✶✶✶
HALIN recalled the memory of that day as he stared down at Ozhorn’s mangled, bloodied form.
The dragon had let out a terrible roar, then thrown itself against the mountainside. The stone shattered on impact, and fragments large and small hurtled through the air in all directions.
Several adventurers were caught in the blast. They staggered back toward the staging point, leaning on one another, bloodied, dazed—each one hoping, silently, that they could reach him in time.
By then, Ozhorn had become more than just a healer. He was their constant—the one fixed point in the chaos.
If you could reach him, you’d be all right.
It didn’t matter how reckless you’d been, how deep the wound. If he was there, it was enough.
No one ever said it. But they all fought with that quiet belief tucked somewhere deep inside.
And now, that anchor—the one they never named—lay pinned beneath a slab of stone, his robes soaked through with blood.
All that’s left, Halin thought grimly, is this cowardly, trembling fourth-rank healer, pale as a ghost, hands shaking over our savior.
Ehmann chanted almost feverishly, as if on the verge of madness: “By the sacred hand that wrought heaven and earth, I beseech thee. Let the grace of love descend upon this fallen soul.”
“Hey!” Halin barked, storming up behind him.
“By the sacred hand that wrought heaven and earth…”
“I said, hey!” Halin shoved past, eyes wide with fury. “Why the hell are you touching his shoulder? You start with the damn blood vessels, stop the bleeding, then move to the spine—this is basic triage! Any half-trained apprentice should know that!”
He grabbed Ehmann by the shoulders, rough, shaking him once. The trance shattered. Ehmann blinked up at him—tears spilling, wild-eyed.
“I can’t stand the sight of blood!” he shrieked, spit flying, hair mussing as he trembled. “Do you know how I heal? I heal clean. I heal slow. I don’t have to look inside! I was never meant to deal with this!”
He gestured wildly around—the blood-soaked sand, the writhing bodies, the smell of iron and bile. “You want to know what this is? This is a disgrace. I shouldn’t even be here! In this filthy, brutal, godforsaken place! I’m knee-deep in blood and entrails like some butcher—and I— I’m not— I’m not—!”
“Then stay home!” Halin shouted back. “Don’t come out here. Turn down the assignment!”
“And ruin my reputation?!” Ehmann snapped back. “Bacchus Ehmann has never refused an order! Never!”
Halin stared at him, stunned. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out the chaos around them.
But then—Calm, said an icy, composed voice inside him. This isn’t the place or the time.
The voice seemed to chill his nerves instantly. It grounded him. Centered him. It was the kind of calm only those midnight eyes could inspire.
Of course, he thought. Three years working beside him… Of course, something would’ve rubbed off.
With cold clarity running through his veins, Halin turned to the nearest adventurers and barked, “Help me get this boulder off him!”
The party of “Su’mo” wrestlers was the first to act. Despite their injuries, despite their twisted-up loincloths and bruised bodies, they slammed their open palms against the massive stone and pushed—straining with everything they had to heave it off the black-haired healer.
It moved.
And for the first time, Halin could truly see the extent of Ozhorn’s injuries.
Blood. So much blood.
There was no way he could fix all of it—not with his current ability. But there were priorities. Steps. Things he could do to keep Ozhorn alive.
First—stop the bleeding. If he could do that, then…
“Bring me all the mana potions we have left in storage!” he shouted.
The ninjas responded instantly. They ran off like the wind.
Halin took a breath, steadied his hands, and raised them above Ozhorn’s body.
“O waters pure, clear as life, I bid thee flow and restore what has been lost!”
The incantation rang through the air.
And he watched—carefully, carefully—as the bleeding stopped.
It actually stopped. The spell had worked—faster, cleaner, more precisely than anything he’d ever cast before.
And in that instant—that brief, glorious instant—he saw it.
The world Ozhorn lived in.
A towering pinnacle.
It was terribly dark.
Blindingly bright.
And above all, utterly alone.
“O waters pure, clear as life, I bid thee flow and restore what has been lost!”
This time, he focused on the spine. The next—and last—thing he needed to fix. He wouldn’t expect this from any other person, but if he could just manage that much… If he could just pull Ozhorn back from the brink…
“O waters pure, clear as life, I bid thee flow and restore what has been lost!”
Then he would surely be able to heal the rest of his wounds himself, rise, and become once again the still, unshifting dark that brings solace to the wounded!
The ninjas returned. With their help, Halin downed potion after potion. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t waver. Just kept casting, like Ozhorn always had.
Until finally…
“Thank you, Sir Patrick Halin, sixth-rank healer.”
Ozhorn sat up.
“Pass me a mana potion, will you?”
His fingers moved. His lips moved. And then, without a word, he began healing himself—quietly, precisely—knitting flesh and sealing skin until the blood stopped flowing and he stood.
He drained the offered potion in one gulp and wiped his mouth on his bloodstained sleeve. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to the crowd and raised his voice.
“Form a line. In order of the severity of your wounds.”
His white cloak, now streaked with red, flared in the wind. His jet-black eyes—usually so placid, so unfathomably deep—now burned with something like anger as he surveyed the battlefield.
“I’ll heal every last one of you. However many times it takes. So fight. Fight hard, and end this fast—so I can finally go home!”
A heartbeat of silence. Then the tension broke—first a cheer, then a surge of wild, unrestrained battle cries.
Gustaf Hagg stepped forward, voice like a war drum. “You all hear that, lads? Ozhorn wants to go home! We’ll oblige him, won’t we?”
Raaa! Raaa!
The roar of the crowd echoed between the craggy mountain peaks, the valley ringing with renewed fire.
✦ ✦ ✦
✶✶✶
THE night echoed with the drunken, raucous cries of adventurers celebrating their victory over the wicked dragon. Halin drifted away from the rowdiness, following a quieter pull, and found Ozhorn sitting in the dark, all by his lonesome.
“Not joining the celebration, sir?” he asked as he approached.
Ozhorn looked up. “It won’t be any longer if I’m around. They deserve it. I don’t want to ruin it for them.”
“So he’s self-aware…” Halin muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Halin was beside Ozhorn now. He could now see the white handkerchief in Ozhorn’s hands, streaked with crimson.
“Ooh. You got blood on it,” he said.
“I did. And it won’t come off. This is most upsetting.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s not the type to get mad at you for that.”
“She’s not. But it’s sure to make her cry. I…don’t like seeing her cry.”
Halin almost laughed when he heard that—mostly at himself, for ever thinking this man was heartless. But also a little at Ozhorn, who, for all his calm and unreadable airs, looked just then like a miserable, drenched mutt.
If only he showed this side of himself more often, Halin thought, not without a touch of pity, maybe people wouldn’t get the wrong idea about him so much.
“I eagerly await your return to the central infirmary,” he said. “To learn again under your stern guidance. I’ll work harder than I ever have.”
“Patrick Halin,” Ozhorn said. “You’re a talented healer. If anyone deserves to climb the ranks, it’s you. You’re decisive and accurate. You balance the patient’s needs with your own limits. You don’t cut corners. You never skip a step. It was a pleasure serving with you on this mission.”
Halin took a moment to weigh the words. Then: “Thank you, sir,” he said, quiet and sincere.
Ozhorn’s criticism was always blunt—but so were his compliments. And Halin couldn’t help the warmth that crept into his face or the small smile that followed.