The adults around Lysa spoke in hushed, grim tones.
"We're two hours from town at a run," Mara said, her voice low. "Carrying her, maybe four. More, if she's in this condition."
"Can't run with her like this," Thom argued, his fingers pressing carefully on the bandage. "A jostle could make the head wound worse."
"We have to try!" Mara insisted, her eyes on the blood already soaking the linen. It was a losing battle.
Branwen looked at Lia. A silent question passed between them. Lia's face was a mask of controlled anguish. She knew the odds. She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. The chances are gone.
"Even if she lives," Branwen said, the words heavy as a coffin lid, "the healing fees…" She didn't need to finish. They all knew. A cleansing for the head wound, a bone-mending for the arm, purging internal corruption… it would cost a fortune. Five gold coins, at least. More than a low-rank adventurer like Lysa could earn in a year of successful quests. It meant one thing: an indenture contract with the Healer's Guild—or a wealthy patron. A different kind of death.
This is how the guild traps people, Lia thought bitterly.
Lysa Rowan's adventure had ended before it had truly begun.
Arin couldn't breathe. The helplessness was a physical ache, worse than any hunger or fear. But beneath that, warmth stirred. The golden pool. The instinct. It wasn't a thought—it was a compulsion, a rising tide he could not control.
He stepped forward, his small boots sinking into the mud.
"Move," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the despair with a strange, quiet authority.
Four sets of adult eyes snapped to him—to "Arin," the quiet, Grade-D pack carrier.
"Child, this is no time—" Branwen began, her grief sharpening into irritation.
"Move!" Arin repeated, and this time, it was a command that didn't belong to a child. He dropped to his knees beside Lysa, ignoring the mud and blood.
"Stop her!" Mara cried, alarm overriding her grief.
Lia moved—but not to pull Arin away. She stepped between him and the others, her hand resting on her sword hilt.
Her eyes locked with Branwen's. "Wait." It was a single word, but it was filled with a terrifying, unshakable trust.
Arin didn't hear them. His world had narrowed to the wound, the broken bone, the fading spark. He placed his small, clean hands over the bloody gash on Lysa's forehead. He closed his eyes.
Please, he begged, not to a goddess, but to the power inside him. Not her. She was just smiling.
And from his palms, light bloomed.
Not a flicker, but a soft, unwavering golden radiance, warm as a midsummer sun. It poured into Lysa, and the effect was immediate and impossible.
The bleeding stopped. The ragged edges of the gash drew together, weaving themselves into unblemished skin. The bruise around it faded from purple to yellow to nothing. A collective, sharp gasp came from behind Lia.
Arin didn't pause. He moved his hands to her misshapen arm. The golden light enveloped it. In his mind's eye, he saw the bone—splintered, wrong—and willed it whole.
There was a series of faint, muffled clicks and snaps as the fragments slid back into perfect alignment, fusing stronger than before.
He moved his hands over her ribs, the light seeping through her leather jerkin to soothe deep bruises and hairline fractures.
Finally, he placed a hand gently over her chest, near her heart. The light pulsed once, softly, a gentle push against the shock that had gripped her.
Lysa's eyelids fluttered.
A gasp, wet and ragged, filled her lungs. Her spring-green eyes opened, dazed, blinking up at the canopy of leaves and the unfamiliar face haloed in fading gold above her.
The golden light winked out.
Arin sat back on his heels, suddenly dizzy, the world swimming. The use of his power had drained him more than he'd expected.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the river and Lysa's steadying breaths.
Then, chaos of a different kind erupted.
Branwen and Mara descended on Arin, not with violence, but with frantic, desperate energy. Branwen, her face a storm of shock and gratitude, gripped his shoulders. "You… you healed her! A true healer!"
But the gratitude was quickly tempered by fear. Mara was already speaking in a rush. "Lysa, she… she's just starting out. We're barely scraping by. The quest reward was only ten silver. We don't have much…" She turned pleading eyes to Arin. "Please, healer, we can repay you in installments. Over a year, maybe two! We're good for it!"
Tears streamed down Lysa's face again, but now they were tears of terrified hope. She scrambled to her feet, wobbled, and dropped to her knees before Arin. She thrust her worn leather purse into his hands. It clinked weakly. "This… this is all I have saved. Two silver coins. Please, take it as a down payment. I'll work day and night, I swear! Just… just don't report me to the Healer's Guild for defaulting!"
Arin looked at the pitiful purse, at the kneeling, trembling girl, and at the faces of the veterans around him—filled not with awe, but with wary, calculating pity for the debt they assumed was coming. His silence was being read as rejection, as though he demanded immediate, full payment.
His heart ached. This was all wrong.
"No, I…" he started, but his voice was lost.
He pushed the purse firmly back into her hands. "Please, stand up," he said, louder this time, his voice clear. "I don't need any money from you."
The crowd that had gathered at the commotion went quiet. Lysa froze, the purse feeling like a hot coal in her hands. "B-but… the healing…"
"Consider it a token," Arin said, the unfamiliar phrase feeling right. "For protecting our party during the mission."
The disbelief in the clearing was palpable. A free healing? For injuries that would've ended a life? It was unheard of. Lysa stared, her tears halting abruptly, replaced by confusion. Branwen and Mara exchanged looks, then turned to Arin, as though he'd just sprouted wings.
"Thank you... thank you..." Lysa sobbed, her voice shaking with relief so profound it rocked her whole body.
Branwen stared at Arin, a new, intense light in her eyes. If only half the guild healers had half this one's heart, she thought, an old, cold bitterness thawing just a fraction.
The mission was completed in a daze. The atmosphere now hung with reverent, bewildered silence. On the journey back, Arin walked beside Lia, his energy slowly returning.
"Lia," he whispered when they had a moment of privacy. "Why… why was it like that? The begging? The fear?"
Lia sighed, her earlier joy at his power now tempered by the harsh reality he'd just confronted. "Healers who can do what you did are rarer than dragon's teeth, Arin. And the Healer's Guild holds a monopoly. They set the prices, and they're exorbitant. A basic wound cleansing can cost a year's earnings for a low-rank adventurer. A major injury like Lysa's?" She shook her head, her voice dropping even lower.
"Most who suffer them either die, are crippled, or sign themselves into decades of indentured servitude to the guild to pay the debt. It's a form of sanctioned slavery. In the royal army, we had corps healers. But out here? An injury like that is a death sentence—of the body, the spirit, or freedom."
Arin's stomach turned. The system was designed to grind up the very people who stood on the front lines. He thought of the D-grade crystal, of his disguise.
He possessed a power that could shatter that economy, that could offer hope. But revealing it made him the most valuable—and most vulnerable—target in the city.
The weight of that knowledge settled on him, heavier than any pack he had carried. He had saved a life today. But he might have just painted a target on his own back.