A cool morning breeze blew in across the water, briefly catching the sails of moored vessels as they raised shut. The north docks of Flavenport were busy this time of day: unloading vessels that had anchored in the small hours of dawn and loading vessels that would set out alongside the rising sun.
One of the vessels being unloaded was a smaller riverboat, filled to capacity with goods from the upper reaches of the kingdom. Each crate and barrel carried off the boat was painted with the image of a fierce looking bear, frozen in the act of walking across a pair of bolded words- Highland Star.
The merchant company was the biggest fish in its home pond, but whenever it stepped out of that pond and into the market of the Great Lake it became one minnow among many.
At the bow of the riverboat, a merchant stood watching over the unloading effort. His job would follow: to take these piles of grey wood and these boxes of furs and bones and spin them into luxuries fit for royalty. A difficult job given he had only his voice to work them with, but the company’s continued expansion into the lake relied on his success.
“That should be about it sir!” A worker called from down on the dock, holding up a piece of parchment and a quill pen. “We need you to sign off on everything now!”
Taking a breath to ready himself, the merchant stepped off the boat, walking down the long wooden pier until he was in front of the pile of goods. Taking the pen and paper, the merchant drifted from crate to barrel to box, checking off each item after a brief scan and attempted jiggle of the sealed lid.
One after another the manifest was filled with checks until one crate’s lid finally shifted under his grasp.
“Eh?” He breathed, confused. “This box’s supposed to be nailed shut…” Indeed, he could still see the metal heads embedded into the wood, identical to every other crate he had checked.
Suddenly the lid flew open, causing the merchant to stumble back and fall onto his behind. A pale and skinny girl burst from the box, covered in the expensive furs he had expected to be the only thing inside.
Hopping over the side and onto the ground, the stowaway peeled the pelts from her body and tossed them back into the wooden cube. “I made it!” She exclaimed. Her wide grey eyes took in the sights of the docks, filled with a mad glee that matched her grin.
She turned to look down at him, her expression unchanged. “Thanks for the ride.”
“You little… STOP!” He shouted, finally breaking from his shocked silence to lunge and grab her, but it was too late. “THIEF! STOWAWAY!” By the time the echo of his voice bounced back to hit his ears she was already gone, slipping through his fingers like a grain of sand.
“STOP HER!” Ilya sprinted away from the angry cry, weaving and ducking past the confused dockworkers and traders in her way. She twisted through the crowded and unfamiliar streets almost at random, relying on her instincts, long trained in this exact situation, to help her shake off any pursuers.
Turn after turn after turn eventually led Ilya up a set of stairs and out into a vast market, much busier than the one she used to prowl. Everywhere she looked was a colourful tent, a cart filled with goods, a display of fine crafts, each of them surrounded by eager buyers.
Ilya slid to a stop amid the crowds- she had never seen so many people in one place. They were swarming between stalls, pushing each other aside and shouting for the attention of each stall’s salesman over the roar of other voices.
The sound was so overwhelming Ilya could barely think. She needed to find a place to hide, somewhere away from all the noise and somewhere that merchant wouldn’t find her.
Eyes bouncing in different directions, a pair of large double doors came into view across the market, crafted from a dark wood and left slightly ajar as if inviting her inside.
Ilya gladly took the invitation, running around the outer edges of the plaza to her destination. She hopped up the small set of steps beneath the entrance and ducked into the building, shutting the doors behind her.
Leaning back against the doors, Ilya sighed and closed her eyes, tilting her head back to rest against the wood with the rest of her body. Whatever the building was made of, it dampened the roar outside into a muffled rumble- it was quiet.
When her eyes opened again, she was staring up at a very fancy ceiling: a swirl of stone arches and metal trims and delicate paint strokes surrounding a large central skylight. The morning sun streamed in through a giant window at the other end of the room, brightening every colour and erasing every shadow. Following the curve of the arches to their connecting pillars and then down, she found shining incense burners hanging high above a sea of pews.
She was in a church. It was built for far more people than the one back in Bearwood, but it was still recognizable.
“I’m afraid you just missed morning service.” The sound of a voice returned Ilya’s attention to back of the hall, where a woman in white priest robes stood tidying the altar.
Her robes were large and billowy, drowning her body in fabric trimmed with bronze and gold, matching the tiara of metal that sat atop her head. A silky veil flowed out from the tiara, down over her braided hair and then her shoulders, framing her soft face.
That face lifted from the altar to greet her. “Mmm… though it doesn’t look like you’re here for that.” Her eyes were the deepest blue Ilya had ever seen, deeper than even the cloudless sky visible through the skylight above them. Large and shimmering they observed her intensely, making her shift and shuffle, averting her own gaze.
“Hiding from someone?”
Ilya flinched. Those massive windows made the church so blindingly bright, and yet the woman at the altar could see her clearly. She felt exposed, like a nocturnal animal forced out into the day.
“You’re welcome to sit.” The priestly woman spoke again, stepping out from behind the altar and motioning to the frontmost row of pews. “The house of our Lord is a refuge for all.”
When her arm rose to gesture, her large sleeves slid down her arm to her elbow, revealing another layer underneath. The white fabric clung to the woman’s arm much tighter than the rest of her robes, like a second skin that went all the way up to her wrist.
Ilya hesitantly walked up the central aisle, drawing closer to the front seats and the woman who analyzed her every move. “How long am I allowed to stay?” She asked, her voice amplified by the size of the hall.
The woman smiled warmly, hands folded in front of her. “As long as you like.”
Ilya blinked. That was new.
In the past, preachers allowed her to stay only so long as their sermons lasted. Gods and dragons, chaos and order, crime and punishment, the stories they told filled her with wonder, and yet they always ended with her being kicked out.
Was that not the normal for priests? Was this woman the strange one? Ilya didn’t know, but she wouldn’t reject any opportunity to sit in a real seat.
Reaching the front pew and sliding in, she made herself comfortable. The smooth and sanded wooden bench was far nicer to sit on than bumpy cobblestones, and she much preferred the supportive back of the pew to the balancing act of Issnur’s high stools.
Taking another look at the church around her, Ilya was again awed that so much light could exist in a single space. She had never really sat in the sun before, preferring the safety of a shadow, but maybe she should have. It was so warm, and with such a comfortable place to sit, Ilya could see herself falling asleep here.
Sleep never came however, as the priestess stepped down from the altar’s higher flooring to introduce herself. “Blessings of the rising sun upon you.” She greeted. “I am Annabelle, sister of the church and saint of Amasur.”
Amasur rang a few bells in Ilya’s memory, labeled ‘god’, but the other word did no such thing.
“What’s a saint?” She asked aloud, curiosity breaking through her initial wariness. “What does that mean?“
Annabelle seemed pleased at the question, like she was hoping for it. “It means many different things to many different people.”
Taking a few steps down the aisle as she formed a more in depth explanation, Ilya watched the priestess slide into the pew across from her. She sat with her spine straight and her hands folded atop her lap, ignoring the perfectly good backrest just behind her.
“To some, it’s simply a position of authority within the church. To others, it’s a beacon of hope- a sign that the dark times are over and morning has come.”
Lifting her gaze to the sunlight that streamed in through the windows, she continued. “To me, it’s a message: proof that my god trusts me to see his work done.” The blues of her irises sparkled with loving reverence. “I am truly honoured to have that trust.”
Ilya’s eyes widened slightly. The words reverberated in her heart just as heavily as they echoed around the open church hall. She never expected to find someone she could relate to so exactly.
“Do… do you get upgrades for being a saint?” Like a scale that cuts through metal nails as easily as foliage, or a rune carved into the flesh that protected the flesh from harm.
Ilya suddenly found herself interested in this woman; in what other similarities their lives of service might share.
Annabelle puffed a laugh through her nose, raising a knuckle to her lips. “Saints are blessed with a deep affinity for magics of the faith.” She paused for a second, gauging Ilya’s understanding before simplifying her explanation. “That means spells of or relating to my god are far stronger and easier to cast than normal.”
“That sounds… useful.” Ilya said with a slow nod- she had witnessed the power of spellcasting for herself. From turning a journey of days into hours, to calling down the might of storms, those lucky enough to have magical talent could change the world with just a few words.
Annabelle hummed in agreement, her hand falling back into her lap. “I work with the local adventurers from time to time and it’s saved many lives.”
All of a sudden, Ilya was reminded of the directions was supposed to be following; the specific place she had been told to visit. In the escape from the docks and the flurry of senses since, she had become distracted.
“Um… I’m supposed to find the adventurers guild in this city.” Ilya informed the saint beside her. Annabelle seemed to humour her questions so far, so she hoped that helpfulness would extend to giving directions as it had with her last guide.
For a split second, Annabelle’s eyes regained that same intense sheen. “What happy coincidence…” Then it was gone.
“I was already planning on visiting the guild today.” She informed her guest. “We can walk there together if you’d like.” Ilya brightened at the suggestion, it would make her task a lot easier if she had someone to both lead her through the city and answer her questions on the way.
Annabelle made no move to rise however, continuing to stare patiently at her. It was only after a few seconds of unbroken eye contact that Ilya realized the saint was waiting for her response and permission.
“Oh uh- Yes, I would like that.” She agreed awkwardly.
Rising from the pew, Annabelle stepped back out into the aisle with a practiced grace. “Then shall we?”
Ilya nodded, sliding off of the pew to stand face to face- or face to throat -with the priestess. Annabelle was a good bit taller than her, something that shouldn’t have been surprising, but the way the flowing robes hung off of the saint’s body gave the impression she was smaller than she really was.
“Um… I’m Ilya by the way.” She introduced herself abruptly. No one had asked, but everyone she had met in the last month had given her their name similarly unprompted so it must have been a normal thing to do.
Annabelle smiled wide at her introduction, as if she had been waiting. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ilya.”
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When the pair stepped out of the church, Ilya found the market somehow more busy than when she entered. More stalls had started to set up as crates from recently docked ships were delivered, and more customers arrived to meet them.
“As the sun rises, so too do the people of this city.” The saint said, gazing out over the sea of shoppers. “Be sure to stay close, Ilya, I don’t want us to be separated.” Ilya nodded and followed behind her guide, though a few steps to the left as to not have a face full of veil.
Members of the crowd who noticed the saint stepped out of her path, some of the men removing their hats and some of the women clasping their hands in prayer. Ilya was given no such recognition, stumbling around people as they moved out of Annabelle’s way and directly into hers. As much as she was used the disregard, being shoved around was incredibly frustrating, not to mention painful.
Noticing Ilya falling behind, the saint slowed to a stop and offered her splayed fingers.
Staring down at the back of the priestess’ hand, Ilya could see the way her sleeve extended further than on the other side, white fabric tapering off until it attached to a gold ring on her middle finger. Ilya felt that ring press against her skin when she took Annabelle’s hand- it was cold despite the rest of the priestess being very warm.
“Hold on tight, okay?”
The strong yet gentle grip on her hand brought Ilya a stray sense of familiarity- a feeling with no memory attached.
It was a bizarre sensation, to have forgotten, like returning to a place you swore you had left something, only to find nothing. Maybe this was what it felt like to have something stolen from you.
‘I need to steal a new shirt.’ Ilya thought as she was dragged through the crowd, her moment of empathy cast aside in favour of self interest. ‘I’ll need to canvass this place for a clothes seller later.’ For now though, her fashion needs could wait.
Annabelle led her safely across the market to one of the many streets that continually fed it new buyers and sellers. The road was still busier than any Ilya had ever travelled before, but at least now she could walk beside her guide without being shoved around.
“Is this place always so busy?” Ilya asked, bending forward so she could see the priestess’ face.
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“Some days it is.” She replied. “But this level of excitement is due to the upcoming decennial.”
Ilya frowned. “That’s another word I don’t know.” There would many more such words before her job in this city was over. Ilya only hoped her guide wouldn’t get sick of constantly dumbing down her speech.
“A decennial is a festival celebrating ten years of something. In this case, ten years of the current king’s rule.” Annabelle explained, leading her around a corner and down a new street.
“Do people like the king?” Ilya followed up. If she was to learn everything about the kingdom, its ruler was as good a place to start as any.
The saint thought about it for a moment. “Most think him decent- he does his duties well. But the shadow of the Hero-King is not so easy to escape.”
Horns of warning blared through Ilya’s skull: the H-word, spoken outside the abstraction of legend and sermon. “…There’s a Hero-King?” If the royalty of this kingdom had any possibility of being a threat, her Lady had to know.
Her guide nodded, eyes forward on the road ahead. “There was, long ago. Rollant. He conquered this land with his army of hunters and became the first king of Louterre.”
“His descendants have been struggling to live up to his legacy ever since.”
A dark feeling welled in Ilya’s chest, something like anger, but slow and dripping instead of the short lived fire she had always known. It might have been hate.
Hate for a man arrogant enough to name himself king of a land already ruled.
Hate for a celebration in honour of that arrogant man’s successor instead of her Lady.
Hate for a kingdom that ignored her Lady’s magnificence.
‘Louterre…’
She squeezed Annabelle’s hand, her anger spilling out of her mind into the real world. She wanted to know more- she needed to.
Annabelle spoke of the Hero-King only in the past tense, did that mean the current king was not a hero? Was he a mere man like any other? Or were his powers simply not as strong as the true Hero-King?
The more questions continued to pile, the more Ilya anticipated their arrival at the adventurers guild. Answers would await her there.
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“There’s no one here!” Ilya cried with a frustrated pout, arriving to a mostly empty adventurers guild. “Where is everyone?!”
Looking around, she found most of the guild’s tables seating only leftover cups and plates. A few members of the staff were going around the room collecting the dishes in a rolling cart, but they hadn’t gotten very far.
“Breakfast usually finishes up around the same time morning service does.” Annabelle explained, scanning her gaze across the guild and smiling a silent greeting when one of the girls cleaning tables waved at her. “Most members will be out questing by now.”
Ilya crouched down to the floor dejectedly, her head in her hands. She had missed them by such a short amount of time. “I have so many questions though…”
The saint placed a soothing palm on top of her head. “You’ll get your chance. Perhaps fate is pushing you onto a different course for a time.”
“Is that Sister Annabelle?” Someone’s voice suddenly came from the direction of the front desk.
A woman’s head poked out from the slot separating the area behind the desk from the back office. Her eyes and hair were a dark brown and her nose was small and button-like. “Ah, it is! Good morning Sister.”
Annabelle smiled with familiarity. “Blessed light of morn upon you, Clara. I hope the breakfast rush went well?”
The woman- Clara -retreated quickly back into the office to appear out of a different door. “Yes Sister.” She said, approaching the saint and her moping ward. “All of our commissions were accepted without argument or incident. Though there was one I thought you should know about.”
“Someone in need of my help?” Annabelle asked, like she expected it.
The guild girl nodded, the many curls in her hair bouncing with each motion. “There’s been word of a sickness spreading around near the south docks. The Lord’s office wants it taken care of before it turns into a plague.”
“We’ve already sent a few adventurers down there.” She continued. “Anyone with [ Cure Ailment ] or an equivalent, as well as a few others to support them. Though with you there the disease would be entirely eradicated in hours.”
Annabelle turned to look down at the girl crouched on the floor beside her. “It seems I am needed. Would you come with me Ilya?” She offered a hand.
Looking up at the priestess, Ilya weighed her options. If there were no adventurers for her leech knowledge off of, surely she should stick with her current guide. Annabelle was Ilya’s only realistic way of navigating the city as well; without her she would be hopelessly lost.
“Okay…” She took the hand, using it to pull herself back to standing. There was only one choice.
“Sister, is that wise?” The guild girl questioned, holding her elbows beneath her chest. “It would be safer for her to stay here, away from the illness.”
Annabelle’s lips turned slightly down, the first time Ilya had seen the saint do something other than smile. “In the event of a plague, I would think the safest place is by my side. Do you disagree?”
“O-Of course not, Sister, but-“
“You guys don’t have to worry about that.” Ilya interrupted the two women before they could start arguing over an impossibility. “I’m immune to getting sick.”
“Immune? I don’t think-“ Clara tried to start before the girl’s expression caught her off guard. It was a face she had until then only seen on seasoned adventurers: a face of complete confidence in one’s ability to return safe that eclipsed even the possibility of arrogance.
This tiny waif was completely serious.
“[ Detect Disease ].” Annabelle spoke after a moment’s thought, pressing two fingers against Ilya’s forehead. There was a gold glow for a second before a quiet cracking noise caused the light to suddenly vanish.
“I knew you weren’t lying to us, but this is quite extraordinary.” The saint announced, her blue eyes shimmering with curiosity. “Everyone has at least a little Illness in them or on their skin, but you are completely clean, like a rushing waterfall.”
“I told you.” Ilya pouted at the guild girl. She would know if anything diseased touched her body, and her Lady’s magic wouldn’t let that disease live for long- it would protect her without fail.
Clara’s expression twisted in surprise, dropping her held arms. “I… huh? This girl is?! How?!”
“This girl is blessed, Clara.” Annabelle returned her hand to the top of Ilya’s head. “We don’t need to understand it, only accept her gifts and guide her to do good deeds.”
Ilya held back a proud grin, sucking in her lips. She was blessed, though the priestess might not be as happy if she revealed who by. Her Lady was wonderful to her, but these people didn’t know her good side yet, only what the stories told them.
If only they submitted themselves to her…
“We’ll be back in an hour or two.” Annabelle said to the secretary, guiding Ilya back towards the entrance of the guild. “Tell the Lord’s office the matter’s being taken care of.”
Clara still felt unsteadied by the reveal, but bowed a professional goodbye as her job demanded. “Ah- very well, Sister. Be safe.”
Then the guild was quiet once more.
“Has she finally gone and adopted one of the street kids?” One of her co-workers eventually chimed in from the office, breaking the silence.
Clara’s hand went to her hip as she continued staring at the door. Annabelle had always been a bit of a mother hen, babying newbie adventurers and veterans alike, but her refusal to part with that girl was new.
Something about her must have gotten the saint invested.
“She might have.”
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The part of the city where the sickness was said to be spreading looked uncomfortably familiar to Ilya. The quality of the buildings and roads were blatantly lower than elsewhere, and little effort had been put into maintaining anything apart from a few patch-jobs. As much as she had hoped otherwise, it seemed her hometown wasn’t unique in the unbalanced focus of its wealth.
Following the streets led the pair to a moderately sized court where many people were gathered. Most of the people in the court were normal folk, dressed in normal- if worn -clothing, but some were dressed very differently.
Robes, giant hats, armour, cloaks- this group was likely the ones sent by the guild. Each of them crouched or stood by a patient, tending to the sick with spells or giving them food and water.
Some patients sat on the ground around the court, some laid in what looked like short tables with bedding on them, while a long line of hopefuls waiting to be seen snaked out of the court and down the connecting street.
“Saint Annabelle!” One of the workers cried, visibly brightening when they saw the priestess approaching. They looked like a knight of some sort, in similarly designed armour to that paladin Her Lady had been eating recently- though that man’s armour was far more expensive looking.
“Blessings of the morning upon you, Marcus.” Annabelle greeted, raising a hand to touch the necklace at her chest. “The Judge sees your aid to these people and is pleased.”
“Thank you, Saint Annabelle, and thank you for coming.” He clasped both hands in front of him and bowed his head at Annabelle. Only when he raised his head did the paladin notice the thin girl standing next to the saint.
“Who is this?” He asked. “Someone else in need of healing?”
Annabelle shook her head, gesturing at the girl at her side to introduce her. “This is Ilya, I will be… teaching her for the foreseeable future.”
The paladin’s eyes widened, as if the saint showing a girl how she did her job was the biggest possible deal. “What, really?!”
“Yes, really. This is a good learning opportunity for her.” Annabelle’s smile was bright and also a little proud.
Ilya looked between the two followers of Order with confusion. Was this some kind of church thing? Why were they so happy about her being there? It wasn’t like she could do anything to help- she was just here to watch.
Annabelle eventually moved the conversation along. “Enough about that though, tell me about the situation here.” She folded her hands in front of her, tilting her chin up a bit to listen attentively.
Paladin Marcus scratched the back of his head, looking down at the street bricks for a few moments before starting.“Well… there’s a lot more sick and a lot less dead than we thought there would be, like it spread so fast it hasn’t really had time to kill anyone.”
He went on to describe the symptoms of the sick: fever, disorientation, body pain, rash, as well as the common patterns they had been seeing in patients. The sickest and furthest along all had small bites in their feet and ankles and the rash always seemed to start there. “We’re thinking the local rats have gotten into something foul and are bringing the disease back with them.”
Annabelle hummed, briefly closing her eyes in thought. “That sounds reasonable. We can add it to the report.”
She opened her eyes again, chin dropping back to the natural angle. “Where am I needed the most?”
“There are a few patients that our low level cure spells don’t seem to work on.” Marcus replied, crossing his arms and looking towards one of the healers as they worked. “Yours are certainly strong enough to help them.”
“Consider it done.” Annabelle announced confidently. “Lead me.”
The paladin dropped his arms and nodded, leading the saint and her student to what would be a nondescript building if not for the big X symbol written on the door in chalk. On top of the symbol was a piece of paper with actual words on it, probably saying something about staying out.
“We moved them into this building away from the others.” He explained, gesturing to the door beside them. “Just in case their different version is contagious.”
Annabelle hummed again in agreement with the decision. “Responsible- send me any more you receive and I’ll take care of them. Now go, your spells are needed as well.” Shooing the paladin away to continue his work, she stepped inside the building, beckoning Ilya to follow her.
One of the runes on Ilya’s back heated up when they entered. It wasn’t as warm as when she was back home in the swamp, but it was still soothing to the aches she acquired from being shoved around earlier.
Many more makeshift beds were set up inside the building, all filled by very ill looking people, some of them lying motionless and others writing in pain. The rashes on their bodies were bad enough that they were obvious to even Ilya’s untrained eye, and in some areas of exposed skin the flesh had began to rise in bubble like sores.
Annabelle looked rather upset upon seeing the state of the sick, but Ilya didn’t really get it- they were sick and she was going to fix it, what was there to feel upset about? All Ilya felt was a dull disgust at how gross the lumps looked.
The saint moved around the room, looking over each of the patients with that same spell and those same glowing fingers from the guild. Her expression was grim but focused on the task at hand as the spell told her everything about what illness had befallen these people.
Every step she explained aloud, from the diagnosis to the choice of spell based on the level of disease she was dealing with. It had to be strong enough to completely destroy the sickness but easy enough to cast that she wouldn’t become exhausted before everyone could be cured.
She eventually decided on a spell, moving to the centre of the room to kneel on the floor, eyes closed and hands clasped in prayer. Ilya could see her mouth moving but no words came out, not until the spell was finally unleashed.
“[ Purity ].” A pulse of light burst forth from the saint’s skin, the stale air being pushed back by her power. The room turned an amber hue, as if the sun had suddenly started setting hours too early. Motes of gold light appeared from between the floorboards and slowly floated toward the ceiling, vanishing into the wood. For a good minute Ilya stood in silence, feeling her rune cool to nothing and watching the gross skin bubbles deflate.
When the disease was extinguished, Annabelle rose from the ground, somehow not a speck of filth on her pristine white robes. She again moved about the room, checking on the newly cured patients who had fallen still but for a steady rise and fall of the chest that indicated sleep. She seemed very pleased with the results.
Ilya must have had some kind of look on her face, because when the saint’s eyes flicked right to look at her, they stayed there- staring.
“Have you ever tried casting magic before?” The saint suddenly asked, turning her head to meet Ilya’s eyes properly.
Ilya’s eyebrows raised slightly. “No? That’s not something I can do.” If she had that capability she wouldn’t be just standing there, waiting for someone to tell her something relevant about Louterre or its people. There were probably endless ways to gather information using magic, ways she couldn’t even think of.
“You seem like a very capable young lady. I’m sure you could do it if you tried.” Annabelle reassured, but her ward seemed unconvinced of her own potential.
The saint stepped away from her patient and towards Ilya. “Perhaps I should rephrase my question… Would you like me to teach you magic?”
Realizing what was being offered to her, Ilya nodded, first a one slow nod that quickly transformed into rapid up and down nodding. If she could learn how to cast- at least one single spell -she would increase her usefulness to Lady Visnavik by leaps and bounds. The more she thought on the benefits it would bring, the more Ilya really wanted to learn.
Annabelle’s irises absolutely sparkled with joy, the same intensity from earlier that morning returning in full force. “Alright then.” She said with a bright smile. “Let’s find somewhere to sit and I can show you where to start.”
The saint led her away from the room housing the recovering patients and into a cozy side room where two chairs sat under a window flanked by bookshelves. Ilya chose a chair at random and her teacher took the other, settling in the chair just as primly as back in the church.
“The very first step to learning any kind of spellcasting is learning how to open your soul to mana.” She explained. “A closed soul is like a closed sail, unable to catch the wind.”
Ilya frowned. “How do I do that? That sounds hard.” Indeed, it sounded like the kind of thing that required a great deal of prior knowledge or training.
“For some people it is, but I believe in your abilities.” Annabelle seemed convinced she could do it, looking at her with such expectation that Ilya felt pressured to at least try her best.
Seeing her student nod in comprehension, the saint continued the lesson. “The way I first learned was with this metaphor: imagine a little candle sitting in its holder- it’s surrounded by glass, right?” Ilya tried to imagine the object as instructed, closing her eyes tightly.
A bronze holder of simple shape, the kind of piece that a modest orc lumberer could afford with his monthly wage. The glass was thin and fragile, but even a weak wall could protect the flame inside from the stray breezes of a cold evening.
“Imagine that a little door suddenly appears in that glass.” Annabelle instructed. “Imagine yourself opening that door with the intent to let me in. The intent is very important.” Ilya couldn’t see the saint’s face through closed eyes, but her expression was probably very serious.
“Tell me when you feel this- it should feel like a weird tickle. That’s how you’ll know you’ve done it right.”
It took a few minutes, straining her brain to clear up the picture in her mind’s eye- to make colours deeper and lines sharper -but eventually the warned about tickle appeared. It felt like a worm or insect wriggling under her skin, trying to get into somewhere it shouldn’t be.
“I think I have it?” Ilya informed her teacher. “It feels really weird and bad.”
Annabelle put a comforting hand on her knee. “That’s alright, it’s just me channelling mana into you- it feels like that for everyone at first. Do you feel the pressure underneath that weirdness? Try and make that pressure bigger on your own.”
It was incredibly easy to focus on the feeling of something extra in place only her soul had ever occupied before, but filling that space further was extremely hard, like flexing a muscle you didn’t realize you had.
Half an hour passed as she tried to increase the amount of magic within her, the saint occasionally getting up from time to time to treat new arrivals. She always returned to her chair when they were cured, continuing to patiently watch her student’s efforts.
The final increase was minuscule compared to all the work she put in, but after another ten minutes of no progress, she knew that was her maximum. “I pushed it a little more… it’s not much.”
“That’s good!” Annabelle praised anyway, leaning forward. “You see? I knew you could do it.”
“Now keep that pressure steady, I’m going to move your hands and fingers.” Ilya felt the saint’s hands doing just that, guiding her through a series of motions one at a time. Her focus was now split between holding the magic inside of herself and remaining mentally present for the gestures of casting.
“Imagine someone hurt, someone who needs your help.” The priestess instructed, bringing Ilya’s hands around one more time to cup around an empty space. “Pray to the gods for them to be healed. Say the word and have faith that they will be.”
Ilya had tried praying before, after sitting in on her first sermon- after being told of the mercy the gods gave to those who asked for it. The prayers she made weren’t to any specific god, she was just throwing her desperate pleas for something better into the sky for any being that might listen or respond. To her knowledge, nothing ever did, and she eventually stopped trying, but if this was what it took to cast a spell, she would try again.
In her mind she called out into the nothingness, asking the vague concept of a god to take the magic she had gathered and give her the power to heal or cure. She couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to help or heal except herself, but she hoped the image of herself broken and beaten was sufficient.
“[ Heal ].”
A tiny golden light appeared between Ilya’s palms, no brighter than a single star on the night of a full moon. She felt the warmth against her skin, but it was barely distinguishable from the warmth that Annabelle’s hands left behind.
“W-What?” Annabelle breathed, sounding very confused, like she expected a different outcome from a magic novice’s first spell. “That… that can’t be right. Why is it so weak?” She was talking aloud, and with an uncharacteristically curt choice of words.
Ilya looked down at the tiny thing, it was terrible and small, but it was her first spell- proof that it was possible for her. “I don’t have much faith in any gods.” She said truthfully. “Maybe that’s why it’s weak.”
“What do you have faith in then?” Annabelle replied, seeming like she was grasping at mist.
‘My Lady…’ Ilya thought instinctively. Someone she truly wished to serve, someone who had granted her wishes without ever hearing them; someone she could sing praises of endlessly if only the people would listen.
In the next second the spell mutated, ballooning from a point the size of a pinhead to a ball the size of a melon; it’s colour morphing from a soft gold to a dark green.
Ilya cried out as the ball of darkness quickly tore the flesh of her palms and fingers apart, taking layer after layer of skin until the pain broke the girl’s focus and stopped the spell. She was left with raw and bloody red hands, shaking from the speed and severity of the damage inflicted on them.
Annabelle immediately jumped into action, taking the girl’s palms into her gentle grip, glowing with soothing sunlight. The healing spell was so much brighter and warmer than the one she had managed, and within seconds the damage was gone.
Looking up from the smooth new skin, Ilya saw Annabelle’s expression: her eyes blown wide in a severe panic, her lips quivering as she inhaled shaking breaths. The saint eventually closed her eyes and took in two slow, deep lungfuls, bringing herself down into something resembling calm.
Bending forward, the saint pressed her forehead into their joined hands, taking another deep shuddering breath. “Please… never try casting that spell again.” She sounded like she might be crying.
Ilya stared silently at the top of Annabelle’s head as she sniffled, her face blank.
Time passed slowly after that.
The saint eventually pulled herself together enough to return to her work, curing the rest of the patients in the sick house before leaving to help with the line. Ilya remained inside, whittling away at sticks she found next to the building’s fireplace until shavings covered the floor.
An hour or so of waiting later, Annabelle came to pick her up, lingering sadness replaced by amusement when she saw the mess in the sitting room.
“Let’s go. The adventurers have likely returned by now.” She said, offering both hands to help the girl to her feet. “Someone else will clean this up.”
Spine straightening at the thought of finally getting the information she needed, Ilya hopped off the chair on her own, tossing her half finished craft aside shoving her Lady’s scale in her pocket.
She grabbed one of the saint’s hands with both of hers, dragging the woman out the door.
----------------------------------------
They returned to the guild in record time, mostly thanks to the simplicity of Annabelle’s directions and her long legs allowing her to keep pace with a jogging Ilya.
The street rat burst through the entrance, a grin splitting her face as she took in the sight.
Just as Annabelle had suggested it would be, the place was packed, every table filled with adventurers and even more standing around together near the front desk.
“Here’s your chance, Ilya.” Annabelle murmured, gently pushing the girl forward as she stepped through the door behind her. “Speak with some of the adventurers, I have to give my report to the staff.”
Waving brief goodbye to Annabelle, Ilya looked out excitedly at all of the potential teachers drinking, laughing and talking with one another around the guild. Who should she start with? There were so many.
Her manic back and forth scan of the room was halted when she spotted a familiar figure a short distance from her.
A grumpy looking young woman sat alone at one of the tables, glaring into her mug. Her eyes were a deep crimson, sharp and focused- punctuated by a small beauty mark beneath her lower eyelid. Her brown hair was rough and unkempt, bound in a half ponytail that still left most of it to fall to her shoulders. Sheathed daggers were strapped to her thighs with leather belts, easily accessible at all times, like if she needed to threaten someone.
“It’s you!” She exclaimed, pointing at the adventurer.
Realizing she was being spoken to, the red-eyed woman looked up only for her brow to sink and her eyes to widen in utter disbelief.
“You.” She growled, pointing back.
“Miss thief!” Ilya beamed, arms opening wide as if she was greeting a long time friend.
“I’M NOT A THIEF FUCK OFF!”
from the sketches of the author:
Saint Annabelle [https://i.imgur.com/QlmT1MQ.jpg]Lucia [https://i.imgur.com/EYPZFkl.png]