The Forsaken Hero

The following morning, I opened my eyes to find the dusty rafters of the church. Rolling out of bed, gently so as not to disturb my shoulder, I threw a dress on and made my way to the infirmary, practically shaking in anticipation. Many of the injured patients held only minor wounds or illnesses, whatever was left after Rodrick’s Restoration healed them. It was still early in the morning, yet many were awake and blinked at me curiously.

I nodded politely to the priestess, Anna, who stood from the bedside of a child, wringing a wet rag into a nearby bucket. The kid’s face was dark red, and he rolled over, groaning. With the approaching winter, illness was becoming more common, filling nearly half the beds in the infirmary. Eyes focused on me like moths to a flame, gathering on my slave crest and demonic features. I took a deep breath and calmed my twitching tail before crossing the threshold. I waited for someone to protest, but the only hostile looks were from children, who were taught from a young age to fear demons.

”Good morning! Have you come to help out again?” Anna asked. Her cheerful voice didn’t match her body, which had begun wilting with age.

I dipped my head, searching the room until my gaze rested on an elderly soldier. His bloodstained uniform lay in tatters, but none of his injuries remained, likely healed by Rodrick. Every wound, except his arm, which ended in a bandaged stump just above his elbow.

Sidestepping beds, I crossed the room until I reached his bed. He looked up at me for a moment before turning away and burying his head in his pillow. His dull, gray eyes bore a hopelessness I found all too familiar.

He grunted, his body trembling slightly as my fingers closed around his injured arm. A long sequence of runes had been tattooed on his bicep, ending abruptly at the stump. As I twisted his arm, hoping for a better look, his face turned white and he released a sharp hiss of pain through his teeth. ”Come to mock an old man?” he grumbled. ”There’s nothing a girl like you can do. Not even the priest can bring an arm back.

”How did this happen?” I asked softly.

He scowled, glaring at the wall. ”Bandits. How else? The Lord won’t do anything about it, even when they come up to the walls.”

Expecting his answer, I let his arm rest and murmured, ”Then you’ve been avenged.”

”Vengeance? Can I eat it? I hope so, as there’s no way I’m getting work like this. What good’s a soldier without a sword arm?”

His words carried the weight of his sorrows. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I straightened and raised my arms, beginning the chant for Regeneration.

”I told ya, it’s useless. There’s no hope for me...” the old soldier grumbled, squinting as the light of the magic circles fell upon him.

As the chant came to an end, my fingers brushed his stump, peeling the bandage away. A single magic circle appeared below my palm, slowly spinning between my fingers. Gradually, particles of soft, green light, fell from the circle, drifting like snow until they settled on the wound. The few became many, until a veritable torrent of power flowed downward, sticking together and building a translucent green copy of the missing arm. I could see the torn muscles and ligaments through the glowing flesh, and watched in fascination as they uncoiled, connecting with the magical replica.

”H-hey!” The soldier cried out, trying to pull away. I quickly laid a hand on his chest, soothing his fears until the last of the magical particles fell and the magic circle disappeared.

The transparent limb began to glow brighter, and a series of runes danced throughout its core. A magical hum filled the air as the arm vibrated and released a blinding flash of light. When my vision returned, I gasped, fixated on the arm. The glowing green magic was gone, replaced by flesh and blood. The pale flesh began to redden as blood flowed through its veins, quickly taking on the same appearance as the soldier’s other.

”Wha-?” The man’s mouth gaped in astonishment as he lifted his restored arm, gingerly flexing his fingers. A shudder ran through his body and tears gathered in his eyes.

Fascinated by the results of the spell, I stretched out my hand and caressed his bicep, feeling for a seam or scar where the new flesh met the old. I was astonished to find the skin smooth and uninterrupted, with no sign there had ever been a cut. Even the tattoo had been restored, and I noticed countless small scars around his knuckles, doubtlessly from his hours of swordplay.

”Forever one,” I murmured, reading the runes on his arm. ”How fitting.”

”For my wife,” he said softly, wiping away his tears. Raising his head, I found him looking at me steadily. His eyes glistened in the crystal light, and more tears trickled down his cheeks.

”Are there any problems, like pain or lack of control?” I asked him. Those were the typical symptoms if the spell failed, according to the notes in the book.

”No, but...what who are you? What magic is this?” As he mentioned the spell, his face suddenly darkened, and he averted his eyes. ”How much do I owe you? Something like this can’t be less than ten thousand. Even if I sell the house, I can’t-”

”You owe me nothing. If anything, I’m grateful to you for allowing me to practice my spells,” I said quickly.

”I did?” he grumbled. ”I don’t remember asking. Just say what you want already.”

As negative as it sounded, his response lifted a weight from my heart. I sniffed, brushing away a tear from my own eye. ”Thank you,” I murmured. I had been so worried he’d reject my bloodline that such a mundane concern like price was a relief.

”For what?” he asked. ”Like I told you, I didn’t ask for anything, so I’m not paying.”

Ignoring his complaints, I stood and looked around, finding the room strangely quiet. I was met with the unblinking gaze of two dozen people. Their expressions ranged from shock to awe, but not one looked hostile.

”Johnson, how much is it?”

I turned as a gravelly voice penetrated the silence, coming from another soldier on the other side of the room. His arm, while not severed, had been mutilated beyond repair.

”She claimed nothing,” the man I healed replied, still looking at me with suspicion. They seemed incapable of accepting the idea that my spells were free. It was almost irritating, but I didn’t bother wasting more energy thinking about it. Regeneration had used a sizeable portion of my mana, and I intended to conserve my strength to practice as much as possible.

”That’s enough from you,” Anna said sternly. Her face softened as she looked at me. ”Don’t pay them any mind. It’s just that most healers who can cast that kind of spell charge for their services. It can be anywhere from ten to thirty thousand gold, so they’re right to be worried.”

”Is that a lot?” I asked, feeling slightly bashful, hoping they’d forgive my ignorance. I’d hardly seen money, much less touched it, as heroes were treated to everything. Even the Divine Throne provided meals for free when I lived in the Slave Quarter.

She blinked in surprise before hesitantly nodding, as though nervous I was testing her. ”Of course, my lady. That’s more than these men make in a decade. Only the wealthiest of adventurers can afford healing spells over third-circle.”

”I see,” I replied gratefully. I turned to the man with the ruined arm and approached him. ”How about you?”

”What’s it cost?” he asked again.

I rolled my eyes, imagining what kind of cheesy response Soltair might give here. I had no desire to look cool or sound like a hero, so I simply remained quiet and reached out, casting the spell. He began to protest but froze as the green light soaked into his flesh.

Within seconds, his arm had been restored, and I stood moving on to the next. After the third or fourth spell, I began to grow weary. Anna walked me to the chapel, where I studied Nexus as I rested. Fyren appeared a few hours later, signaling it was time to train. Promising to heal anyone else later, we left together.

And so our days passed, one by one, until the week came to an end. It was time to leave.