Healing, at a cost

Rosely and Jones continued toward a higher part of the city, passing through one of the inner walls that seemingly divided those who lived in the slums from those who inhabited the commercial district and the lesser nobles' quarter. The social divide was unmistakable in Solvigil.

There were no guards at the gates of that wall. It felt as though an invisible, almost implicit boundary existed—one that the peasants from the outskirts were never meant to cross.

The three of them passed without trouble. Some residents of the peripheral area watched as they disappeared beyond the inner wall, but it all seemed normal.

Inside the commercial zone, the contrast was unavoidable. Wooden houses gave way to well-ornamented brick buildings. Dim lantern light was replaced by brightly lit streets. Waste flowed through underground systems, sparing the roads the stench of feces. An unsuspecting person might think they had been taken to an entirely different city.

Strangely, Rosely and Jones looked more out of place there than they had in the previous district. The smiles and fleeting sense of happiness granted by the Black Fire Tavern were left behind the moment they crossed the wall.

"Let's go straight to the guild. I don't like the way these people look at us," Jones said, urging his horse forward.

Rosely nodded and made her mare follow.

They crossed the commercial district quickly, passing decorated shops and ornate displays, until they reached yet another wall. This one led to the district of the Illuminated Church through a massive vertical staircase, likely built to prevent easy access to the High City of the nobility.

"I'll take the boy up the stairs, Rose. Tie the horses," Jones said, securing his own reins.

Rosely agreed, dismounted, helped the boy down, and sat him on one of the stone steps. She kept her gentle smile despite being clearly a warrior marked by past wounds and battles.

Jones, despite his usual brutality, lifted the boy with as much care as someone his size could manage. He placed him on his shoulders so the child could look at Rosely throughout the climb. She noticed the care and smiled once more.

They climbed for nearly twenty minutes, the lower parts of the city becoming increasingly visible beneath them.

On the final stretch, Jones stopped and turned to look at Solvigil. Rosely did the same.

"It'd be a beautiful place if it weren't so fucked up," Jones said with a sigh.

The boy looked as well. His gaze was still dull, but at least he reacted to the world—and to the two hunters—very different from how he'd been before reaching Solvigil.

After a moment admiring the city's morbid beauty below, the three turned and walked toward a plaza. The great Temple of the God of Light stood one level higher still, but sunlight already reflected off its roof, as if a fragment of divine protection were granted to that tier—reserved solely for those who served the God: Holy Hunters, Crusaders of the Last Light, priests, and clerics.

The plaza was awe-inspiring. A colossal sun was carved into the ground, its rays stretching outward in all directions. At the tip of each ray stood a large building. From the largest one rose the final staircase to the temple itself, entirely gilded, its snow-white stones reflecting the light that pierced through an opening in the clouds.

The temple was majestic and imposing. It made anyone think that regardless of the power gathered there, there would be no debate—nor escape—should those beams of light turn against you.

But that was not the trio's destination.

They followed one of the sun's rays—the smallest one, in descending order. The largest led to the temple; the second to the clerics' quarters; the third to the barracks of the Crusaders of the Last Light; the fourth to the Army of Solar Light. The smallest led to a more modest building—likely the Guild of Holy Hunters, which was where Rosely and Jones were headed.

There was clearly an unspoken hierarchy even among the servants of the Solar God. In the plaza, even those stationed near the Army of Solar Light looked at the two hunters with a disdain usually reserved for something you step on and scrape off your shoe.

Rosely and Jones ignored it and continued straight to the guild headquarters. The same sun symbol from the city gate was engraved there, but unlike the gate, it depicted people wielding weapons against creatures—each weapon representing one of the sun's rays.

Jones, still carrying the boy on his shoulders, reached for the large reddish doorknob. Before he could open it, the door swung open on its own, revealing a short man wearing the expression of someone who had just smelled the worst stench of his life.

Rosely and Jones stepped aside instantly. The man was clearly important: his robe was as golden as the rays illuminating the temple ceiling. On each shoulder, suns embroidered with golden thread. That garment was probably worth more than the entire Black Fire Tavern.

The man said nothing to them, but stared into the boy's eyes for an uncomfortably long time. Rosely noticed and performed an exaggerated bow, followed by Jones, who bent as much as he could with the boy still on his shoulders.

That seemed enough for the old man to avert his gaze. Behind him came a retinue of four girls, not much older than the boy's sister—which, for a moment, brought back memories of the night of the massacre.

Like the old man, the girls did not look at the hunters. They simply followed him in perfect spacing, trailing behind that rotten-eyed figure with his closed-off expression.

Jones let out the sigh that had become his trademark and entered the building, Rosely following close behind.

"What was he doing here?" Jones asked.

"No idea, but nothing good," Rosely replied, holding the boy's foot.

"No fucking way… Rose? Jones? I thought I'd only see you again at the next solstice," said a voice from an elevated platform inside the hall.

"We ran into a few complications, Zaira," Jones replied, looking toward a counter above a large rustic staircase.

"Yeah, I can see that. You even found a little goblin. Careful, Jones—he looks ready to rip your head off," said the girl with short black hair, slightly longer than Rosely's, falling partially over her eyes. She wasn't much taller than the boy himself.

"You calling someone a little goblin?" Jones shot back, barely hiding his mockery.

Zaira shot him a deadly glare that wiped the brute's smile clean off his face.

Rosely said nothing. She simply walked over and hugged the young woman.

"Good to see you, Zaira. Looks like you've grown a bit."

Unlike her reaction to Jones, Zaira didn't mind the comment and returned the hug like a sister reunited after a long time apart.

"I'm glad you're okay. I'd have been forced to kill this giant if he came in without you," Zaira said, blushing slightly as Rosely ran a hand through her hair.

"So what's the story with the little guy? Kind of young to join the guild, isn't he?" Zaira asked.

"He's not joining. He's a witness to the Divergent attacks," Rosely explained.

"No shit! How did a kid like that survive that mess?" Zaira asked, stunned.

"That's what we're trying to find out—once we heal his leg and he's not so consumed by shock anymore," Jones said, lowering the boy and seating him in one of the reception chairs.

"And what the fuck was that crusader bastard doing here?" Jones added, changing the subject.

"He came looking for the Grandmaster. Wanted information on two hunters sent on a mission against the Divergents. Basically, he was looking for you," Zaira explained, brushing hair away from her eyes.

"That's not good," Jones muttered.

"No, but we won't think about that now. Please tell me Marcus is in the guild," Rosely said impatiently.

"He is. Probably drowning in his own reading down in that basement," Zaira replied.

"Great. Come on, little one, let's fix your leg. Don't worry—Marcus is much better than the temple brutes," Rosely said with her usual gentle smile.

Zaira noticed Rosely's care for the boy and smiled as well.

"Go ahead. I'll inform the Grandmaster about the situation—and the kid," Jones said, heading toward a room beneath the staircase.

"So… what's the brat's name, anyway?" Zaira asked as they descended the stairs behind Marcus.

"He hasn't said yet. I decided to wait until he's ready," Rosely replied tenderly, carrying the boy.

They reached a dimly lit room at the end of a corridor. Zaira knocked, but there was no answer. She kicked the door with such force that the lock flew off, nearly hitting a man seated at the back, surrounded by stacks of books and candlelight.

"I've already told you—if I don't answer, it means I'm busy, Zaira! How hard is it to understand the meaning of a closed door?" the man complained, wearing religious garments similar to the previous priest's, though far simpler.

"Oh—Rose, you're back! How were the villages? Did you find any Whistlers? See any Divergents? Did you pass through the Dead Forest?" the priest asked, completely ignoring the broken door upon seeing Rosely.

"I'll tell you everything later, Marcus. I need your help healing the boy's leg. It's been a while, and I stabilized it as best I could," Rosely said, taking blame that wasn't hers.

"Then it's a promise. Bring him here, onto this bed. I'll get my staff… if I can find it in this mess," Marcus said, as if the chaos weren't entirely his fault.

Zaira, visibly irritated, pointed to a golden object beneath a pile of books.

"Oh. Perfect. Zaira, hold his other leg. Rosely, hold his arms. This is going to hurt—a lot. Boy, bite down on this cloth. We don't want to wake the city with your screams," Marcus instructed.

Surprisingly, the boy obeyed, biting the fabric hard while Rosely and Zaira held him in place.

"Let's begin," Marcus said.

The staff was a straight piece, roughly the length of an arm, covered in ornaments, with a sun carved into one end.

"Sol'kael, lord of flame and purifying light, burn away the wounds of this infidel unworthy of your light. Use this priest as fuel for your flame. Burn this wound so the flesh may return to the state you intended, O Lord Sol'kael," Marcus chanted, slipping into a near trance.

The smell of burning flesh rose from the boy's leg, accompanied by a sound like sizzling fat. The boy screamed through the cloth while Rosely and Zaira struggled to keep him still.

As the purpled flesh was burned and charred, new flesh formed beneath the smoke. It was indeed healing—but crueler than any injury. When the ritual ended, the leg was healed, and the boy passed out once more, defeated by pain perhaps greater than the original wound.

"I've always hated this shit," Zaira said.

"You're not the only one," Marcus murmured, ashamed, tossing the staff aside.

"Thank you, Marcus. One day he'll understand and thank you for this," Rosely said, lifting the unconscious boy and heading upstairs.

Her eyes shimmered faintly with tears—something Zaira noticed.

"I'll let him sleep in my room tonight. Tomorrow's going to be a long day," Rosely said, her voice trembling.

She went up to the third floor, settled the boy onto the bed beside the window, and turned to leave. Just before she closed the door, a weak voice reached her ears:

"Umbra… my name is Umbra."

Rosely said nothing. She simply closed the door and walked away, a faint smile lighting her face.