nodded slowly, rolled up his sleeve and showed us his forearm, covered with a dirty bandage. He removed the cloth, revealing runes carved deep into the skin.
He immediately returned me to the dream that had woken me up so early in the morning. I can remember the pain that such a spell can cause. It paralyses the whole body, makes movement impossible and banishes thoughts of everything pleasant. And the fact that someone used runes instead of the modern procedure put hairs all over my body at attention. The face with a perfectly cruel smile returned. I had to take a deep breath and force myself to look away as my palms crushed my fingers locked into them. Now is not the time for me to make a fuss.
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Damien's curse echoed off the stone walls, a profane outburst that seemed to reverberate with the gravity of our discovery. "I thought you had proof, not that you were the proof!"
"Jim..." I implored, my focus returning to the man. His wounds were a grotesque tapestry of pain and first aid, the skin barely holding together. "You need proper care. What's your name?" I asked, though I knew the answer lay within the folder we had brought.
"Ledon, ma'am," he replied, his voice a low rumble of resignation. "It won't heal. It's beyond repair."
Damien's voice rose from behind me, a staunch defence against despair. "She can mend it. She can mend anything."
With a sense of purpose, I removed my glove and placed my palm upon the marred skin. The warmth from my hand seeped into the cuts, a silent prayer for healing that I dared not voice aloud. I couldn't bear the look at the wound as it was.
"How?" The woman's voice, tinged with astonishment, broke my concentration.
"It's what I do," I responded, my tone even, as I inspected Ledon's forearm. The rune that once marred his skin was now gone, replaced by the unblemished flesh of healing.
"Stand up, both of you," I commanded, and they complied—Ledon with a reluctance born of disbelief.
Damien's inquiry cut through the stillness. "Are you the witness we've been seeking?"
"They thought... that I'm dead..." Ledon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "... Mallie, la... lai..." he added, an absent gaze remained fixed on his hand.
The woman interjected, her voice a soothing balm to the tension. "I didn't conceal him from you. He was frightened, and I sought only to help."
I turned away from their exchange, my attention drawn to a bench against the wall. "Help me with this," I instructed.
Damien, finding a moment of utility, assisted Ledon to the bench. "You'll have to explain this yourself."
I ignored Damien's barb, knowing full well that an explanation to Stephan would be more expedient coming from me. Grasping Ledon's hand, I delved into his psyche, searching for the root of his terror. The darkness was pervasive, a void that repelled all light, leaving only fear and exhaustion in its wake.
No joy, no hope—such absence was a rarity. I pressed deeper, the shadows resisting, as if guarding the memories that held the key to the dread left his post. The runes may have been erased from his skin, but the scars they left behind in his mind beckoned me to uncover their origin.
The scars were not just wounds; they were a cryptic script etched into flesh, a broken 'C' that seemed to collapse inward, mirroring Ledon's own downfall. But what sinister forces had driven him to such a fate?
I deluged deeper. I saw rain, a steep path among abandoned bushes, the ground beneath a slurry of mud and abandoned hopes. His world was a canvas of greys and browns, save for a singular beacon atop the hill, a lighthouse in the tempest. Then, as sudden as a snuffed candle, darkness claimed everything when Ledon succumbed to the void.
I need a different memory, a memory buried before the storm.
The city was a labyrinth cloaked in shadow, each street a carbon copy of desolation. Life had vacated these parts, leaving behind only silence and decay. Ledon stuck to the side of the street, crouching in the shadows, every pulse of light, every whisper of sound conjuring phantoms in his mind. He was not alone; the darkness harboured a presence, a hunter in the alleys of his dread.
His misstep was a prelude to chaos; his face met the wall with a sickening thud, a grim echo of my own recent blunder. Hands, cold and impersonal, spun him to face his assailant—a figure donned in a mask as white as bone, its features obscured, its gaze empty.
Rage was a wildfire in Ledon's veins, threatening to consume all reason -his and mine. To yield to it was to endanger him further, yet it was a siren call he struggled to resist.
A surge of pure energy, raw and untamed, erupted from Ledon’s hand, flooring his captor. He was no mage, yet desperation had lent him a fleeting might.
The second foe materialised from the ether, his blow to Ledon's gut was like a hammer to anvil. Pain fragmented his recollections, severing the threads of sanity. It was the third strike that cast him down, his cries drowned by the cacophony of his attacker's mirth.
I was on the brink of being overwhelmed by the agony and lunacy of his mind. Yet, Ledon's spirit was unyielding. He rose, his movements instinctive, hands grappling for the mask. He jerked and ripped it from his attacker's face, giving me a perfect view.
The man was a tapestry of scars and malice. His nose, a crooked monument to past brawls, and a jagged scar upon his cheek, a signature of violence. Damien would have no trouble hunting him down.
I retreated from Ledon's psyche, the runes and my own haunting memories looming too close for comfort. I steadied myself, Damien's scent a grounding anchor as he caught me from falling.
"Jim, lift his shirt," I commanded, finding my footing once more. Damien's incredulous gaze met mine, but he complied.
The bruise that emerged was a portent of danger, a dark spot swirling across Ledon's skin. It begged questions of its extent and the peril it posed. Healing it was within my power, yet the risk was as great as the injury itself. My meddling had already wrought enough havoc.
"He needs more than prayers; he needs a real medic," I declared, the weight of Ledon's shared visions heavy upon us both. "Fetch me pen and paper," I instructed the woman beside Damien. She nodded, a swift silhouette against the dim light.
"Did you get anything?" Damien's voice was a hushed whisper contrasting with the tumultuous thoughts raging within me. I hesitated, the weight of the visions I bore too heavy to recount with words. Instead, I reached out, letting the fragments of Ledon's ordeal flow into Damien's mind—his search for the sanctuary, the shadowed figure, and the unexpected spark of magic.
"He's no mage," Damien murmured, his gaze never leaving the motionless body on the bench.
"No, he's not. But it's quite fascinating what an ordinary person can do with a little power" I replied, a wry smile touching my lips despite the gravity of our situation. My eyes lingered on Ledon, he truly didn’t resemble any commander. "It also explains his dark thoughts and why it makes me sick." Damien nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Will you be able to track the man down?"
"Of course," he replied, his confidence unshaken as he accepted the pencil and paper from the approaching woman. His hand moved swiftly, inscribing a message only he knew. "I'll return to the city and set things in motion. We'll reconvene there," he said, pressing the folded note into my hand.
"Go," I urged, slipping the paper into my coat pocket—a future cipher to unravel. With a curt nod, Damien departed, his steps hastening as he vanished from sight.