The inn's spacious room was a far cry from the damp cavern or the muddy forest floor, its stone walls warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth.
Elshua sat on the edge of a sturdy oak chair, his small frame swaddled in a soft blanket provided by the village chief. The air smelled of fresh bread and lavender, a stark contrast to the forest's reek of earth and blood.
His body no longer ached, thanks to Caelan's healing, but exhaustion lingered, a heavy fog in his bones.
The knights had escorted him to Eldenreach with reverence, their armor clanking as they formed a protective ring around him, and the villagers had greeted him with bowed heads and whispered prayers, calling him "Your Holiness." The weight of their faith pressed on him, heavier than any bruise.
The village chief, a wiry man with a graying beard, had insisted on giving Elshua the finest room in the inn, a gesture that left him both grateful and uneasy.
The room was large, with a high ceiling and a wide window overlooking the village square, where lanterns swayed in the evening breeze.
A copper tub sat near the fire, steaming with hot water, and Caelan, ever-present, had insisted on helping him bathe. Elshua found it bothersome, the young paladin's attentiveness bordering on overbearing, but he'd ignored it, keeping his face neutral as Caelan bustled about like an eager puppy.
"Hold still, Your Holiness," Caelan had said, his voice soft but earnest as he poured water over Elshua's head, careful not to let soap sting his eyes.
The paladin's hands were gentle, almost comically precise, as he scrubbed the dirt from Elshua's arms, humming a quiet tune—a hymn, maybe, from the monastery Elshua supposedly came from.
When Elshua tried to take the cloth himself, Caelan pouted, his blue eyes wide with concern.
"You're still weak, Your Holiness. Let me do this. It's my duty."
Elshua had sighed, letting Caelan fuss, though he couldn't help but roll his eyes when the paladin insisted on drying his hair with a towel, fluffing it like a mother hen tending to a chick.
Now, clean and dressed in a soft linen tunic and trousers provided by the innkeeper, Elshua stood before a polished bronze mirror, getting a proper look at himself for the first time.
The boy staring back was almost unrecognizable. His hair was a cascade of shiny gold, catching the firelight like spun sunlight, a far cry from Jun's plain brown locks.
His eyes were golden too, bright and piercing, with a faint glow that made him startle. His skin, now free of bruises and grime, was impossibly fair, almost luminous, as if he'd been carved from alabaster.
He looked like a figure from a painting, not the scrawny outcast he'd expected from the novel's brief description.
"This is… me?" he murmured, touching his face.
The reflection felt foreign, a reminder that he was no longer Jun but Elshua, the Spark of Aeloria, whatever that meant.
He shuffled to the bed, a wide frame piled with furs and pillows, and collapsed onto it, the mattress sinking under his slight weight.
The fire's crackle and the distant murmur of villagers outside were soothing, but Caelan's presence was less so. The young paladin hadn't left his side, sitting on a stool by the bed, polishing his gauntlets with a cloth while stealing glances at Elshua.
Caelan's attentiveness was relentless, and oddly endearing. When Elshua shifted, wincing slightly from lingering soreness, Caelan was there in an instant, fluffing a pillow and tucking the blanket around him with exaggerated care.
"You need to rest, Your Holiness," he said, his voice bright, almost chirpy. "I'll fetch you some broth if you're hungry. Or tea! The innkeeper makes a lovely chamomile."
He grinned, his curls bouncing as he leaned closer, checking Elshua's forehead for a fever despite the healing he'd already done.
Elshua kept his face neutral, though he wanted to groan. "I'm fine, Caelan," he said, his voice flat. "You don't have to… hover."
But Caelan just tilted his head, like a puppy confused by a new command, and handed Elshua a small wooden carving of a lion—probably the Aeloria crest—plucked from his pocket.
"For you," he said, blushing slightly. "To keep you safe while you sleep."
Elshua took it, more to stop Caelan's fussing than anything else, and set it on the bedside table, muttering a thanks.
He lay back, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, their grain swirling like the thoughts in his head. Caelan's presence was a distraction, but Elshua pushed it aside, letting his mind wander to the bigger problem: his role as the Spark of Aeloria.
The novel, Requiem of the Fallen, had painted Elshua as a tragic figure, dead in chapter one, a footnote in a world of war and magic.
But the knights' reverence, their talk of a monastery and betrayal, suggested a deeper story, one the novel never explored.
If Elshua was truly a saint, his death in the original story had consequences. He remembered the Holy See, the powerful religious order in the novel, locking their gates after chapter one, refusing to aid the protagonists as the world descended into chaos.
Their isolation had baffled him as a reader—why would a holy order abandon their duty? Now, it clicked. Elshua's death, the loss of the Spark, must have broken their faith, locking them away in grief or fear.
The realization hit like a cold wave. His survival could change everything. If he, as Elshua, lived beyond chapter one, the Holy See might not retreat.
They could join the fight, altering the novel's grim trajectory. But that meant confronting the high demon still lurking in the forest, its distant roars a reminder of the threat he'd only temporarily escaped.
The knights had mentioned it raiding Eldenreach's outskirts, and if it was hunting him, as the Spark, he couldn't hide forever. His skills—Heal and Shield—were for others, a cruel irony for someone who'd always put others first but now needed to survive a demon's wrath.
Caelan's voice broke his thoughts. "Your Holiness, are you warm enough?"
The paladin was at it again, tucking the blanket tighter around Elshua's shoulders, his fingers brushing the fabric with care.
He'd moved from polishing gauntlets to arranging a tray of bread and cheese on the bedside table, each piece placed with precision, like an offering.
"You didn't eat much at dinner," Caelan said, his eyes wide with worry. "I can ask for honey to go with the bread. Or maybe some fruit?" He hopped up, ready to bolt to the kitchen, but Elshua raised a hand.
"I'm fine, really," he said, keeping his tone even.
Caelan's eagerness was almost comical, like a kid trying to impress a favorite teacher, but Elshua couldn't afford to get attached.
He needed to focus, to prepare for the high demon and unravel the mystery of Elshua's past without revealing his ignorance.
The amnesia excuse had worked—the knights hadn't questioned his claim of lost memories, their faith in him as the Spark unwavering—but it wouldn't protect him from a demon's claws.
The system pinged softly, a golden window appearing in his vision:
༺═════════════════༻
System Notification: Safe Haven Reached!
Objective Updated: Defeat the High Demon Threat.
༺═════════════════༻
⟪Note: The Spark of Aeloria carries a legacy of hope and sacrifice. Protect your allies and face the demon to secure your path, Saint Elshua.⟫
He glanced at the text, grateful it was invisible to Caelan, who was now fluffing another pillow with a satisfied hum.
The system's new objective was daunting—the high demon was no skitterbeast, and his support skills were useless without allies in combat.
He needed the knights, especially Caelan, whose healing power and paladin training could tip the scales. But fighting a demon meant risking everything, and Elshua's past—monastery, betrayal, and all—was still a blank slate.
He needed answers, maybe from a surviving priest or village elder, to understand why the demons wanted him dead. Caelan settled back on his stool, his eyes bright as he watched Elshua.
"You look thoughtful, Your Holiness," he said, leaning forward, his curls falling into his face.
He brushed them back with a sheepish grin, then pulled a small leather pouch from his belt, offering it to Elshua.
"Dried apricots," he said proudly. "I saved them from our rations. They're sweet, good for strength."
Elshua took one, more to appease Caelan than out of hunger, and chewed slowly, the fruit's sweetness a small comfort.
"Thanks," he said, keeping his gaze on the ceiling.
Caelan's devotion was overwhelming, his constant hovering both touching and stifling. Elshua's mind drifted back to the novel.
The Holy See's retreat had left the protagonists—warriors like Kael and Lyra—to face the demon lords alone, their victories hard-won without divine support.
If Elshua's death caused that, his survival, and defeating the high demon, could bring the Holy See back into the fight. But that meant facing a creature of shadow and flame with nothing but Heal and Shield, skills that relied on others to be effective.
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, and Elshua's thoughts turned to the demon. Its roar had faded, but it was still out there, a threat tied to his survival.
The knights were his best chance, their faith in him a weapon he could wield if he played his role right. His amnesia act had bought him time, but he needed to learn more about the monastery and the Spark's history to understand why the demon was hunting him.
Caelan's voice cut through again. "Your Holiness, you should sleep," he said, his tone gentle but firm.
He'd moved to the bedside, adjusting the blanket yet again, his fingers brushing Elshua's arm as he tucked it in.
"I'll stay right here. No demon will get past me."
He puffed out his chest, a boyish attempt at bravery that made Elshua's lips twitch, though he kept his face neutral.
"I'll try," Elshua said, closing his eyes to avoid further fussing.
Caelan's presence was a constant, like a loyal dog refusing to leave its master's side, but Elshua needed the quiet to think. The demon, the monastery, the Spark—it all pointed to a story he hadn't read, a challenge he wasn't ready for.
He needed to rally the knights, use his skills to keep them alive, and face the demon head-on. For now, he'd rest, letting Caelan's faith anchor him, and prepare for a fight that could rewrite the novel's fate.