They arrived with a whisper of displaced air. The village greeted them not with people, but with absence.
Regin lay farthest from the capital—forgotten even by time. Roofs sagged under the weight of years. Storefronts were sealed with splintered wood, windows covered in soot and sorrow. The path beneath their feet was no longer stone, but fragments—like memories ground under heel.
Lindsay scanned the street. "So this is Regin…" she muttered, more to herself than anyone.
He didn't answer. Just shifted the weight in his arms—the girl was burning again, her fever spiking with each breath.
"Where's the pharmacy?"
His voice was calm, but she felt it like a blade drawn an inch from skin.
She gestured. "That way. Near the old well."
They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of dust and ruin under their steps. At the far end of the street, a narrow shop stood against a collapsed stone wall. As they approached, a figure emerged—old, hunched slightly, wiping his hands with a cloth already stained with too much history.
He looked up, ready with a generic welcome, but froze mid-sentence.
"Lindsay?" His voice cracked. "You've returned."
"I'm not here for reunions," she said quickly. "She needs help."
The old man stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the girl in the stranger's arms. His expression turned grave.
"Bring her inside. Quickly."
He didn't move.
The man paused, reading the boy's face. Not fear—distrust. Ancient and bone-deep.
The boy didn't lower the girl until Lindsay said, quietly, "You can trust him. He's not like the others."
A pause. Then he passed the child to the man's arms, though his hands lingered a moment too long.
The old man nodded once and disappeared inside without another word.
Lindsay turned to speak, but he beat her to it.
"Thank you."
No smile. No warmth. Just… truth. Raw and unornamented.
She studied him a moment. "You're welcome," she replied, quietly.
A silence hung between them. Not awkward—charged.
Then she asked, "The doctors. Did they suffer?"
He looked away, toward the cracked windows of the shop. "One was already dead when I found them."
"And the rest?"
"I brought them to help her. When they failed, I showed them the path out of the forest."
That was all. No elaboration. No embellishment.
She wanted to press, but didn't. If he'd meant to kill them, she knew, he wouldn't be telling her anything now.
The door creaked open. "You'd best come inside," the old man called.
The back room was dimly lit, the air tinged with alcohol and dust. A flat stone slab stood in the center, cluttered with old tools and archaic instruments. The girl lay on it, her chest rising and falling in shallow motion.
The man was already preparing a salve, hands steady despite their age. "She's been hit with a fever charm. Slow-acting, subtle. Not a curse, but close."
The boy didn't respond. His eyes had locked onto the child—too long. Too still.
A memory was pulling him under.
Another child.
Another table.
Another time.
Lindsay's voice dragged him back. "Are you listening?"
He blinked. "Yes."
The old man continued. "This kind of fever can't be forced out. It needs to burn through her. I'll stabilize her, but it'll take days."
He said nothing.
"I'll watch her," the man added, glancing between the two of them. "If that's what you want."
Still, the boy said nothing. His eyes were on her—but not her. Something further. Darker.
The lights flickered. A mist rose at his feet. His fingers curled slightly.
Lindsay stepped back. "Hey. Breathe."
But it was already unraveling. Not rage—loss. Grief that had nowhere left to go. A thing restrained for too long and now leaking out at the edges.
The old man didn't flinch. "You're not helping her by breaking in front of her."
And that snapped him back.
He clenched his jaw. Looked at the tools. The slab. The flickering light.
Then finally spoke: "I'll move everything you need to my house."
The man hesitated. "You have the means?"
He didn't respond. Just extended a hand.
One by one, the tools vanished in a shimmer. Cabinets, lights, tinctures—all gone. Sent elsewhere.
When the last object disappeared, the old man gave a low whistle. "Haven't seen that kind of precision in decades."
Then added, as if remembering something long forgotten, "Call me Reinhard."
The boy looked at him. Blankly.
Reinhard tilted his head. "What should I call you?"
The silence was longer this time.
Finally: "I don't have a name. Call me whatever you like."
Reinhard studied him for a moment but didn't push. Just nodded once, a quiet acceptance.
Lindsay touched her glyph communicator as the two vanished from the shop. The channel cracked to life.
"This is Lindsay. I'm safe."
Relief rushed through the static. "Thank the gods. The chief—" another voice broke in.
He didn't wait for pleasantries.
"Return. Immediately. We need you."
She closed the glyph, her hand trembling slightly.
Then turned and looked out over Regin, now silent once again.