Chapter 4: The First Healing

Dawn seeped slowly into the ruins, painting the temple stones in shades of pale gold. Elara had not left. She sat curled near the altar, cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her lantern long since burned out. Kaelith had fallen into a restless half-sleep, his chains clinking whenever he shifted. Even in slumber, his body never seemed at peace—muscles tensed as though expecting the next strike.

Elara’s fingers brushed against the satchel at her side. Inside were the tools of her craft: bandages, salves, herbs that soothed pain and fever. She had used them on farmers, soldiers, even on the occasional criminal who had stumbled bleeding to her door. But never on someone like him.

Still, she reached for them.

The sound of her movements stirred Kaelith awake. His eyes snapped open, a flash of crimson cutting through the dim light. For a moment he looked like the beast the legends described—sharp, dangerous, unyielding. But then his gaze softened when it landed on her.

“What are you doing?” His voice was hoarse, heavy with sleep and suspicion.

“Helping you,” Elara said simply. She held up a strip of clean cloth. “Your wrists. They’re raw from the chains.”

He laughed bitterly, though there was no strength behind it. “You think a scrap of fabric can mend what iron has carved into me for years?”

“No,” she admitted softly. “But it can stop the wounds from getting worse.”

Kaelith watched her for a long time, as though weighing the foolishness of her offer against the sincerity in her eyes. At last, he lifted one arm, the chain rattling as if mocking his choice.

“Do as you will, little healer. But don’t blame me when your kindness breaks against me like waves against stone.”

Elara knelt beside him. Her hands were steady as she pressed the salve onto his torn skin. He flinched once, but otherwise remained still, his eyes fixed on her face rather than the wounds. She worked in silence, wrapping the bandage carefully, layer upon layer, until the iron bit no longer directly into his flesh.

“There,” she murmured, tying the knot. “Better.”

Kaelith flexed his fingers, surprised at the faint relief. “Strange,” he muttered, almost to himself. “No priest, no sorcerer, no healer has ever touched me without fear.”

Elara glanced up, meeting his eyes without flinching. “That’s because they see only what they’re told. I see what’s in front of me.”

For the briefest instant, something flickered across his expression—wonder, fragile and fleeting, like the first break of sunlight through storm clouds.

But then his jaw tightened. “You’re a fool to care,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “Do you not fear what I’ve done? The blood I carry?”

Elara leaned back on her heels, her gaze unwavering. “Fear doesn’t heal wounds. And you’re bleeding, Kaelith—inside and out. If no one else will tend to you, then I will.”

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken truths. Then, to her astonishment, he whispered, almost inaudibly:

“…Why?”

Elara’s chest ached at the rawness in his tone. She reached out, brushing her fingers briefly over the cold iron of his shackles. “Because someone has to remind you that you’re still human.”

His crimson eyes widened, as though the words struck deeper than any blade. He looked away quickly, but not before she saw the crack in his armor—the boy hidden beneath the monster, the man longing to be seen.

And in that fragile silence, as the sun finally broke fully over the ruins, Kaelith whispered the first word that hinted at hope.

“Elara.”

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