Just as they began to settle into their meal, the peace was shattered. A sudden commotion rippled through the camp like a wave, voices rising in excitement and disbelief. The faint sound of hurried footsteps reached their ears before a boy, barely more than ten years old, darted past their fire, his voice high with urgency.
"A healer!" he shouted, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. "A healer’s here! He’s curing everyone—everyone who goes to him!"
Anchev and the half-dragon exchanged glances, their meal forgotten. Around them, the camp stirred like an anthill, people abandoning their makeshift fires and meager dinners to rush toward the heart of the commotion. Mothers clutched their children, the sick and wounded leaned on loved ones, and even those who seemed hale and hearty moved with a newfound energy, their faces alight with hope.
The half-dragon stood, his form casting a long shadow across the ground. "Should we go? Maybe the healer can help me with my memory," he asked, glancing at Anchev.
Anchev rose to his feet, his gaze fixed in the direction the boy had come from. "If it’s true, I’d like to see it myself," he said, his tone measured but curious. "But keep your guard up. Hope can blind people to danger."
They followed the flow of refugees, the air buzzing with anticipation. As they approached the heart of the encampment, the crowd thickened, the hum of whispered gratitude and disbelief growing louder. In the center of it all stood a figure bathed in the soft glow of conjured light, his hands outstretched toward a frail woman whose face was etched with years of suffering. The man's skin was almost alabaster tone. His curly brown hair remained, hung loos around his face.
The color of his eyes was almost black, with faint streaks of silver threading through the irises. He wore a tattered cloak with frayed edges. Underneath, he had on a patched brown leather jerkin over a white shirt that looked worn and slightly discolored, as though he’d been traveling for months without respite.
His pants were plain brown and his boots were weathered, scuffed, and patched with mismatched leather, completing the look of a weary, roguish wanderer.
The healer's voice was calm and steady as he murmured words of magic, a faint golden light emanating from his palms and washing over the woman. Her trembling eased, her breathing steadied, and for the first time in what seemed like years, she stood tall, tears streaming down her face.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as people witnessed the miracle. A child, clutching his bandaged arm, tugged at his mother’s sleeve and whispered, "Mama, can he fix me too?"
The healer turned, his warm gaze falling on the boy. "Come here, little one," he said, his voice kind yet firm.
As the boy stepped forward, the healer knelt to his level, his glowing hands carefully unwrapping the crude bandages. The wound beneath, red and swollen, began to mend under the golden light, leaving unbroken skin in its place.
The boy stared at his arm, then at the healer, his wide eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking.
The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices a mix of wonder and gratitude. Some knelt in prayer, while others simply stood, their faces uplifted as if witnessing a divine blessing. Anchev and the half-dragon stood on the edge of the scene, watching silently.
Anchev’s gaze remained sharp, his mind turning over questions . The half-dragon, however, felt a warmth spreading through his chest, a flicker of hope rekindled by the healer’s actions.
The half-dragon hesitated, one foot poised to step forward before he froze.
"This healer..." Anchev murmured, his voice low but edged with suspicion.
The half-dragon turned, his piercing gaze falling on his taller companion. "What is it?" he asked, his tone hushed but curious.
"There’s something about him," Anchev said, his single eye narrowing. "Something that makes my skin crawl... sets my hair on end."
The half-dragon shifted his attention back to the healer. To his eyes, the man looked unremarkable, a simple traveler wearing a humble cloak and carrying himself with quiet composure. Yet, Anchev’s instincts had proven eerily reliable before, and now they screamed louder than ever.
Anchev stepped forward, his imposing figure cutting a path through the crowd. Refugees instinctively moved aside, their murmurs silenced by the sheer intensity of his presence.
The healer stood, having just finished mending a man’s mangled arm. He exuded a serene aura, his hands still glowing faintly with residual holy light. As Anchev approached, the healer’s gaze met his, calm yet unreadable.
“How can I help you?” the healer asked, his voice steady and even, carrying a strange weight that made even the simplest words seem profound.
Anchev didn’t respond immediately. His gaze locked onto the healer’s eyes, searching for something, anything, that could explain the unease gnawing at him. The healer’s composure never faltered, but something primal in Anchev’s gut warned him to tread carefully.
Finally, Anchev spoke, his voice gruff but measured. "Can you heal this?" He raised his left arm—or what remained of it. Below the elbow, there was nothing but a well-worn stump.
The healer inclined his head slightly, his expression unwavering. "I can."
Anchev’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the tiniest crack in his stoic facade. For a brief moment, the memories of his years as an adventurer surged forward. He remembered conversations with clerics and healers—good ones, devoted servants of gods like Ilmater. Once, he’d asked an old cleric why another priest, a man missing an arm, hadn’t healed himself.
The cleric had sighed, his eyes heavy with unspoken grief. "To heal such wounds requires mastery beyond even most devoted servants of the divine. I’ve healed countless souls over decades, yet even I cannot reach such heights."
Now, standing before this unassuming man, Anchev felt his instincts screaming louder than ever. For someone to claim they could regrow his arm... it was no small boast.
With slow, deliberate movements, Anchev shrugged off his heavy cloak, letting it fall to the ground. Then, to the crowd’s astonishment, he knelt before the healer, bowing his head.
The healer extended his hands, which began to glow with a radiant golden light. The air around him shimmered as a divine aura enveloped him, his presence suddenly feeling almost otherworldly. The murmuring crowd fell silent. Some dropped to their knees, overcome by awe.
Anchev’s breath hitched as warmth spread through the end of his stump. He watched, spellbound, as flesh and bone began to form, weaving together in intricate, mesmerizing patterns. Muscles stretched and connected, veins pulsed with new life, and skin grew to cover it all. The process was seamless, almost graceful—a work of divine artistry.
Then the light moved to his face, and a sharp yet soothing sensation flooded his empty eye socket. Anchev’s heart pounded as he felt something stir where his eye had once been.
"My eye..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. Slowly, blurry shapes began to form in his restored vision. Colors and outlines sharpened until, for the first time in years, he could see clearly with both eyes.
"It is done," the healer announced, his voice as calm as it had been before. There was no trace of exhaustion, no sign that he had performed a feat most would consider impossible.
Anchev rose to his feet, flexing his newly restored arm. He turned it over, testing the strength of his grip, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze flicked to the healer, and offered his genuine gratitude. "Thank you," he said, his voice low but filled with an unspoken depth of emotion.
The crowd erupted into cheers and tears.
----------------------------------------
The half-dragon stepped forward hesitantly, his head bowed slightly. His voice was careful, almost reverent, as he asked, "Excuse me... I’ve lost my memories. Can you help me with that? If it’s not too much to ask."
The healer, Alex, didn’t respond immediately. His gaze locked onto the half-dragon, his expression freezing for a long, pregnant moment. Something about this man tugged at him, an inexplicable familiarity he couldn’t shake.
Alex’s mind churned. His memory, flawless since becoming the Prototype, could recall every detail, every face he’d encountered. Yet, this albino half-dragon stirred something distant and intangible—a flicker of recognition that defied logic.
He reached out telepathically to his companion standing at the edge of the crowd. 'Glut, what do you make of him?'
Glut cast a disinterested glance. 'Nothing special.' came the curt response.
But Alex wasn’t convinced. The inexplicable feeling lingered, like the remnants of a fading dream. Realizing he’d left the half-dragon’s question unanswered, Alex finally nodded and motioned for him to step closer.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
The half-dragon knelt before him, his large frame folding gracefully. Alex placed a hand on his head, his touch steady but lacking the glow of divine energy that had awed the crowd earlier. This was different. This was a journey into the mind.
The connection snapped into place instantly.
Alex’s breath caught as he peered into the vast emptiness of the half-dragon’s memories. His mind was a void—silent, black, unyielding. The usual tapestry of thoughts, emotions, and recollections was absent, as though he had been born yesterday.
'This is impossible,' Alex thought, his brow furrowing. His mental exploration deepened, searching for anything—any shred of identity or past. Then he felt it: a block. No, a fortress.
A powerful, malevolent presence loomed in the depths of the half-dragon’s mind. To Alex, it appeared as a bloody sun, radiating oppressive energy, surrounded by a barrier of ethereal, purple flowers. Their soft, glowing petals swayed gently, holding the dark sun’s power at bay.
'How does he wield psionics without knowledge of them?' Alex thought, puzzled. The half-dragon’s apparent lack of awareness made the potent defenses even more baffling.
The bloody sun throbbed, its light seeping through cracks in the floral barrier, and Alex’s instincts screamed at him to stop. Whatever this was, it was better left untouched , at least for now as he wasn't sure how those flowers will reach to his intrusion.
Just as Alex prepared to withdraw, a wave of darkness surged. It was overwhelming, a tsunami of shadow rushing to devour the half-dragon’s scant memories. Alex’s heart pounded, his mind bracing for the onslaught.
Then, as if summoned from the depths of a forgotten dream, the ethereal magenta flowers bloomed. Their glow was soft yet commanding, a haunting beauty that defied the malevolence they sought to engulf. Petals unfolded in slow, deliberate waves, weaving an intricate barrier that encased the darkness, forcing it to retreat. Each tendril of shadow consumed seemed to fuel the flowers, making them multiply, their roots digging deep into the void until the last trace of the oppressive energy was erased.
The stillness that followed was profound, like the pause after a thunderclap, where the air is heavy with anticipation.
'What is this power?' Alex thought, his mind racing, unable to ignore the strange familiarity of it. This energy—the flowers, their resilience—it was something he recognized intimately. His companions had always drawn their strange abilities from his own , reflections of his power. And now this half-dragon displayed a similar gift.
"This one..." Alex murmured, the words escaping him like a breathless realization. His eyes narrowed as he examined the half-dragon's unconscious form, piecing together fragments of a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving. "Could he have been one of my companions?"
The thought clawed at his mind, relentless yet elusive. The memory danced just beyond his grasp, like smoke curling through his fingers. Alex couldn’t recall. He should have remembered, but the void in his own recollections gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.
Before he could chase the thought further, a jarring sensation cut through his musings—a presence, faint yet unmistakable.
It was not in the half-dragon’s mind but emanated from his body. An essence, fleeting but visceral, coiled in the air like the aftertaste of poison. Alex’s thoughts stilled as the recognition struck him.
"Shar," he whispered, the name scraping through his consciousness like nails on stone. His chest tightened as the realization took hold. The goddess of loss, of darkness and despair, her essence stirred faintly within the half-dragon’s core. It was like a shadowed pulse, dark and vile, rising only to dissipate before Alex could fully grasp its nature.
He withdrew abruptly from the half-dragon’s mind, his hand slipping from the scaled head as though burned. His breath came evenly, but his thoughts were anything but steady.
For a moment, he stared down at the kneeling figure before him, his gaze distant. Then he met the half-dragon’s hopeful eyes, the weight of his realization pressing against the words he was about to speak.
"I’m sorry," Alex said finally, his voice low and heavy with regret. "I can’t heal it."
The half-dragon’s expression faltered, the light of hope dimming as his shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment. Yet, even in his grief, he carried himself with quiet strength. Straightening, he managed a faint smile, one that spoke of resilience born of necessity.
"Thank you for trying," he said sincerely, his voice steady despite the pain etched into it. He reached out, clasping Alex’s hand in both of his own. His scaled fingers were warm, grounding. "And thank you for healing my friend. That means more to me than I can say."
Alex opened his mouth, as though to respond, but the words never came. He simply watched as the half-dragon rose to his full height, his presence commanding despite the uncertainty clouding his past.
The half-dragon turned, his gaze settling briefly on Anchev, who stood a few paces behind with his arms crossed and his expression inscrutable. Together, the two began walking away, their steps heavy with unspoken burdens.
The crowd, which had gathered to watch with awe, instinctively parted for them. No one dared to stand in their way, and as the pair moved through the sea of people, Alex’s eyes never wavered from them.
Even as the crowd closed again, swallowing their retreating figures, the image of the half-dragon burned in Alex’s mind. There was something unfinished between them, a connection shrouded in mystery, tugging at his thoughts like a thread that, if pulled, might unravel everything.
He whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the murmurs of the crowd. "Who are you... really?"
The words hung in the air, unanswered. The faintest trace of unease lingered in his chest, a warning echoing in his mind, but he pushed it to the side . He had more people to heal.
----------------------------------------
The bonfire began to dim as the night deepened. One by one, the weary souls retired to their tents, offering Alex and his companions quiet thanks as they passed. The atmosphere, though heavy with exhaustion, carried a fragile sense of peace.
Alex stood near his friends, watching the last embers of the bonfire struggle against the night. He turned toward them, a small smile tugging at his lips, mirrored by most of their faces—though some bore the weight of deeper thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came.
BOOM!
The explosion ripped through the silence like a thunderclap, shaking the earth beneath their feet. Alex’s head snapped toward the source of the noise, his instincts screaming.
"What the fuck is happening?" Karlach bellowed, her fiery gaze sweeping across the camp.
One explosion was followed by another, and then another. Chaos erupted like a wildfire. The tents nearest the initial blasts went up in flames, lighting the night with an ominous orange glow. Refugees screamed as panic gripped the camp. People ran in all directions, some clutching children, others racing toward barrels of water, their movements frantic and desperate.
Alex exchanged a glance with his companions, the unspoken understanding passing between them like a silent battle cry. They scattered, each taking a different role in the crisis.
Alex raised his hands, his eyes glowing faintly as he drew the surrounding flames toward him. Fire coiled and twisted in the air, obedient to his command, as it flowed into his outstretched palms. Moving swiftly through the camp, he absorbed the fires one by one, his steps urgent but measured.
Gale, composed in the face of danger, stood in the heart of the chaos, weaving intricate spells. Frost shot from his fingertips, engulfing raging fires and reducing them to harmless steam. Where the flames were too widespread, he summoned cascading torrents of conjured water to douse the inferno. His face was a mask of concentration, his voice sharp as he barked out commands to nearby refugees assisting in the effort.
Wyll darted between the tents as he prioritized rescuing those still trapped. He emerged from a collapsing structure carrying an elderly woman over his shoulder. Her sobs cut through the din of chaos.
"My granddaughter," she choked out, tears streaming down her weathered face. "She’s still inside!"
Wyll’s jaw clenched as he gently set the woman down. He’d seen the remains of the girl amidst the wreckage, her life extinguished too quickly. The weight of her death churned his stomach, but he didn’t falter. "Stay here," he murmured, his voice thick with determination, as he rushed back into the flames to save whoever else he could.
Karlach, a whirlwind of muscle and resolve, moved with incredible speed. She hoisted barrels of water over her shoulders as though they weighed nothing and delivered them to desperate refugees attempting to douse the flames. Astarion moved alongside her, his elegance undiminished by the carnage. Though he was unaccustomed to heroics of this kind, he carried children and supplies with surprising efficiency, his movements sharp and precise.
Lae'zel surged into the fray like a storm unleashed. Her blade glinted as she carved a path through debris, clearing the way for the refugees to escape. Her feral growls urged the frightened masses to move faster.
"Your cowardice will cost you your lives! Run!" she roared, her voice cutting through the panic like a whip. A young boy tripped in his haste, and without hesitation, Lae'zel scooped him up and carried him to safety. Her movements were precise, each action fueled by equal parts fury and purpose.
Glut, standing at the edge of the chaos, observed with unnerving calm.The Myconid Sovereign raised his hands, releasing spores from his palms. The spores suppressed the flames and created breathable air where smoke threatened to suffocate. Refugees near him coughed less, their movements steadier as his presence offered strange but effective relief.
Amidst the chaos, Shadowheart moved with steady determination, her hands quick and precise as she tended to the injured. Without the divine magic she once wielded, she relied on her knowledge of herbs, poultices, and sheer will. Kneeling beside a young woman whose arm was charred from the explosion, Shadowheart carefully tore strips from her cloak to bind the wound.
"Hold still," she instructed, her voice calm despite the panic around her. With practiced hands, she grounded a mixture of crushed herbs, that she had bought from some stalls, into a paste, its sharp, earthy smell filling the air.
She smeared it over the burn, her touch firm but gentle. The paste sizzled slightly as it made contact with the skin, soothing the injury while her presence offered a moment of reprieve amidst the chaos."The pain will pass," she said, wrapping the arm with a bandage she’d scavenged earlier. "You’ll need to keep this clean until Alex can heal you."
The woman, her face streaked with tears, nodded weakly. Shadowheart helped her to her feet, then turned to the next injured soul—a child crying for his mother. Blood seeped from a gash on his leg. Shadowheart tore another piece of cloth from her already tattered sleeve, pressing it firmly against the wound to stem the bleeding.
"Shh," she murmured, her voice soothing. "You’re strong. I’ll take care of this."
Her fingers worked deftly, tying the cloth tightly before gently lifting the boy into her arms. She carried him toward a group of calmer refugees, depositing him with someone who could keep him safe.
Though her brow was furrowed with focus, Shadowheart’s movements were deliberate, almost graceful. Even without magic, she radiated an aura of quiet competence that seemed to steady those around her. As a pair of frantic refugees ran by, she intercepted them, pushing one toward Karlach’s water brigade and the other toward a group gathering buckets.
"Help them, or more will die," she said sharply, her commanding tone cutting through their panic. They obeyed without hesitation.
As she worked, Shadowheart cast a wary glance toward the horizon, her instincts tingling with unease. The explosions had been too sudden, too calculated. Her hands didn’t pause as she stitched another wound, but her mind churned with questions. Who had done this, and why?
Her fingers, stained with blood and dirt, paused for a moment as she caught sight of Alex in the distance. His hands absorbed fire as fast as it spread, his expression unreadable. Whatever this night had unleashed, it wasn’t just chaos—it was the prelude to something far darker. Shadowheart clenched her jaw and returned to her work, determined to keep as many people alive as she could.